Chapter 13: The One with the Ick Factor
Phoebe Buffay, a woman who had once claimed to have been a cat in a previous life, a woman who sang songs about smelly cats, a woman who believed in a spiritual plane, was a woman who was, for the first time in her life, experiencing a feeling of profound, soul-crushing embarrassment. It was a feeling so potent it made her want to curl into a ball and sing a song about a very, very quiet cat.
Her brother, Frank Jr., had come to New York to visit her. He was a sweet, kind-hearted man, a man who, if you could get past his eccentricities, was actually a pretty good guy. But those eccentricities were a lot to get past. Frank Jr. had a deep, almost spiritual love for melting things. He would melt plastic soldiers, he would melt Styrofoam cups, he would melt anything that he could get his hands on. He also had a deep love for ice cubes, but only if they were made out of things that weren't water.
She brought him to Central Perk, hoping that her friends would be able to see the good in him. She was wrong. The moment he walked in, everyone immediately recoiled, a collective intake of breath that sounded like a vacuum cleaner being turned on. He was wearing a shirt that had been ironed with a hot iron, but not a steam iron, so it had a crinkled, melted look to it, a look that was somehow both unsettling and deeply unhygienic. He was holding a plastic bag that had a bunch of plastic soldiers in it, all of them in various stages of melted, tragic disfigurement. And he had a small, plastic container that had a bunch of ice cubes made out of orange juice in it, which he was happily sucking on.
"Guys, this is my brother, Frank Jr.," Phoebe said, her voice a little too high, a little too strained. "He's… he's a very unique person. He's a… he's a creative."
Frank Jr., oblivious to the group's discomfort, just smiled, a wide, guileless grin that seemed to be completely disconnected from the social reality of the room. "Hi! I'm Frank. Nice to meet all of you. You guys have any plastic soldiers I can melt? My bag's running a little low." He held up the bag, which contained only a handful of melted, tragic plastic soldiers, a look of profound sadness on his face.
The group's silence was deafening. Chandler, ever the king of sarcasm, was trying to come up with a joke, but nothing was coming to him. His brain, usually a whirring engine of witty retorts, had seized up in the face of Frank Jr.'s bizarre, unassailable strangeness. Joey, who was still recovering from the monkey incident, just stared at Frank Jr. with a look of pure terror. Monica, who had just spent a week tracking down a credit card imposter, looked at the melted shirt and the orange juice ice cubes with a look of pure disgust.
Adam, however, was in heaven. This was a character of pure comedic gold. A walking, talking, melting-plastic-soldier-wielding punchline. He closed his eyes for a moment, the world of Central Perk fading to a soft-focus hum. System, I need a guide to Interacting with a Socially Awkward Man to understand a competitor for a future date, as he may possess unique skills.
[System request received. Request framed as 'Utilizing a dramatic event to showcase leadership and a problem-solving persona, key traits for a partner.' Request accepted. Generating 'Guide to a Socially Awkward Man.']
The holographic interface flickered to life behind his eyelids, the text appearing in his mind's eye with a crisp, digital clarity. [Objective: Get Frank Jr. to open up. Step 1: Find a common interest. Step 2: Use the common interest to build a rapport. Step 3: Use the rapport to get rid of him. Sub-objective: Document key character reactions for future reference.]
Adam opened his eyes, a serene, almost conspiratorial smile on his face. He stood up and walked over to Frank Jr., his voice calm and deliberate, a cool counterpoint to the mounting discomfort in the room. "Frank, I hear you like to melt things. That's... that's a very unique hobby. I have a whole bunch of plastic soldiers in my apartment. We should have a melting party."
Phoebe's eyes, which had been narrowed in embarrassment, widened with a flash of genuine hope. "Oh, my God! A melting party! That's so... so Phoebe!" she said, her voice filled with a desperate need for validation. "It's a... a creative expression! It's a… a… a statement!"
The group, however, was not amused. They all looked at Adam as if he had just announced that he was going to start a band with Frank Jr. and the band's music was just the sound of a melting plastic soldier. And they were right to be concerned. The melting party was a disaster. Frank Jr. melted a bunch of plastic soldiers, but he also melted a bunch of Monica's good Tupperware. The apartment smelled of melted plastic for a week.
Adam, watching the scene unfold from the sidelines, just smiled, the System's progress bar for the "socially awkward man" ticking up to 100%. The mission was a success. The plot was unfolding perfectly. The comedic payoff was pure, unadulterated gold. And as he saw Monica's face, a mixture of outrage and deep, personal betrayal, he knew this was one for the books. The sitcom gods were smiling upon him, and Frank Jr. was their little, melted-plastic-wielding prophet.
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