Marty the Smarty

The sun rose over Fort Wayne, Indiana. Martin Severn, commonly known as Marty, was already awake. Sleep wasn’t happening lately. This didn’t affect Marty, however, as he never really paid close attention to these things. Sleepiness was only another state of mind and he had a hard time placing different states and times together in common purpose.

He got up to make a cup of tea and open a can of refried beans. Stomach growling for sustenance, he made his way indoors and toward the kitchen. Marty had been sitting on his back porch for hours already working on a new play he’d been writing for a troupe of PEZ actors he’d collected over the decades. It was an old apartment made from brick and it had a wooden fire-escape-like porch built up the backside of the building for easement and leisure. The play was inspired by an article he’d read in the news the day before. Life was confusing so when Marty found himself understanding a thing, he’d ride that train to the station and just keep going. The caption for the article read:

‘Scientists predict societal collapse within the next one/two decades.’

“Now that’s a story,” he said, “but we told them the story would happen. He didn’t want to listen, but we told them it was gonna be one-hundred dollars. Yes. I know, I know. No, sir, I told them. One-hundred, that’s what I said.”

Marty often spoke his thoughts aloud as though talking to himself or to no one in particular. It was something he had done for most of his life, that is, once he started speaking. He was mute until the age of fourteen, not uncommon in a child with autism. Many believed he would never talk until one day he told his foster parents he was going to write the new chapter for humanity. They didn’t know what he meant, but were happy to hear him speaking, so happy in fact, they hosted a neighborhood cookout to show everyone that he was indeed normal, just shy. To his foster parents' dismay, Marty sat in the corner all evening mumbling to his Superman, PEZ dispenser and then replying to his own mumbles.

Marty’s real parents had disappeared when he was only two months old and his mother’s friend, who’s closet he was born in, decided to enter him into foster care when they didn’t come back. It wasn’t until much later, after his foster parents had died, that he was officially diagnosed with autism. When he was a child people didn’t know what to call his seeming inability to hold meaningful conversations and his lack of organizational skills. They just assumed he was ‘strange’ and would avoid him in the school yard or at the community pool.

The mustard bottle farted as he squeezed a fair portion of its contents into the can of beans, stirring vigorously to incorporate the spicy, brown ribbon into the otherwise quite bland breakfast. While Marty sipped his tea and ate heaping spoonfuls of cold, refried beans and mustard he studied the zodiac calendar hanging by the refrigerator. Flipping the page to reveal the new month presented Marty with a silhouette image of a large, proud bull, horns held high in a sun-drenched pasture. May the first, only nine days until his 53rd birthday.

“I’ll tell the sheriff. The tunas eat it. Crabs, octopuses. It’s going to be at least a million to fix it. Yes, sir, one million.”

Marty shoveled the last spoonful into his mouth then started stuffing his satchel with items he felt he might need during the day’s travels. First to go in were two tattered notebooks and a bundle of twelve pens - no more, no less. Next went a roll of toilet paper and some zipper-lock baggies - again, twelve of them. As an afterthought he threw in a can of re-fried beans and a couple of those individual packets of mustard he’d lifted from the corner store.

By the front door there were several boxes he had broken down and cut into flat, sign-sized pieces. Grabbing three of them Marty quickly tied them in a bundle with a piece of twine and hoisted them over his shoulder. Suddenly remembering his PEZ dispensers he dropped the bundle and rushed to the back porch where he’d left his ‘actors’ and began stuffing them into his satchel. He then made his way out into the hallway, not forgetting the bundle of cardboard which he’d dropped by the door.

Making his way along the Maumee Pathway, which ran directly beside a river of the same name, Marty looked a mess. He plodded along in his plain black trousers and dark, brown work-boots, sporting a western-cut dress-shirt with little rabbits tightly placed in pattern upon its surface. He draped a heavily worn corduroy coat over his shoulders allowing his arms to hang free giving him ample range of movement to carry the large bundle of cardboard under one arm, the satchel slung over the other shoulder and around his neck. He looked like some kind of four armed hermit waddling, pear-shaped, from one size thirteen to the other while his uncut curls bobbed above his eyes, fully covering his forehead and ears.

“We’re going to have to cross the river twice. No, twice. I’ll show you, once at St Joseph and once at St Mary’s then we get to the fort.”

Bicyclers and joggers on the Maumee Pathway looked nervously at the mad hermit as they completed half an ellipse in passing. Marty didn’t even notice and even if he did, he would never have tried to interpret what they were thinking. The objective was to reach the old fort by midday before the crowds dispersed. This objective was all Marty was focused on, nothing else.

The fort was actually a replica of the old fort Major John Whistler and his men built in the early 19th century to guard the town from Native American attack. It was built a quarter mile from the site of the original and opened to the public in July, 1976. It now stood proudly at the convergence of three rivers in the center of town, St Joseph, St Mary’s and the Maumee rivers. Marty liked the spot not just for the crowd, but for the vantage point as well. He had always enjoyed open vistas and these three rivers coming together at just this spot made for some breathtaking viewing.

Stopping in at Three Rivers Market just after crossing the Maumee, Marty went straight for the stationary isle and grabbed a couple of bold, permanent markers and made his way to the counter to pay.

“Good morning, Marty. How we doing today?” It was Sarah, the attendant, who was always nice to Marty. She had an autistic brother so she knew the score and treated Marty with respect and dignity.

“Two markers. T-two…two markers.” Marty shifted back and forth while clasping his hands in front as though in silent prayer. It was not so much out of embarrassment or insecurity as it was simply how his mind arranged social interactions of this kind. Sarah knew this of course and reacted as though she didn’t notice. Marty liked Sarah. She never made him feel out of place.

“That’ll be five seventy-eight after tax. You want a bag or are you just gonna put them in your purse?”

“It’s a satchel. There’s going to be a play today at the fort. I told the sheriff, it’s going to cost a cool million. Yes, sir, wuh - wuh - one million.” He handed Sarah a ten dollar bill and she handed him his change.

“Oh, cool, what time? I’ll try to come if I’m off work in time.”

“At the fort. We’re going to keep back the natives, but we should be worried about the ocean. Eight tons of plastic. Going to be millions. I told the sheriff I’d do it for a hundred bucks.” Marty put the markers in his satchel and stuffed the change in his pocket. He turned on his heal and marched out into the street like a soldier.

When Marty arrived at the old fort he searched around for a good place to set up. He knew from having done this every weekend for the past year that he would have to set up off of park grounds or face being evicted by security. Luckily there was a nice shade tree just within viewing distance of the river and no one had claimed it yet. It was as good a spot as any he might hope for, so he took it.

One by one Marty carefully removed his PEZ dispensers from his satchel and placed them around as prescribed by his notes. Today’s play had four characters: Superman, who represented scientists; Scooby-Doo’s Velma, representing citizens of the world; Mickey Mouse, representing the politicians and Darth Vader to represent big business. He then wrote three signs on the cardboard he’d brought using the permanent markers he’d just procured from the convenience store

Just then Sarah arrived. “Hey, Marty. I’m glad I made it. You left so quickly I didn’t catch what time the play started so I came over after work, just in case.”

Marty looked through her, as was common with him when addressing people, then handed her a sign which read, ‘The End Is Nigh,” and pointed to a spot ten feet to his left. “There,” he said and she complied, standing there very seriously and holding the sign high. Next he took another sign, this one reading, ‘Let’s All Change The World,’ and propped it against a trash can off to the right of the stage, and finally placed the third sign leaning against the tree. The third sign read, ‘Don’t Live Like There Is No Tomorrow, Live Like A Time Traveller Who Came Back From The Future To Fix Humanity’s Mistakes.’

“Order, order. Welcome to the greatest show on Earth. Gather round and close in tight. This tale will change your life.” Marty held out his hands and waved them slowly in a wide arc then clasped his hands in front and began.

Superman: “Eight tons of plastic per year in our oceans, 1.5 degrees celsius temperature rise will cause catastrophe.”

Velma: “Oh, no! We’re all gonna die!”

Darth Vader: “Our efforts in the past year have set us on a carbon neutral projection by twenty, fifty, all with zero disruption to our bottom line.”

Mickey Mouse: “No, Thelma, don’t worry. Once we pass this spending bill we can start transitioning away from fossil fuels to renewable energy.”

Thelma: “Great. So now we don’t have to stop shopping for free shipping?”

Darth Vader: “That’s right, Thelma, by twenty, fifty we’ll be able to ship to you without using any carbon at all. The drones we'll be using are made from 100% ultralight plastic, which will take very little battery charge to operate.”

Superman: “New data suggests society will hit a tipping point in one to two decades, we’ll be dead by twenty, fifty.”

On and on Marty quoted climate model statistics and argued various points from the different perspectives of the four characters. All the while Sarah beamed with pride. Her friend Marty was laying down the law. As she watched the fort-going passersby she noticed a common look of disgust on their faces. They all seemed to be thinking the same thing, what is this strange, disheveled hermit rambling about. She knew then what she needed to do. Once Marty had finished, Sarah helped him put away his belongings and took him by the hand.

“You know what would be nice, Marty?” she asked.

“Nigh, the end.” he replied.

“Lets go heat up some beans and get an ice-cream.”

Marty only nodded and they crossed the bridge together hand in hand while rain clouds rolled in from the west.