My Life as a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce

by Bill Myers

  Of course, we all knew he was make-believe— probably created by the counselors to keep everyone in bed. So, of course, none of us were really frightened of him. But still, when it comes to monsters, you can never be too careful.

  There was more rustling and now some cracking of twigs. He was nearly on top of us. No doubt about it. One more step and we’d be some monster’s late-night snack!

  At last the time came. I could wait no longer. I mean, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I grabbed my hands, squeezed hard, and began to crack my knuckles.

  My friends scowled at me. But I had no choice. When I get nervous, I crack my knuckles. It’s like a habit or something. It’s also the best relaxer there is. Forget the tranquilizers, forget the self-help books, forget the counseling sessions. Just take up knuckle cracking.

  Snap-pop, snap-pop, snap-pop . . .

  Wall Street and Opera kept glaring. I mean, if looks could kill, I’d be dead. But before they could decide on the method of execution, the bushes finally flew apart. And suddenly, in all his awesomeness, appeared . . .

  Jimmy Jack Hucksterly.

  “Hey, McDoogle, my man,” he said, shaking the pine needles from his oily black hair. “How’s it going?”

  “Jimmy Jack,” I sighed in relief. “It’s only you.”

  I knew Jimmy Jack from school. And, though he wasn’t the monster we feared, I should have been more careful. You see, wherever he went, Jimmy Jack was bad news. It’s not that he was a bully or anything like that. In fact, he was one of the few people in the world shorter than me. But Jimmy Jack Hucksterly had a reputation—a reputation as wide as the gap between his front teeth.

  Jimmy Jack was always on the make. Selling this, selling that, making this deal, making that deal. Nothing wrong with that. But somehow Jimmy Jack always got the better end of the deal . . . even if it meant a little lying. Even if it meant a lot of lying.

  The point is, people always felt ripped off by Jimmy Jack Hucksterly. And for good reason . . . they usually were.

  “McDoogle, listen.” He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. Since Opera and Wall Street were Dorkoids, I guess he figured they didn’t count. “There’s been a lot of talk in camp tonight.”

  “’Bout what?”

  “About your standing up to the Gorilla.”

  “Hey, I didn’t do that on purpose. That was just an acciden—”

  “No, no,” he interrupted. “I don’t mean today, I mean in the future. I mean, for you to stand up to the Gorilla for the rest of us and put a stop to him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘the rest of us’?”

  “The campers, man—all of us. That creep’s got us all under his thumb, making us work for him like slaves.”

  “So?”

  “So we need a leader like you to rally the troops and stop him.”

  “Right, me, the leader.”

  “No, I’m serious, man. The guy’s a disease . . . and you, you’re the cure.”

  “You been watching too many movies, Jimmy Jack.” I knew I couldn’t trust this guy. Nobody could. Still, if only a few of the kids believed what he said they believed . . . well, that was still kind of neat. In fact, it was so neat that I started to forget what Dale had said. Something about watching who we hang out with, wasn’t it? Probably. But at that moment I couldn’t exactly remember. And the more I listened to Jimmy Jack, the more I forgot.

  That was my first mistake—but not my last.

  “Listen to me.” Jimmy Jack lowered his voice and moved in closer like we were suddenly best of friends. “We need you, man. If enough of us got behind you—and with me at your side—we could exterminate this insect once and for all.”

  For the next half-hour Jimmy Jack kept working on me. Talk about insects, this guy was like a pesky fly. No matter how many times I waved him away, he just kept coming back. Of course, I didn’t say yes to his offer. That would have been suicide. But by the end of the evening, I wasn’t exactly saying no, either. And that was mistake number two.

  Later, as I lay in bed, I reached for Betsy and snapped her on. I hoped getting back to Mutant Man would help clear my mind. . . .

  When we last left our hugably handsome and perfectly straight-toothed hero he was about to make an impression upon the Bank of Africa. A big impression. Like with his whole body. But suddenly, an incredible idea comes to his magnificently mighty mind.

  He lets go of the helicopter and falls faster than a kid’s smile after learning he’s having liver and onions for dinner. Faster and faster he falls. And then faster some more.

  But Mutant Man is not worried. Why should he be? After all, he’s already read this story. He knows that just thirty feet below are his two faithful sidekicks, Opera and Wall Street.

  Disguised as window washers, they’ve been waiting on their washing platform for hours just in case something like this should happen.

  K-Bang, Crash, Crack!

  Our hero hits the platform hard. But this is no time to count broken legs... or necks. Mutant Man has a world to save. And, as usual, he’ll save it magnificently. Faster than you can say, “Oh no, now what’s he up to?” Mutant Man shouts, “Quick, Plan 243½!”

  Now as everyone knows, Plan 243½ is the plan for changing window-washing platforms into supersonic jet fighters.

  An impossibility?

  Perhaps for you, my dear, untrained reader. But not for the likes of the great Opera and Wall Street. After all, changing window-washing platforms into jet fighters was one of the first things they learned while at Mutant Man’s School of Superherohood.

  Soon the puny platform is transformed into an awesome airplane——complete with salted peanuts and an in-flight movie for longer trips.

  “Oh no!” Opera suddenly screams, “we forgot the engine!”

  “Don’t worry,” Wall Street shouts as she begins digging in her purse. Instantly, she pulls out a portable hair dryer.

  “A perfect engine!” Mutant Man cries. “Strap it onto the back.”

  In no time flat our hero is ready. He revs his engine up to “Super-Blow” and roars into the wild blue yonder, leaving his two superhelpers behind.

  Dr. Ghastly is high overhead. If Mutant Man can just get closer. If he can just get the Wisdom Sucker Upper into his sights and blow a hole in it. Then all the wisdom would fall back to earth where it belongs. An easy plan, right?

  Unfortunately, there’s a fly in the ointment...literally.

  No one saw the little fly sneak on board. But then again, we’re not just talking any fly here. We’re talking the world-famous Jimmy Jack Jive Fly. As a visitor from the planet MakeUaDeal, this little alien quickly became a friend of used-car salesmen and politicians around the world. And for good reason.

  Talk about a fast talker. I mean, this guy could sell you anything——even the shirt off his back. And that’s a neat trick since flies never wear shirts (usually just pullover sweaters)...and neater still ’cause if they did wear shirts they’d all have six sleeves in them, and what could you do with a six-sleeved shirt anyway, hmm?

  “Pssst...Hey, Mutant. Mutant Man.”

  Unfazed by his new companion, Mutant Man does his best to be polite. “Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry, Mr. Jive Fly, but I haven’t time to talk. You see, at the moment, I’m busy saving the world.”

  “But this is important——really important.”

  “I’m sure it is, but I already have a closet full of six-sleeved sweaters, I really don’t need any——”

  “No man, I’m talkin’ about ol’ Ghastly up ahead.”

  Our hero does his best to ignore the insect. But the little bug just keeps on...ahem, “bugging” him.

  “For just $29.95 I’ll sell you this new and improved Hyper Space Map. It shows how to time warp around Jupiter and be at Dr. Ghastly’s side in seconds flat.”

  But Mutant Man is no fool. “Twenty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents! I can get it for half that at K-Mart!”

  “All right, all right. I’ll
give it to you at half price. But only ’cause we’re almost at the end of this chapter and don’t have time to argue.”

  “Sold.”

  In a flash, Mutant hands over the money and enters in the new coordinates. And in a flashier flash, they are lost somewhere around the moons of Jupiter. Well, not really “they.” More like “he.” You see, ol’ Jimmy Jack Jive Fly bailed out at the last second. He knew Mutant Man wouldn’t be thrilled to learn he’d only bought half a map. And, as we all know, you only get halfway with half a map. But at half price, what did the guy expect?

  So now our hero is stranded at the outer edges of the Solar System. Oh no! What will he do? How will he ever get home? And, most importantly, will that in-flight movie be any good?

  Then, suddenly——

  “Okay, McDoogle, lights out.”

  It sounded like the cabin counselor meant business. So I closed Ol’ Betsy’s lid, pulled up the covers, and stared at the ceiling.

  Course, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. How could I? The real Jimmy Jack’s words still rang in my mind. Who knows . . . maybe I could be a hero. Maybe I could free the camp from the awful dictator-like rule of Gary the Gorilla.

  Hmm. . . .

  Chapter 4

  More Wisdom

  Bites the Dust

  Jimmy Jack Hucksterly worked on me all the next morning. He worked on me as I walked to breakfast. He worked on me as I ate breakfast. He even worked on me as I headed to the bathroom. The guy just wouldn’t let up.

  “I’ve spread the word, man. Everyone’s waiting. Just say when.”

  “When what?” I asked, nervously pushing up my glasses.

  “When you want the big meeting.”

  I had started to wear down. I could feel it. Maybe he was right. Maybe being the camp hero was my destiny. But something still didn’t feel right.

  Later, we were all practicing at the archery range. (If you can call hitting everything but the target “practicing.”) I asked Opera and Wall Street what they thought. Opera had sort of managed to repair his Walkman. “Sort of ” meaning he only had one earpiece and the tape sounded like it was playing underwater. But with his kind of music, who could tell?

  “The guy’s bad news!” Opera shouted.

  “What about the Gorilla?” I asked. “Somebody’s got to stand up to Gary.”

  “Remember what Dale said,” Wall Street reminded me. “About choosing quality friends?”

  “So?”

  “So I don’t think Jimmy Jack Hucksterly exactly qualifies.”

  I gave Wall Street a long look before grabbing another arrow. Maybe she was right. I pulled back my bow, took aim, and suddenly dropped my mouth open in shock. While we were talking someone had tacked a huge crayon drawing of a gorilla on my target. And you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out who that who was.

  By lunch it finally happened. Jimmy Jack had finally worn me down. “All right, already, we’ll have your stupid meeting!” I sighed. “But just one.”

  “It’s only a meeting,” I told Opera on the way back from the arts and crafts room. “I figure three, maybe four kids will show at tops.”

  “So why even go?!” he shouted over his music.

  “So Jimmy Jack will leave me alone.”

  Eventually, we arrived at the cabin, and I opened the door.

  The place was packed.

  “I’ve organized them in groups,” Jimmy Jack beamed. “The Eggheads are here to the left.”

  A half-dozen brainy types nodded at me.

  “The Babes are over here.”

  Nearly a dozen girls grinned and waved from the center of the room. “Hi, Wally . . .”

  “The Jocks are here.”

  “Yo!”

  “And your Dorkoids are right behind you.”

  I turned to see Opera and Wall Street. They both kind of gave sheepish shrugs as if to say, “Oh well, why not?”

  For a second I got all shaky. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. But that didn’t seem to matter, ’cause by the look of things, Jimmy Jack did.

  “These are your assignments,” he said, passing out photocopied sheets (complete with diagrams) to each of the groups. “Learn them, memorize them, make them your life. If we’re to destroy the Gorilla’s cruel dictatorship, allowing the downtrodden to rise up in victory, then we must all do our share.”

  “Cruel dictatorship? Downtrodden rise up in victory?” This guy had DEFINITELY been seeing too many movies. But when I looked around the cabin everybody nodded as if they understood.

  “And now a word from our leader . . .”

  All eyes turned toward me. Everyone broke into applause.

  I broke into a sweat. They clapped louder. I sweated harder. How’d I know what to say? This was all Jimmy Jack’s doing, not mine. But you couldn’t convince them of that. No sir, these folks were definitely expecting a hero.

  Finally, they settled down and waited for some awe-inspiring words of courage from me. I pushed my glasses back up my nose and smiled. They waited. I smiled harder. They waited longer.

  Oh well, I figured, here goes nothing. And I couldn’t have been more right. I opened my mouth and tried to speak, but no words came. My mouth was as dry as the Sahara Desert. Come to think of it, that was about how empty my brain was, too.

  I tried again. Still nothing.

  There were a couple uneasy coughs and a few nervous shufflings. I took a deep breath and tried one last time. Then suddenly, as luck would have it, my eyes landed on my T-shirt—the one stained with beans, cheese, and hot sauce. It was hanging above my bunk, drying out from my last run-in with Gary. And before I could stop it, the phrase, “Remember the burrito!” leaped out of my mouth.

  Everyone stared in stunned silence.

  Jimmy Jack, too. But only for a second. Suddenly, he began to clap. “That’s right!” he shouted as he pretended to get excited. “That’s great!” he cried. He kept right on clapping and pretty soon others started to clap too. They weren’t exactly sure why. But since Jimmy Jack was so excited, they figured they better be.

  “Remember the burrito!” Jimmy Jack cried. He began repeating the phrase over and over again, “Remember the burrito! Remember the burrito!”

  Others joined in, “Remember the burrito! Remember the burrito!” Soon the entire cabin was chanting, “Remember the burrito! Remember the burrito!”

  Granted it wasn’t as good as “Remember the Alamo” or any of those other catchy war cries. But it was all I could come up with on such short notice.

  “Remember the burrito! Remember the burrito! Remember the burrito!” everyone kept shouting as they headed for the door, as they slapped me on the back, as they thanked me for being such a brilliant leader.

  “Remember the burrito?” Jimmy Jack whispered scornfully into my ear. “Give me a break, McDoogle.”

  But for everybody else, he pretended to smile. And for everybody else, I pretended to smile back. Still, there was no missing the heavy feeling down in my gut. But it wasn’t from the lame slogan. It was something deeper. What had I done? What had I gotten myself into?

  All this as the crowd continued cheering and slapping me on the back. “Remember the burrito! Remember the burrito! Remember the burrito! . . .”

  An hour later we were all sitting on the bleachers. The afternoon sun felt good and warm on our backs. Dale was giving another one of his talks on wisdom. It was all about how it’s wise to be kind to others. It wasn’t a bad talk. I mean, on the McDoogle Scale of Boredom it was only about a 2.4.

  He went on about how we should all be nice to everybody. No matter who they were, we should be kind to everybody. I figured he was probably right. But I also figured “everybody” couldn’t include Gary the Gorilla. How could it? After all Gary had done? After all the preparations we’d made to get him? And let’s not forget about my becoming the camp hero. Whatever else, let’s not forget that.

  At least that’s what part of me was thinking. The other part was thinking that Dale
’s speech might have everything to do with Gary.

  I figured I had two choices . . . either listen to Dale and worry if I was doing the right thing . . . or study my assignment sheet from Jimmy Jack and prepare to clobber Gary.

  With a deep breath I pulled Jimmy Jack’s paper out of my pocket and began to study.

  I figure by now you’re wondering what type of guy is writing this. I mean, don’t I ever listen to the Bible and stuff ? Actually, I do. A lot. I’ve been going to Sunday school like from first grade on. It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . . sometimes other things kinda get in the way and jumble stuff up.

  And this was definitely one of those times. I mean, I had a chance to be the star of the entire camp. Me, Wally McDoogle, Superhero. With that kind of opportunity staring you in the face, it’s pretty hard to remember the little details. You know, like obeying God and stuff.

  I suppose when you get right down to it, that’s probably the main reason I’m writing this. To let you know, so you don’t go off and make the same mistake. Uh, better make that mistakes.

  6:00 P.M. Dinner. The Babes had followed Jimmy Jack’s instructions to the letter. While the rest of us were out trying to drown ourselves in the lake, the Babes had volunteered to help the cook with dinner. What a sweet, innocent offer, right?

  Not exactly. . . .

  By now everyone knew the only stuff you could count on being able to eat at camp (other than the half-frozen burritos) were the desserts. That’s ’cause they were bought already made and frozen. You know, stuff like frozen pies, frozen cakes, that sort of thing. The reason was simple . . . there wasn’t a whole lot of damage the cook could do taking them from the freezer to your plate.

  Anyway, that’s why desserts were the only thing Gary and his Goons stole from the other kids. It was like a ritual. If you were unlucky enough to pass Gary with your meal tray, you were unlucky enough to lose your dessert. Plain and simple.

  Tonight’s dessert was pumpkin pie.