The flash fiction of Martin Dean: Honk, honk, Gandhi, and who am I?

Mother told me yesterday that my first given name is Martin. Dean is my middle. Fanning is my last. I am not Dean Martin. I am Martin Dean and it does not just roll down the tongue like my preferred name that I grew up with. It does not roll! I am having an identity crisis. This guy behind me is now honking. It’s the rush hour after work and the traffic chaos is full blown. I am helping reduce the clog by letting a few cars cut in and drive in the opposite direction. I am being a friendly driver, a good citizen and pollution minimizer whereas the guy behind me is a traffic asshole who keeps honking so I would move my car’s ass so that his car’s ass can sit among the stagnant group of cars ten feet closer to the traffic light that is showing red. He started honking after the second car. After the third, his honking got madder and easily translatable to our human language. I understand honkish and I know that he is saying some nasty stuff. I get out of my car and yell at him. He stops and looks away. I probably look crazy. I get back in my car and pull away. I am not a violent person and I avoid conflict as much as possible. I help clear the traffic jam. I wear a shirt with Gandhi’s face on it but I can be pretty intimidating. Also, there are grown people who don’t even know who Gandhi is. That’s the kind of world we live in. Martin Dean. What a shitty name. It’s like going from the Rat Pack to the Pack Rat. A humiliating identity demotion. But I am now riding a green wave, so that’s good.

The flash fiction of Dean Martin: Underpinnings

Sometimes I wonder if (the) Dean Martin ever went shopping – like for himself and on his own. Well, I don’t really wonder about it – it’s just a thought that crossed my mind today when I went to the mall in search of new and clean underwear. I saw a pretty girl at the store. She was buying boxers for her – it’s safe to assume – boyfriend or such. I envy those guys who have girlfriends to buy them stuff like socks and boxers. I mean, that’s one of the reasons I envy them – there are others, too. I spent one hour and 38 dollars at the mall. All on underpinnings. It’s more than I had planned in both time and money but I chanced upon some Globetrotters boxers and a Wonder Woman undershirt that I had to have. It was from a small boutique shop next to Gap. While I was trotting home, I wondered how the hell is that Gap store still in business.

The Flash Fiction of Dean Martin: The Question

Even though the weather was perfect for sleeping, Dean Martin woke up with one of the big questions about human existence. What is the purpose of life? Dean Martin is not a philosopher and he didn’t look for that question. And he didn’t want it. It seemed to have squatted somewhere deep in his mind, in a corner he didn’t know existed, and then pounced on him the moment he woke up. The rain was tapping on the window by his bed and he wasn’t in the mood to look for answers but the question insisted: what is the purpose, what is the purpose? Dean Martin was cornered in his bed. Is it to – as the Bard said – find your gift and give it away? What if the only gift to find is some plastic junk toy under a Christmas tree? Does everybody have a gift? What if they don’t? What if they just spend their entire lives looking for something that’s not there? What do you give away if you don’t have a gift? What if I don’t have any gifts, thought Dean? Or maybe there is some other purpose – like to get married, reproduce, help your kids secure incredible amounts of education money they will then have to work their entire lives to pay back? What is the purpose of life, Dean, what is it?! Fuck, I don’t know, thought Dean and got up to fix some coffee.

Franks and Deans and Peggy Sue

My name is Dean Martin. Not ‘the’ Dean Martin. Just a random guy who has the name but not the voice.

I don’t want anything. And I think that’s my trick to happiness.

I trained myself to believe and live by that maxim when I was just out of college and landed a good job that was promising a long and successful career. And my girlfriend Peggy Sue and I were planning to join each other in marriage that was also promising to be long and successful just like the one my parents had. It sounded like a good life to me and I was ready. I was young but mature enough to be ready. The night before our wedding, my best friend Harry threw me a moderately wild bachelor party which I ditched around midnight to go see my future bride. I was tipsy and was hoping to get a little action from her. When I got to her place, she was fucking her neighbor Frank who got so scared when he saw me that he stood straight in front of me, naked, quiet and petrified, for about ten seconds before he crashed to the wooden floor and died of a heart attack. To this day, all I remember about him is how he stood naked before me and even though I looked, I couldn’t see the tiniest bit of his male instrument – that’s how fat Frank was. That’s to say to people that no matter what your shape or size, there is somebody who will like it. I never got married to Peggy Sue. We broke up that night and she quickly moved on with some guy called Buddy. And I wasn’t mature as I thought I was – I was only foolish. And for a long time I partially blamed myself for Frank’s demise. If only I had not walked in on them. If Peggy Sue had not been my fiancee. He wouldn’t get scared. And the irony is – I am not some big scary guy. So maybe Frank was a decent chap who died of shame when I appeared. Or maybe he was too big of a coward. But then brave enough to make a naked move on my girl. People puzzle me. And by ‘male instrument’ I meant dick.