by Bill Myers
The crowd goes wild. They’ve never seen such staggering strength (or cheap shoes). They surge forward, racing into the street, climbing onto his float, trying to touch him. First there are the seven-legged Fallerdowners (you’d fall down too if you had to keep track of seven legs), then the four-armed Chestthumpers, and finally the ever-unpopular Burperbreaths. It’s the Burperbreaths our hero fears the most. They are everywhere.
“Oh Macho Man (BURP), Macho Man. I’m (BURP) your biggest (BELCH) fan.”
“Of course you are,” Macho Man says, quickly backing away from their toxic breath. The fumes are already starting to melt the plastic rims of Macho Man’s glasses. He rises to his feet and climbs higher up the float for some fresh air.
“Macho (BURP) Man, Macho (BELCH) Man...”
They surround him from every side, climbing after him. Closer and closer they come.
BURP, BELCH, BURP.
Higher and higher he climbs.
BELCH, BURP, BEEEEEEEEEEEELCH (that was a good one).
And then, just when it looks like Macho Man has no place to go, just when it looks like he’ll have to hold his breath for eternity (or call for an air tanker to drop a load of Listerine), everything freezes.
That’s right, everything stops——the float, the crowd, even the Burperbreaths. Everything is frozen. Everything but Macho Man.
He looks around. “Hello?”
No answer. No sound. No one moves.
“Can anybody hear me?”
Repeat performance.
“Excuse me? Hello...”
He stops and flexes his brawny biceps. If that doesn’t get a rise out of the crowd, nothing will.
Nothing does.
He climbs down the float——past the Burperbreaths who no longer burp, past the Chestthumpers who no longer thump, and past the seven-legged Fallerdowners who no longer fall but are frozen in midair.
“Doesn’t anybody hear me? What’s going on?”
Panic suddenly seizes our sizable superhero. How can he live without adoring crowds, without screaming fans? What fun is it being the marvelous Macho Man if no babes are fainting in your presence, if weaker guys aren’t turning green with envy? Is it possible that he’s doomed to stroll the universe alone, never to be worshiped again?
And then, just when he’s deciding whether to pinch himself to see if he’s dreaming, or throw himself down and have a good macho cry, he hears it——a voice echoing through his head. “Greetings, Midget Mind.”
Our hero gasps a manly gasp. He recognizes the voice instantly. It’s the sinister Time Trickster. The diabolical scientist who tricks people with time. No one’s sure what made this mad scientist so mad. Some say it’s because he could never find his snooze alarm button in the morning. Others say it was from getting one too many digital wrist watches for one too many Christmases.
“Where are you?” Macho Man cries. “What have you done?”
“I have finally invented the ultimate computer. A timepiece that controls all other clocks in the universe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take a look at your watch, Bicep Brain.”
Our hero raises his muscular wrist to his muscular face and gasps another macho gasp. “The second hand, it’s stopped!”
“Precisely. I now control all time in the universe.”
“But...”
“And that’s only the beginning. Look at this!”
Suddenly, the second hand of our hero’s watch starts running backwards. But it’s not just his second hand. His feet are also running backwards. He’s climbing back onto the float. The Burperbreaths are climbing down. The Fallerdowers are falling up. Everyone is moving backwards! Not only moving backwards, but talking backwards!
“!naM (HCLEB) ohcaM ,naM (PRUB) oh-caM” they cry as they back away from him and return to the street curb.
“,era uoy esruoc fO” Macho Man says as he backs into his original position on the float.
“.naf (HCLEB) tseggib ruoy m’I .naM (PRUB) ohcaM, (PRUB) naM ohcaM hO”
Great Scott! What will our superhero do? Will he ever get time running forward again? Will he ever be adored again? And, most importantly, will we have to read the rest of this story’s dialogue in a mirror?
These are the questions running through our pumped-up, superbod, good guy, when suddenly——
“Attention please . . . attention . . .”
It was the school PA system. There was a loud squeal of feedback. That meant the microphone was in the clumsy hands of Vice Principal Watkins, who never could get the hang of using the school’s intercom. I shut ol’ Betsy down and saved the rest of my Macho Man story for another time.
“Attention please . . . SQUEAL . . . Our seventh grade English teacher, Mrs. Finkelstein, has just completed the judging of the entries for the WART-TV essay contest.”
I threw a look over to Opera. For some reason he had stopped eating. In fact, he was actually holding his breath and staring at the speaker in nervous anticipation. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Did he actually think he’d have a chance?
Don’t get me wrong, Opera has his own set of talents. And we were all looking forward to seeing him become the first classical-singing sumo wrestler. But writing? Forget it. The only writing Opera did was a shopping list. Even then all he had to spell was: chips, chocolate, and cookies.
“Mrs. Finkelstein would like to say . . . SQUEAL . . . that all the entries were outstanding and she wishes all of them could . . . SQUEAL . . . could represent our school. Well, all except the one describing the joys of biting off lizard heads—would Bruno Pistarini please make an appointment to visit the school counselor as soon as possible? In any case . . . SQUEAL . . . the winning representative for Olympic Heights Middle School is . . . ”
I braced myself, preparing for the onslaught of congratulations. . . .
“Mr. Oliver ‘Opera’ Livingston!”
I started rising to my feet and giving a humble wave to my adoring fans. Then I caught myself. What did he say?
“Congratulations, Opera. We’ll all be listening to the news tonight, as you compete against the other schools. We all hope you’ll be the . . . SQUEAL . . .winner. Good luck!”
I don’t remember much after that. It seems there was a bunch of commotion and back-slapping near Opera. I vaguely heard his voice shouting, “All right, free chips for everybody!” and finally the distant sound of the school bell ringing.
“Hey, Wally . . . Wally . . .” The next thing I knew, Opera was shaking me. “Are you okay? Are you all right?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, uh, sure.” I rubbed my forehead and started gathering my books. “I tell you, I just had the weirdest dream. I dreamed that you were the guy who won the—”
“Have a chip.” He shoved the salt-saturated grease under my nose. “They’re on the house.”
“I, uh, I don’t . . .”
“Isn’t this fantastic?” He grabbed his books and turned toward the door. “I think I’m going down to my safe-deposit box at the bank and withdraw my private stock of Super-Duper, Double-Fried Salties to celebrate. Want to come?”
My head reeled. It hadn’t been a dream. Somehow Opera had won. Somehow he had beaten me. And worst of all, he had beaten me with an idea I had given him!
I’m not sure how I got to my feet, but soon we were heading toward the exit. As we arrived, I looked up, and there she was . . . Melissa Sue Avarice— waiting for me at the door. Once again she was smiling that perfect, heartbreaking smile.
Suddenly my pain vanished. Suddenly the agony of defeat was gone. All it took was that beautiful smile. What joy and comfort to know there was still somebody who stayed by my side through thick and thin, good or bad, win or—
“Hi, Opera,” she chirped while batting her baby blues at him.
Opera’s mouth fell open. He was as surprised as I was.
“I’m just so thrilled that you won, aren’t you?”
“Well, uh, yeah,” he sort of squeaked, “sure . . .”
Before I knew it, she had wrapped her arm around his, escorted him through the door, and led him down the hall. I could only stare.
“Great,” I sighed in disbelief, “just great.” What else could go wrong?
“Hey, McDoogle.” It was Bruno’s voice. Then it was Bruno’s hand around my collar. “I’m still feelin’ a little tense—let’s you and me swing by da lavatory.”
It’s good to know there are still some people you can always rely on.
Chapter 3
Time for a Change
There’s a trick to eating my little sister’s cooking.
You don’t.
When it’s Carrie’s turn to fix dinner, just make sure you smuggle all sorts of empty containers to the table—something to stuff and hide her so-called ‘food’ into. Empty bags, cassette cases, business envelopes—anything will do, just as long as Carrie doesn’t see you.
I don’t want to say her cooking is bad, but even our pet cat, Collision (who did not get her name for her brilliance) stays out from under the table on those nights. And it isn’t just to avoid eating the fallen scraps. When those scraps hit the floor, there’s no telling which direction they’ll bounce or how much damage they’ll do when they hit.
Carrie was passing around her wanna-be food, insisting everyone have seconds on her French-fried spinach and candied Brussels sprouts. Fortunately, the TV news was blaring loudly. Carrie looked away as they headlined the news about the contest finalists, and she didn’t notice us shoveling the “delectable” goodies away.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Mom said. “Opera, your very own friend, a finalist right here on the news.”
“Yeah,” I said, while stuffing something that looked like a cross between frozen frog eyes and lizard eggs into a plastic baggie, “just great.”
“You don’t sound too thrilled,” Dad commented.
I shrugged and kept stuffing. What could I say? That Mrs. Finkelstein picked the wrong essay? That I should be the finalist? Of course it was true, but how do you put that into words? Fortunately, my older brother Brock saved me the trouble.
“Couldn’t be you’re a little jealous, could it Wally?” he taunted.
I looked up and glared. Me? Jealous? Of what? I could feel my face start to get red, like it always does when I get mad.
Brock broke into a semi-toothless grin (a reminder of last football season where he blocked one too many kicks). He had me and he knew it. I was jealous. Real jealous. But of whom? Of my best friend? A fellow Dork-oid? What a terrible thought.
“Check it out!” said Burt, my other brother. He was just as much a jock as Brock and had just as many missing teeth. He motioned to the TV, where the sportscaster was talking about our new minor league hockey team, the Super Chickens. They were holding tryouts next week and everyone was invited.
They cut to Coach Krashenburn (formerly of Krashenburn’s Used Cars) who was saying, “I believe we’ve got plenty of local talent right here in this local community. So I look forward to every local kid coming on down to show me what he’s got!”
Burt and Brock exchanged glances.
“What do you say, Brock?”
“You mean us trying out, Burt?”
“That’s right, Brock.”
“I’m with you, Burt.”
They high fived and resumed stuffing their shirt pockets with my sister’s blackeyed peas, which had the look and taste of overcooked sand.
And then it happened. The announcement everyone had been waiting for . . .
“Well, it was a close call,” the sports commentator was saying, “and we at WART-TV want to thank every school for participating. But the essay that best captured the thrill and excitement of sports came from Olympic Heights Middle School.”
Suddenly Opera’s photo appeared behind the sportscaster. Of course it was upside down and backwards (WART-TV never had money to hire real professionals). But there was no missing my best friend, standing there on his head, grinning away at us!
“All right!” Dad shouted.
“Way to go, Opera!” Mom cried.
“Everybody ready for dessert?” Carrie asked. “It’s cauliflower cobbler.”
I don’t remember what happened next. Except I somehow avoided the cauliflower cobbler and wound up in my room. I was stewing. I was more than stewing: I was steaming. I was more than steaming: I was boiling. I was more than—that’s enough cooking symbolism, you probably get the point.
How could I, the gifted writer, have lost to that . . . that . . . Overeater’s Anonymous reject! It just wasn’t fair. Writing was my speciality. Let the others have the girls, the brains, the athletics. I was a writer. That was my niche, MY speciality.
As I sat on the bed brooding, I could feel my stomach tying into little knots. Square knots, hitch knots, slipknots—you name it, I tied it. I was experiencing jealousy in the first degree.
I kept thinking, “It’s not fair. I’ve got to show them. How can I show them?” And then it hit me like a freight train (actually a freight train would have done less damage). If Opera thinks he can write, let him write. Let him do that stupid sportscast. See what I care. If everybody thinks he’s such a great writer, big deal. I would find a new niche. I would find something no one else could do. And I would do it better than Opera or any of them ever dreamed of doing it. That would show him. That would show all of them.
But what? The only thing I was good at was writing . . . and serving as the all-school punching bag. But there had to be something. I grabbed a piece of paper and started a list. I knew there was something out there, and I knew I would find it.
“Good morning!” the all-too-cheery disk jockey greeted me over my radio alarm. “It’s another beautiful day here in Middletown and time for all you sleepyheads to rise and shine. ”
I rolled over in bed and looked at the clock. It read:
6:33 AM
I fumbled for my glasses and put them on. Now it read:
6:33 AM
That was better, but not by much. I’d been up all night working on my list of “New Opportunities.” Having only squeezed in a couple hours of sleep, I was a little on the cranky side. Mr. Over-Cheery Announcer did not help:
“And, hey, we just want to wish a hearty congratulations to Opera Livingston for winning that essay contest last night . . . ”
“Wonderful,” I sighed, “is there anybody in the whole world who doesn’t know?”
“We’re really looking forward to seeing you on the air, little buddy. ”
I snapped off the radio and staggered to my closet. I slipped into some pants but couldn’t find the zipper. Then I realized I had them on backwards. After changing them around, I threw on yesterday’s shirt (not at all bothered by the candied Brussels sprouts that tumbled out of the pocket) and slumped down behind my desk to review the New Opportunities list.
Immediately I could tell that some ideas were flat-out wrong. Take for instance:
NUCLEAR SCIENTIST—A great job, but I can’t sleep with a light glowing in the room. Especially if it happens to be me.
TRAPEZE ARTIST—Fun and excitement. But, as you may recall from my little hot-air balloon adventure, I’m afraid of heights. Actually, it’s not the heights I’m afraid of; it’s the lows. It can really be depressing when you’re the one making the depression . . . in the ground.
TOOTHBRUSH MAKER—I don’t think my hands are small enough to fit in there and poke all those little bristles into all their little holes.
I crossed these and a couple hundred other ideas off the list before I packed up and headed to school.
Classes were kind of a blur. But if I heard one more kid tell me how great it was that my best friend would get on WART-TV, I’d . . . well, I don’t know what I’d do, but it wouldn’t be pretty. Of course, Opera tried to talk to me about a million times, but I was always too busy. I tell you, jealousy was really eating into me, and there didn’t seem to be any way to stop it.
By the end of the day I had my list narrowed dow
n to three topics. Three completely different images for the New And Improved Wally McDoogle. I would spend the next few days making the rounds, testing them out, figuring which would be the best for me to pursue.
On Wednesday it was:
WALY MCDOOGLE, BALET DANCER . . .
I found a pretty cool ballet school and signed up. I really didn’t mind the tights or those sissy slippers. And there could be worse problems than being the only guy surrounded by about two hundred babes. It’s just when those two hundred babes started leaping into the air, expecting me to catch them, that I got a little tense.
I did all right at the beginning. I even managed to catch 68-pound Nicole and 72-pound Heather. It was when I saw 164-pound Susan flying at me that I had second thoughts.
My teacher, Ms. Stanaslobsky, showed no pity. As soon as they pulled Susan off me and peeled my body from the floor, she dragged me over to a long bar about chest-high that was in front of a mirror.
“Ond now Master McDoogle, ve vill verk on vlexibilty.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Virst, ve put your right leg up on de bar like zo.” She grabbed my right leg and threw it over the bar. I had no idea it could go so high. “Ond den ve bend down wit de oder knee like zo.”
“But . . .” I wanted to say it was impossible. You can’t stretch a person in two different directions at the same time. I signed up to be a dancer, not a Gumby doll. But before I could get the words out, she grabbed my shoulders and pushed down.
“Augh!” I cried.
“Nonzense, Master McDoogle,” she said as she kept pushing, “de body, she lufs to stretch.”
“Augh! Augh!” I cried.
“A lettle pain in de beginning iz good. And in de end you vill feel zo much—”
RIIIIPPP!
“Vhat vas dat?” she asked. “Vas dat your leotards ripping?”
“No ma’am,” I groaned. “That was my leg.”
She looked down and scowled. “Amazink. I haf never seen anyzing like dat.”
Everyone watched as she eased my leg off the bar and helped me hobble across the floor. The pain was bad, but not as bad as having a left leg that was now three inches longer than my right. Later, as they rolled me and my new wheelchair out the door, I began to think dancing may not be my cup of tea.
