Martin Misunderstood

Martin Explained, or How Martin Unwittingly Became a Person of Interest

Martin Reed had decided long ago that he was born into the wrong body. He often wondered how different his fate would have been if that amorphous lump that stared vacantly from his first photograph at the hospital had shown even the slightest bit of potential. But, no, it was clearly not meant to be. The picture of baby Martin, thrusting himself into the air like a bloated seal, wet, pink lips parted, chin sliding into his neck even then, and – perhaps worst of all – the words 'Mama's Little Angel' emblazoned over his grayish, hairless head, would be one that would haunt him throughout his entire life.

It wasn't that Martin was a dreamer. He did not think, for instance, that George Clooney had gotten his true face. Nor did he see Brad Pitt's physique and spit bitter 'if only' vitriol. He would have been fine with an average man's body, something his many hours on his Chuck Norris Total Gym system could exploit into the semblance of muscle tone instead of a lateral realignment of flab. Even Will Ferrell's physique would have sufficed. The cruel truth of the matter was that Martin's body more closely resembled Jodie Foster's during her Yale years. Add in his weak chin, his hawkish nose and the C-shaped curve to his shoulders, and the root of his displeasure (and that of many blind dates) became painfully apparent.

His life was just the sort of pathetic life you would expect of Jodie Foster's estranged, less attractive fraternal twin. Working as a senior accountant at Southern Toilet Supply for the last sixteen years, he had become somewhat resigned to the small-town Georgia life into which he had been born. The bullies with whom he had attended high school had become the jerks with whom he worked. The cheerleading captain who had spurned his attention continued to do so, but this time from behind a desk instead of behind pom-poms. Norton Shaw, his Geometry Team nemesis, had been promoted to his direct supervisor. Even the security guard was the same man who had walked the halls of Tucker High School; he had been fired for stalking one of the cafeteria ladies, a crime which, apparently, did not bother the denizens of Southern Toilet Supply.

Upon reflection, Martin's life was typical in that it had not changed much after leaving high school. But then for Martin, life seldom proved atypical. Striving for normalcy had been his elusive life goal. He was of average height, average intelligence, average weight – so why was it that he came across as so blatantly below average? Fortunately, he had other things to recommend himself: A steady job. A Toyota Camry that was almost paid for. An intricate knowledge of the toilet-supply industry.

It must be said that, for most of his life, Martin had tried to make changes. A lifelong reader, he had at first turned to books for help. He had read Chicken Soup for every type of soul. The Power of Positive Thinking had left him thoroughly depressed. To his horror, he'd discovered that he shared more characteristics with people from Venus than from Mars. The Secret had arrived around the time that a series of disasters befell him: pinkeye, an incident on a faulty escalator, 'twat' being keyed into his car. Martin had cuddled up with the book, a warm washcloth over one eye, and soon discovered that it was entirely his own fault.

Martin's mother was equally dissatisfied with her son – perhaps more so. Often, she would look at him over the breakfast table (of course he still lived with his mother) and make grand pronouncements about his shortcomings.

'Goodness, I think you lost more hair last night.'

'My, you should see how that roll of fat hangs over your belt.'

'You know, there are women you can pay for companionship.'

Evelyn Reed, on first glance, was the quintessential sweet old lady. Until she opened her mouth. Like Martin, she was an outsider, the sort of person who did not easily make friends. Unlike Martin, she assumed the blame lay with others and was not a direct result of her abhorrent personality. Most days, he thought of her as some awful troll who refused to allow him to cross the bridge into a new, more exciting life. Other days, he felt more generous and only saw her as an old woman who, hopefully, would soon die so that he could lead a new, more exciting life.

Many of the recurrent dreams in Martin's head ended happily with his mother passing on to some great ether. As he chewed his turkey bacon or drank his prune juice, Martin would imagine himself a character in a book; some kind of broad comedy with murderous undertones. Case Histories, but without the happy ending. His words would be in quotation marks. His thoughts in italics.

'Mother, can you pass the butter knife?' Would you please jam it into your chest first?

Evie Reed had been an attractive woman at some point in her life, a point which, surprisingly, had gone wholly undocumented. There were no pictures that captured this great beauty, no witnesses to back up her statements. It strained credulity to see her now, with her gray hair expertly bunned and a large mole at the center of her forehead that always conjured up the phrase, 'hairy eyeball'. Likemany pronouncements his mother made, the listener was supposed to believe them without any supporting proof, as if the chain-smoking, bird-thin, gutter-mouthed woman sitting with her spindly legs tightly crossed as she read the newspaper, had at some point in time rivaled Jean Harlow. She was the 'Mission Accomplished' of her time.

'I'll tell you what, Martin.' Evie switched her cigarette to the side of her mouth. It bobbed as she talked, a thin line of smoke snaking from her blackened, right nostril. 'I was fucking gorgeous in my day.'

'I bet you were.' By 'day' you must mean the Mesozoic era.

She sniffed the air, as if her sense of smell had not been burned away by forty years of Kool Lights. 'You haven't been drinking, have you?'

He took a deep breath and slowly let it go before answering. 'No, Mother. I haven't been drinking.'

She looked disappointed, as he had known she would. Having been banned from her church group for causing a split in the Ladies' Hospital Auxiliary, ('Like their shit don't smell!') she had lately taken to perusing the personal ads in hopes of finding some new group to which she could belong. She was desperate to have Martin come down with a horrible disease or become addicted to a substance – illegal or otherwise – which had a support group, preferably something close by because she wasn't allowed to drive at night. She had started leaving her various medications out on the kitchen counter, as if to tempt him.

'Look here,' she said, pointing to an ad. 'There's a PFLAG meeting on Lawrenceville Highway.' She looked at him over the paper, eyebrow raised in hopeful expectation.

Martin felt his soul wither like a biodegradable packing peanut in a puddle of water. PFLAG was a support group for parents and friends of gays and lesbians.

'Says here that they serve refreshments.' Her eyes began to sparkle. 'Do you think that means snack foods, too?' She cackled at a thought. 'I bet you they have lady fingers.'

Martin summoned an ounce of dignity from some deep, secret place. 'I am not gay, Mother.'

She stared at him, as if in challenge.

'No.'

She snapped a crease out of the paper. 'Very well,' she quipped. 'What would it matter? It's not like you've been laid in the last ten years.'

Martin spread a thin layer of cholesterollowering fake butter on to his waffle. It floated on the top of the ridges like lotion on a dead man.

To someone not intimate with Martin's private life (and in all honesty, but for Evie, that meant everyone), the fact that he knew what lotion looked like on a dead man would have seemed an odd detail needing further explanation. But Martin was late for work, and he did not like to think about his father because it only brought out the spinning spool of 'what ifs' that, quite quickly, tied him up in knots.

What if his father had been around during Martin's formative years to take the brunt of Evie's hounding?

What if his father had been there to talk to Martin about puberty, instead of Evie tossing him a bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care and telling him not to get it on the couch?

What if his father's death had been ruled an accident?

Martin considered these things as he retrieved his briefcase and car keys from the hall table. He checked his tie in the mirror, straightening the knot, trying not to notice the way his chin wattled. He gave in, checking over his shoulder to make sure Evie was still in the kitchen before pinching back the skin on either side, pulling it toward his ears to tighten it up against the jawbone. He studied himself, his turkey giblet gone, and wondered if anyone would ever be able to see past his myriad flaws and know the real Martin – the gentle soul, the book lover, the accountant with stunning accuracy who possessed an unnatural talent for explicating actuarial data.

'Are you still here?' his mother bellowed.

Are you still breathing?

'I'm leaving now,' Martin answered, dropping the skin, watching it settle back into a pouch reminiscent of a seagull's. He rummaged in the closet for a jacket, trying to find one that did not smell of his mother – an olfaction of cigarettes and White Diamonds perfume with a yeasty undertone of string cheese. He held each to his nose and picked the less offensive pea coat. As he buttoned himself up, Martin glanced back at the mirror, catching his profile.

He had not been altogether honest when he'd claimed not to covet all things George Clooney. He could not have the man's grace or charm, but through the magic of plastic surgery, he had managed to swipe his nose. Three years ago, Martin had sprung for a nose job with the plan of addressing his chin in a follow-up operation. The rhinoplasty had proved successful; however, the reaction he had gotten at work was disastrous. His old schoolmates had grown up with Martin and his nose. He had not been called 'Beak' his entire life for nothing. The fact that the beak in question was no longer there seemed to make the nickname even more appropriate. The taunting had gotten worse after the bandages came off, and though he had insisted the operation was to correct a deviated septum, no one had believed him. Chin surgery seemed an invitation to further ridicule after that.

But Martin would be late for work if he took the time to count the many travesties of his life.

He locked the front door after him and walked down the porch stairs. His Camry was parked by the mailbox, the 'twat' scratched into the passenger's side door glinting with morning dew. The insurance adjuster had said the paperwork for repairing the paint would take time to process. Ben Sabatini, the adjuster, had been one of Martin's chief tormentors in high school. Martin was under the impression that the man was deliberately taking his time.

The vandalism had occurred last week. Martin had left the house, much as he was doing this morning, only to find his car had been defiled. Evie's laughter still gurgled in his ear as he thought about the incident.

The policeman who took the report had stated, 'Obviously, this was done by someone who knows you.'

Martin switched his briefcase to his other hand as he walked down the driveway. A light rain started to fall, tickling the end of his nose. He looked at the flowers in the yard – strangely, Evie was an excellent gardener. The front lawn was bordered by all kinds of exotic blooms. Before the gardening club had asked her to leave, then kicked her out, Evie had been the top ribbonholder in the state for her colorful peonies.

Martin used his key to unlock the Camry by hand (he had read somewhere that remote-key unlocking caused testicular cancer) and tossed his briefcase into the back seat. He was halfway in the car when he noticed that something was wrong with the front end. Slowly, he walked round and saw that the bumper had practically been ripped off.

'Damn,' he mumbled. He glanced back at the house and saw the curtain twitch in the front room. Unbidden, Evie's laughter filled his ears. 'Of course it was done by someone who knows him,' she had told the cop who had taken the report. 'Have you ever seen a bigger twat in your life?'

He was not up for another humiliating police report and Ben Sabatini had stopped returning his calls on the 'twat'. There was no reason to believe this time would be any different. With both hands, Martin pulled on the plastic bumper, bending the hanging piece back and forth until it snapped in two. He did not notice the blood on his hands until he put the damaged bumper in the trunk. Thin lines, almost like paper cuts, crisscrossed his palms. Martin took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands. He did not need to look at the house to know that his mother was watching.

Had he not read Tom Clancy shortly after rereading Fatal Vision, the blood on Martin's hands might have triggered the memory that Jeffrey MacDonald, the subject of that true-crime classic, had been convicted of massacring his entire family based on the blood evidence found at the scene of the crime. Instead, his mind was filled with visions of Clancy hero Jack Ryan assassinating the more than likely drunken hood who had slammed into the front bumper of Martin's Camry.

Glancing over his shoulder for snipers, Martin opened the door and got into the car.