Welcome to Wonderland #4

by Chris Grabenstein

  Early Thursday morning—or, as I called it, T minus seventy-two hours—I gathered the troops (Mom, Gloria, Dill, and Grandpa) around the swimming pool and gave a little pep talk. Mr. Ortega was at his TV station, making final arrangements for Johnny Zeng’s Sunday appearance at our Frolf course. Wheels were in motion! Now we just needed to get fired up for the coming beach battle.

  “The Super Fun Castle may have Tampa Bay’s newest, most impressive, and only PDGA-approved Frolf course,” I said, marching back and forth with my hands clasped behind my back. (I’d seen a general do that in a movie once.) “But, ladies and gentlemen, we have something they never will. We have humor.”

  “Yes!” shouted Dill.

  “We have heart.”

  “Hoo-ah!” shouted Dill.

  “We have marvels to behold and stories to be told.”

  “Totally!” shouted Dill, whose family would be checking out after the weekend.

  “P.T.?” said Grandpa. “I’m a little nervous. I saw a Super Fun Castle commercial on TV last night. There’s this one hole where you have to toss your Frisbee around a helicopter crashing into a gas tanker that explodes just as your disc flies by.”

  “I’m thinking we can do the same thing!” said Grandpa. “I could pull out that old beat-up bumper car I have in my workshop and hook it up to the gas grill. When the flames start going, I toss a couple firecrackers and sparklers into the backseat…”

  “We’re not blowing anything up or setting anything on fire, Dad,” said Mom, because she’s practical that way.

  “Well, we’ve got to do something spectacular!” cried Grandpa. “If we don’t win the trophy this year, we may never have a chance to beat Disney again!”

  “Technically,” said Gloria, “Disney isn’t in this competition.”

  “I know!” shouted Grandpa. “That’s why we can beat him!”

  Just then, Jimbo strolled around the corner from the parking lot. He was toting a couple of grocery sacks and was trailed by a mutt, a little dog that didn’t look like any breed in particular.

  The dog barked when it saw us. It was a very happy yap.

  “Wow!” said Dill. “A dog!”

  “Hey, guys,” said Jimbo. “Hope you don’t mind, but my little buddy Air Fur One heard you dudes might be flinging some more Frisbees around here today.”

  “Um, who, exactly, is Air Fur One?” I asked, because somebody had to. (Gloria and Dill were too busy rubbing the rolled-over dog’s belly.)

  “He’s a mutt I rescued from the shelter a couple weeks back,” said Jimbo. “His name used to be Charlie. But last night, the neighbor’s kids were out tossing a Frisbee around their backyard and, man, Charlie went bonkers. You should’ve seen him. Leaping up and twisting in the air. Reminded me of that basketball dude—you know, Air Jordan. That’s when I knew I had to change his name, man. He isn’t a Charlie. He’s Air Fur One.”

  “He catches Frisbees?” I asked.

  “Yuh-huh. He’s a natural. Loves chasing those wobbly things so much, it’s like he grew up eating kibble out of an upside-down disc!”

  “We’ll call Air Fur One our canine caddie,” said Grandpa, throwing his arms open wide. “Jimbo? You’re a genius! Come on. Get over here. You know I’m a hugger.”

  While Grandpa and Jimbo hugged it out (and Mom laughed), I grabbed a Frisbee out of the nearby laundry basket where we stored them between rounds of Frolf.

  “Okay, bud,” I said, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

  I hurled the disc.

  The dog flew after it.

  I mean, he flew!

  He chased the thing down, leapt off the ground, did a twisting spiral, snagged the Frisbee in his mouth, caught some major air, defied gravity for a few seconds, wafted back to earth, lightly touched down, and trotted back to proudly present me with his prize.

  “Mom, can we keep him?” I said (because that’s what kids are supposed to say whenever they fall in love with a dog).

  “Yes,” said Mom with a laugh.

  “You can borrow him,” said Jimbo. “He’ll still be bunking with me.”

  “That dog is amazing!” said Grandpa. “He’ll be bigger than P. T. Barnum’s Jumbo!”

  “Was Jumbo a dog?” asked Dill.

  “No. An elephant. He was huge!”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I sort of got that from the name….”

  “Air Fur One will be heavily merchandisable,” said Gloria. “I need to call a few suppliers.”

  She hurried up to her room.

  “Jimbo,” said Mom, smiling ear to ear, “why don’t you grill our newest employee one of your special Surf Monkey burgers?”

  “I think he might prefer my St. Pete sliders. More bite-size.”

  “Fine,” said Mom. “And give him all he wants. It’ll be his salary!”

  * * *

  For the rest of the day (with several breaks for shady naps, water bowl slurps, and mini-burger bites), Air Fur One entertained our guests with his incredible antics.

  Nobody wanted to leave the Wonderland. Nobody was looking for something better to do. They wanted to play Frolf with the world’s cutest and furriest caddie. It was amazing to watch the dog do the one thing he loved more than anything in the world: chase after a floating disc, acrobatically snag his target, and trot back triumphantly.

  In the afternoon, Jimbo and I taught Air Fur One a new trick: dunking!

  We trained the amazing disc-catching dog to snare a flying Frisbee as it neared the chain loops and flip it into the net below, giving several happy Frolf flingers an awesome assist.

  Everybody—kids and grown-ups—wanted to have their picture taken with Air Fur One. Dill handled the digital camera and emailed official souvenir photos for a one-dollar service fee. Meanwhile, Gloria called her contacts and chased down adorable stuffed puppies and fluffy backpack danglers for her souvenir shop.

  Mr. Ortega scored a firm commitment from Johnny Zeng’s parents for the boy wonder to drop by the Wonderland on Sunday for a round of Frolf.

  We launched a social media campaign, asking folks to help us pick the #MostFabulousFrolfer. Would it be #JohnnyZeng or #AirFurOne? We urged everybody to stop by @TheWonderland on Sunday for the #MightyFrolfBeachBattle.

  Our posts were liked, loved, and retweeted like crazy. Buzz was building.

  We had hope.

  Sure, our attractions were sort of low-tech, but according to Gloria, they were also extremely high-touch, whatever that means.

  Everything was going great.

  Until nature called.

  Air Fur One was playing the sand castle hole on the beach with a giggling family.

  The dog dunked their disc into the net, touched down on the beach, and started circling the sand, sniffing the ground.

  Guess he’d eaten too many of Jimbo’s sliders.

  He had to poop. Ahead of schedule.

  And since he wasn’t a cat, he forgot to bury his surprise in the sand.

  “Duuuuude!”

  Unfortunately, Air Fur One had decided to do his business right next to Corky’s beach rental setup.

  The laughing family who’d been Frolfing with our canine caddie scurried away from the scene of the crime.

  “Don’t worry!” I hollered as I trotted down to Corky’s stand. My first stop was a nearby trash barrel, where I did a quick search for a sheet of paper or a plastic bag—some kind of improvised pooper-scooper. I finally found something I could use: a red plastic cup.

  “Whoa. What are you feeding that thing?” Corky asked as I shoveled up the dog’s stinky deposit.

  “Mostly sliders,” I said.

  “Switch to kibble, brah. And keep your gnarly little friend off my beach. He’ll gross out my customers.”

  “Well,” I said, trying to sound jolly, “don’t forget�
��a lot of your customers are our customers.”

  “Yeah, about that,” said Corky. “I’ve made an executive decision. No more discounts.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Business is booming, little brah. I don’t need you or your guests anymore. Henceforth and forthwith, all discounts and courtesies previously extended to guests of the Wonderland Motel are hereby officially rescinded. In case you couldn’t tell, I went to law school before I dropped out to study surfing. Chya!”

  He did that thumb-and-pinkie hang loose thing surfers do.

  “But we had a deal,” I said.

  “True. But now? We don’t. Our deal expired, like, two minutes ago, right after your derelict doggy disrespected my business premises.”

  “Business premises? This is the beach.”

  “Which also happens to be my business address. I printed it on business cards and everything.”

  “B-b-but…”

  “There he is!” shouted a familiar voice.

  Mr. Frumpkes, whose mother lives a few doors down from our motel, marched as rapidly as anybody can when they try to hotfoot it across slippery sand in penny loafers. He was trailed by a police officer.

  “That dog was on the beach!” Mr. Frumpkes told the cop. “That is strictly against all posted ordinances. That mutt is a menace!”

  The police officer—a guy named Josh David, who’d been a pal of Grandpa’s for years (they go out for root beer floats and big chewy pretzels together sometimes)—was very nice.

  “You know, P.T.,” he said when Mr. Frumpkes was done screaming, “Fort De Soto and Honeymoon Island both have some awesome dog beaches.”

  “Fantastic,” snarled Mr. Frumpkes. “Maybe you and your annoying family can move there, Mr. Wilkie. Just be sure to take your filthy sand pooper with you.”

  “There’s no need for the Wilkies to move,” said Officer David.

  “Whatever,” said Corky. “Just keep your kooky dog and floppy discs off the beach.”

  “Or next time,” said Mr. Frumpkes, “you’ll both end up in the dog pound!”

  “No, they won’t,” said Officer David.

  “They should!” insisted Frumpkes.

  “Not really. We don’t put kids in the dog pound, Mr. Frumpkes. You’re a teacher. You should know that.”

  “Don’t you tell me what I should know, Joshua. It’s not too late to hold you back in seventh grade!”

  “Yes, it is.”

  While they argued, Air Fur One grumbled a low rumbly growl.

  Me too.

  We both liked Officer David. But neither of us was too keen on Corky or Mr. Frumpkes. They weren’t what you might call man’s, or dog’s, best friends.

  But as nice as Officer David was, he had to lay down the law.

  “All Frolf activities must be confined to the Wonderland’s actual property,” he told me as I cradled Air Fur One in my arms so that, technically, he wasn’t on the beach.

  “But the sand castle hole is one of our best,” I explained. “Everyone loves riding the zip line down to it.”

  “Yeah,” said Officer David. “You guys have got to cut that out, too.”

  “No more zip line?”

  “Remove the pole, P.T. Today. If, you know, that works for you guys.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I can lend you a hand.”

  “Thanks.”

  While Mr. Frumpkes and Corky stood there watching us, Officer David and I wrested the steel pole out of the ground. Well, actually, Officer David did most of the pole wiggling. I was still holding Air Fur One.

  “You anchored it with concrete?” he asked when he saw the gravel-heavy, bucket-shaped evidence at the bottom of the pole.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t do that again.”

  “Right.”

  Friday, Grandpa took Gloria, Dill, and me back to the Super Fun Castle in Tampa to see what kind of show they put on for the judges.

  As we pulled into the ginormous parking lot, all sorts of super-eager kids in khakis and polo shirts wiggle-waggled orange-cone flashlights to direct us to our parking spot.

  We ended up in the Lord Snicker Whoop area. There was a metal sign with the jolly knight’s face on it. He looked extremely happy and only slightly dented.

  The parking lot’s enormous video billboard was blasting a looping movie showing slow-motion excitement on the “only PDGA-approved Frolf course in the Tampa Bay area.”

  The clips of course included the crashing heli-copter (you had to fling your disc through its slowly rotating blades before the gas tanker blew up), the animatronic T. rex snatching Frisbees out of the air with its tiny arms, and some kind of virtual reality hole where you went up against a flock of ninjas throwing spinning-star discs.

  “Very impressive,” said Gloria.

  “Sure,” said Grandpa. “If you like loud noises, crashing helicopters, angry dinosaurs, and too much smoke. Smoking is bad for you. The health department should close this place down. You kids go ahead. I’ve seen enough. If this is what passes for fun in the sun these days, then I want to move to the North Pole!”

  Grandpa ambled back to his truck.

  My heart sank as I watched him walk away.

  It seemed to me that for probably the first time in his life, Grandpa was giving up on his dreams.

  Gloria, Dill, and I trudged across the parking lot.

  “Hey, ho, kiddos!”

  It was that snap-happy alligator mascot, Sir Laughsalot.

  “Welcome to the Super Fun Castle, where you’re going to have a super-fun time or my name isn’t Sir Laughsalot!”

  “It isn’t,” I said. “That’s a costume. Your real name is probably Luke. Or Ryan. Maybe Zachary.”

  “Wowzers,” the cheery mascot said, chuckling. “Some grumpy Gus sure needs an attitude adjustment! No problem! Just step inside my super-fun castle for some supersized fun!”

  “Yeah, right. Whatever.”

  We slumped toward the entrance. Except for Dill. The kid had a real spring in his step. Probably because it wasn’t his family’s motel that was about to be humiliated by the big boys in Tampa.

  We made our way through what seemed like a five-acre-wide video arcade and past the weirdly iridescent glow-in-the-dark Mega Mini indoor golf course.

  “Hey, look at my teeth!” said Dill. “You could even say they glow. You guys want to play a quick game of bucket toss?”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “How about Skee-Ball?”

  Gloria and I both shook our heads.

  “So I guess bowling is out of the question?”

  “We’re not really here to have fun, Dill,” I said as gently as I could.

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “Research,” said Gloria. “Market analysis. Competitive decisioning.”

  “We need to see how they try to wow the judges,” I said. “So we can out-wow ’em!”

  We finally made it to the grandstands that had been set up around the outdoor Mega Mini course so that spectators could watch the night’s main event, the Super Jackpot Flingarama. It was billed as an Ultimate Frolf round featuring the top pros in the game. All of them were champions of the PDGA. Fortunately, none of them would be Johnny Zeng. We still had that ace up our sleeve, which I think is an expression that means you’re going to cheat at cards.

  We didn’t want to cheat.

  We just wanted to win.

  I saw Ms. Matchy-Matchy and the other judges sitting on a special riser set up under a bright blue awning. They were all sipping soft drinks out of souvenir cups molded to look like medieval knights and chowing down on sugar-dusted funnel cakes. They looked like they were having a great time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” boomed the kind of voice you usuall
y hear only at NASCAR events or the circus, “it’s time for our pros to tee off. Or, as we say here at the Super Fun Castle, it’s blastoff time!”

  That was when about a bajillion fireworks lit up the sky in sync to a song called “Disco Inferno.” I guess because it was “disc” golf.

  And then the four pros took the field.

  The guy in the middle?

  Our old friend Bradley.

  It was a very long, very quiet ride home.

  When we reached the Gandy Bridge, the three-mile-long concrete span connecting Tampa and St. Petersburg, Dill finally spoke up.

  “Wow. They sure are serious about their Frolf at the Super Fun Castle.”

  “Yep,” I said. “They sure are.”

  “That Bradley is such a meanie,” said Dill. “The lady Frolfer falling into the gator pit on the fourth hole wasn’t an accident. Bradley tripped her.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I saw that, too. Good thing the alligators weren’t real.”

  “They weren’t?” said Dill. “That’s a relief.”

  “They’re audio-animatronic,” I explained. “Like the ones on the jungle boat ride over at Disney World.”

  Grandpa gripped the steering wheel a little harder.

  “Disney World,” he said through clenched teeth.

  He probably would’ve shaken his fist at the heavens and said something else, but there were kids riding in the truck with him.

  I knew how he felt.

  Disney. Grandpa’s longtime rival. His nemesis. His personal Darth Vader (who, by the way, Disney now owns). Disney wasn’t in this competition, but now we were up against the pyrotechnics at the Super Fun Castle plus the all-out, nonstop go-kart action at Snarlin’ Garland’s Alligator Alley.

  In case you’ve never heard of him, Snarlin’ Garland Dupree is a former hot-rodder and demolition derby superstar who grew up near the Everglades. A true Florida “gator,” he crushed the competition in monster truck rallies all across the country in a souped-up vehicle he called the Chomper. It was shaped like an alligator, with hydraulic snapping jaws up front. That was how he crushed the competition. Literally.