Martin Pappas

Martin Pappas was, by most accounts, a perfectly normal man. He had a normal face, a normal house, a normal car, a normal wife, and two exceedingly normal children. Like most normal men his age, he was an accountant. He worked for a normal firm in a normal office building in perfectly normal Downtown Evanston. Also like most normal men, he wasn’t happy. He wasn’t miserable, by any means, but he had a bit bigger of a dream than simply being an accountant. He wanted something more out of life.

He wanted to be the world’s first and greatest Rich Little impersonator.

He admitted this to only one person: his boss, Kenneth Q. Fillmore. The usually open-minded and considerate Mr. Fillmore responded to Martin’s confession thusly: “Come on now, son, that’s crazy talk. You’re an accountant, not a nightclub entertainer. Now get outta my garage.”

Nevertheless, Martin continued to harbor hope that he could make a name for himself impersonating Rich Little—not just in nightclubs, but perhaps even on Broadway! After two more years of letting his dream be deferred, he finally got the resolve to quit his job and pursue his passion.

Kenneth Fillmore’s response: “Well, it’s been a pleasure working with you all these years, Pappas. Best of luck to you. Now please stop gnawing on my desk.”

Later that night, as Martin sat down to dinner with his family, his wife Sheila couldn’t help but notice a less-than-subtle change in her husband. His smile seemed more...genuine. There was a sparkle in his eyes that she hadn’t seen since the Great Fish Stick Factory Fire of ‘02. He was actually eating his spinach instead of not-so-sneakily feeding it to the cat.

After a genteel sip of water, she asked him, “How was work today, honey?”

“Wonderful!” answered Martin. “I quit today!”

Everyone stopped eating. Sheila dropped her fork on the floor.

“You what?!” she snarled.

“I’ve quit my job at the firm, and now I’m going to pursue my lifelong dream.”

“And what, pray tell, would that be?”

“Well, family,” Martin beamed, “I’m going to go on the road as a Rich Little impersonator!”

The children’s jaws dropped in shock. Sheila gave Martin the dirtiest look.

“Martin,” she said, “that is the dumbest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“What do you mean?” asked Martin.

“Rich Little is an impressionist. You can’t make a career out of impersonating an impressionist.”

“Come on now, Sheila! I already sound pretty close to him anyway!”

“Can you do the same impressions that he can? People’ll be expecting that. That’s what people go to see Rich Little for! Show me your Jimmy Stewart. Come on.”

“Now, Sheila, I—”

“How’s your Jack Benny? Do Jack Benny for me. C’mon, Martin!”

“You know I can’t do those, Sheila! But I can do Rich Little. And people will love it! You’ll see! I’ll wow ‘em, Sheila, really wow ‘em! You’ve just got to believe me! What do ya say, Sheila?”

Silence. Tense, horrible silence, broken by just five little words.

“Martin, I want a divorce.”

Those words hit Martin like nine-hundred-pound sacks of duck feathers, which most normal men don’t get hit with, but it’s happened to Martin at least twice. That might just explain this whole thing, actually. Nevertheless, he was heartbroken. Absolutely devastated, in fact. He could barely manage to pack his bags and fuck off as his wife had commanded him.

With nowhere to go, he took his suitcases to Kelsey’s Bar down the road to drown his sorrows. While there, he saw a strange little bearded man. He couldn’t have been any taller than 5’7”. But his beard was luxurious. Martin couldn’t help but notice it, envy it, fall in love with it…

The short man suddenly put down his drink and turned to Martin.

“Hey there, pal!” he bellowed. “The name’s Squiggley. Arthur Squiggley! I couldn’t help but notice you staring off into the middle distance like a total weirdo. What’s wrong?”

“My wife just left me,” Martin confided. “Well, it’s more that she made me leave her, but the sentiment’s about the same, right?”

“Well, that sucks,” said the magnificently-bearded Mr. Squiggley. “I suppose that’s life. One day you’re a happily married man with a house and food, the next you’re a sad lump of cold gravy guzzling swill in a ratty old dive and staring creepily at a random man’s well-groomed beard.”

Arthur Squiggley took another sip of his beer, skillfully managing not to drip any on his beard, which wouldn’t have mattered anyway since beer is good for hair. Martin took his drink and moved a little further down the bar. It was perfectly clear to him that this strange man was not going to help the plot progress any.

On the other side of the bar sat a mysterious woman in a pantsuit in shades. Martin decided she was the best person to sit next to. His butt hadn’t been in contact with the seat of the stool for even a second before the woman turned to him and sniped, “Is this a pickup?!”

“Oh, no! Good heavens, no!” Martin said, instinctively hiding his soft underbelly behind his beer. “Actually, I think I’m staying out of the romance game for a while. My wife just kicked me out of the house, you see.”

“She did, huh?” inquired the woman. “She caught ya with another woman, did she?”

“Oh, no!” said Martin. “Actually, she kicked me out ‘cause I quit my job and decided to follow my dream. I’m gonna become a world-famous Rich Little impersonator!”

The woman perked up. “Impersonator? There could be money in that.”

She held out her hand. Martin shook it.

“Gina Winthrop, agent to the stars. I can take you places, kid—if you’ve got the talent, that is.”

“Oh, I’ve got the talent!” Martin jumped up from his stool. “What’s more, I’ve got the ambition!”

“Great, kid!” said Gina, who kept calling Martin “kid” despite the incredibly obvious fact that she was nineteen years his junior. “Now all you need is the right agent, and you’re lookin’ at her!”

And on that fateful night, Martin Pappas got himself an agent.

As promised, Gina Winthrop took Martin places. Places like Chicken Bristle, Illinois…Parma, Ohio…Hoboken, New Jersey. Martin bombed in every one. But he never gave up hope, and neither did Gina. Mind you, in Gina’s case, Hope was the escort-slash-masseuse-and-definitely-nothing-else she started seeing on a biweekly basis with the money Martin was now paying her.

One night, after a passionate tryst with Hope, as she was putting on her pants, Gina accidentally butt-dialed an old high school friend. As she buttoned up her shirt, she heard a faint “Hello?” coming from her pocket. She pulled her phone out. She had accidentally called Julia McGoohan, the once and future improv queen of Lakeview High, and now the assistant to one of many in the army of producers who work on Saturday Night Live. Not wanting to look foolish in front of her slumbering paramour, Gina decided to save face by telling her old friend Julia about a new act she was managing: a promising new comedian by the name of Martin Pappas.

Three months later, Martin found himself sweating profusely in 30 Rockefeller Plaza, waiting in a green room with fifteen other performers, all of them younger, funnier, and more conventionally-attractive than he. But none of that mattered. He had a gift. He knew it. Gina knew it. And Gina had threatened to beat him up if he dared chicken out.

Footsteps began to approach the green room. Martin began to sweat even more. He really shouldn’t have worn a white shirt to this audition. Good thing he was wearing brown pants, at least. Just in case.

“Martin Pappas,” the stage manager called, “you’re up next.”

Martin walked down the hall with the stage manager to the door that led to the show's famous home base. He cracked the door open a bit and peaked out into the audience. Seated in the balcony were Lorne Michaels, one of the show's head writers, two of its producers, and...inexplicably, the fat guy from Shaft. You know the one. Tall guy, a bit on the portly side, always wears a nice hat. Anyway, Martin took a deep breath and walked out onto the stage.

Lorne Michaels looked up from his clipboard. “Your name, please?”

“Hello. My name is Martin Pappas, and I am a Rich Little impersonator.”

Martin then proceeded to perform his entire act for his judges. He had them hooked from the very first syllable. For ten whole minutes, their attention was his, only his, as he monologued in character as famed impressionist Rich Little. Soon, other writers and cast members began to flock to see Martin’s performance. They all watched in awestruck silence. At the end of his routine, Lorne Michaels stood up, astounded beyond belief. This is it, Martin thought. My big break! Martin grinned as if he had just smelled another fish stick factory fire. He was going to be famous...

“That was awful!” Lorne exclaimed. “Guards, execute him!”

Before he could process it all, Martin Pappas was seized by two big, burly men and decapitated right there on the stage. There was much rejoicing throughout the building. Steve Higgins, a longtime Saturday Night Live producer, cried tears of joy for the first time in over fifteen minutes. Everybody in 30 Rockefeller Plaza was given the rest of the day off to frolic in the streets and hug all vaccinated passersby.

The world’s first and only Rich Little impersonator was no more, and balance was at last fully restored to the universe.

Six days after Martin’s execution, Sheila received a telegram from NBC informing her of her ex-husband’s death. It was old news to her by this point, as it had been a big story on all the major networks. Nevertheless, she had the telegram bronzed and kept it on her mantle. She would miss the alimony payments, but took comfort in the knowledge that Martin was roasting in Hell where he belonged, right next to Heinrich Himmler.

Twenty-five years later, Martin’s youngest child, little Lucinda Pappas, was now a grown woman. She’d made millions off the successes of the many one-woman shows she had written for other women and the occasional penguin over the years. Her renown and fortune never went to her head, however. She managed to avoid all the excesses and eccentricities that often plague Midwestern playwrights.

She was, by all accounts, a perfectly normal woman. She had a normal face, a normal house, a normal car, a normal wife, and two exceedingly normal children. But, somehow, it all just wasn’t quite enough for her. She wasn’t miserable by any means, but still, she wanted something more out of life.

She wanted to be an accountant.