My Life as a Human Hairball

by Bill Myers

THUD-THUD

  more than enough room isn’t always enough when dealing with my incredible athletic skills. Still, it wasn’t like I had a lot of choice in the matter since

  THUD-THUD

  the current was carrying me directly toward it.

  So after a short prayer, where I carefully pointed out what a great guy I’d been lately, I stretched out my body, closed my eyes, and sped toward the valve.

  THUD-THUD

  The sound exploded in my ears. It grew louder and louder and . . .

  THUD-THUD

  louder some more. I was nearly there. For the briefest moment, I actually thought I might make it until, suddenly—

  THUD “ OUCH!”

  reality set in. This reality had to do with getting my air tank hung up in the valve, which meant

  THUD“ OUCH!”

  I was hung up on the valve, which meant every time it closed shut

  THUD“ OUCH!”

  it closed shut on me. So, with nothing to do but feel myself being pounded into a combo platter for The House of Pancakes, I decided to add some words to all that heart-pounding rhythm. The lyrics were simple and went something like this:

  “WALL STREEEET!!!”

  A moment later she swam back to my side. I couldn’t tell if she was interested in saving my life or stopping my singing. Probably both. She grabbed my head and started pulling.

  “Ow!”

  She pulled harder.

  “OWW!”

  Not much was happening—although I did notice my neck getting longer.

  “OWWWW!”

  I was just about to stop her (and suggest she never become a chiropractor), when she gave one last tug, and I popped out of the valve like a cork from a bottle.

  I have to admit it was getting a little embarrassing always having my life saved by a girl. But considering my other option (not having my life saved at all), I figured I’d go ahead and let her have her fun. After all, everybody needs a hobby.

  As the two of us raced down the blood vessel, I noticed we were continuing to grow and the vessel was continuing to shrink. “We better hurry,” I shouted. “If we don’t get out of here soon, who knows what we’ll do to Opera.”

  “Did somebody mention my name?”

  My heart leaped to my throat. It was my buddy! He was back. “Opera!” I cried. “Are you all right?!” “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Just a little woozy. What happened? Where are you guys?”

  “We’re heading for your lungs,” Wall Street said. “We’re going to try and get out through them.”

  “How? You’re still in my bloodstream.”

  “It’s going to be tricky, but I think the only way to get out is to cut a hole in one of these blood vessels and crawl out into your lungs.”

  “Cut a hole!”

  “It won’t be big,” she said, “just enough for us to squeeze through.”

  “There’s got to be another way!” he cried.

  “We’re open to suggestions,” I said.

  “Hang on, let me get back to the control board,” he said. We waited as he moved into place. “All right, I’m here.”

  “What do you see?” Wall Street asked.

  “You’ve left the heart, and you’re in one of my pulmonary arteries. ”

  “One of your what?” I asked.

  “They’re the blood vessels that go back to the lungs. They branch off and get smaller and smaller until they turn into those little capillaries again.” “Only this time,” Wall Street asked, “don’t the red blood cells breathe out the carbon dioxide and breathe in the oxygen?”

  “Exactly,” Opera said. “And once they’ve done that, they’ll head back to my heart and then go out to my body again.”

  I groaned. “No offense, Big Guy, but one trip through your body is enough.”

  “He’s right,” Wall Street agreed. “We’ve got to get out, and it’s got to be now.”

  For a moment, Opera gave no answer. Finally, he spoke. “You really think cutting a hole in my artery is the only way out?”

  “We’ll get into the smallest capillary we can,” Wall Street said. “That way there shouldn’t be too much bleeding.”

  “Then we’ll crawl through the hole, into your lungs, up your windpipe, and out your mouth,” I said.

  “But once you cut me, how will I stop bleeding?” Wall Street and I exchanged glances. He had a point.

  “Wait a minute,” Opera said. “Hang on, let me check something.”

  I glanced down at my body. The white blood cells had found us again and were starting to cover us. Only now we were so big and they were so small, it didn’t make much difference—at least for the time being.

  Finally, Opera came back on line. “Guys? Remember way back when you first got into my bloodstream—remember those platelet things that I said were in it?”

  “Yeah,” I answered. “Sort of.”

  “It says here that when there’s a cut in the body and when those platelets are exposed to air . . . it says that they form a seal over the opening to stop the bleeding.”

  “No way,” I said.

  “That’s what it says. It says that’s what makes scabs . . . when they build up and cover the wound.”

  Wall Street whistled softly. “Talk about cool.”

  I couldn’t help agreeing. “God didn’t miss a trick.”

  Wall Street nodded. “So if we make a cut, it should heal.”

  “As long as you don’t make it too big,” Opera cautioned.

  I nodded. “But where do you think we should make it?”

  “According to this chart,” Opera said, “you’re already in my lungs. So find the smallest capillary you can and go for it.”

  I looked over to Wall Street who was already nodding. Without a word, we began searching for the right capillary—something big enough for us to fit in, but small enough so it would quickly heal. And there it was, dead ahead.

  I motioned to Wall Street who saw it, too. We swam over to the opening and began wedging ourselves inside. It was a tight fit, almost as tight as Dad squeezing into those jeans he’s way too big for (and keeps blaming the dryer for shrinking). Still, it was something we had to do.

  Finally, when we could go no further, Wall Street turned to me and asked, “Have you got a knife?”

  I shook my head. “I try to avoid carrying sharp objects.”

  “And the world’s a safer place because of it.”

  “So what do we use?” I asked.

  She began digging into her wet suit.

  “Wall Street?”

  “I’m getting my fingernail file.”

  “Your fingernail file?!”

  “I never leave home without it.”

  I could only shrug. Girls, go figure.

  Once she found it, she handed it over to me until she caught herself. “Wait a minute. I should probably do this, huh?”

  “Only if we want to succeed,” I suggested. Then, clearing my throat, I called out to Opera. “We’re all set. Are you ready, Big Guy?”

  His answer was a little shaky. “You sure this is the only way?”

  “Looks like it,” Wall Street answered.

  He coughed slightly. “Well, all right . . . let’s get it over with.”

  Wall Street looked to me, and I nodded. She raised the file high over her head, hesitated for the briefest second, and then plunged it deep into my best friend’s body.

  Chapter 9

  Break Out!

  “Okay guys,” Opera called. “Any time. Guys? Oh, guys?”

  By the sound of it, he hadn’t felt a thing.

  “Hey, guys? What are you doing in there? Hello?”

  I suppose I should have been polite and answered, but it’s hard remembering your manners when you’re busy getting killed.

  You see, at first everything had gone just fine. Wall Street had stabbed the fingernail file into Opera’s blood vessel nice and deep. She’d even managed to pull the file down and make a big enough slit for us to crawl through. Unfort
unately, crawling through that slit wouldn’t be an option. It’s hard to crawl through any slit when you’re being swept through it by a raging current.

  “AUGHhhh. . .”

  The little blood flood shoved us through the hole and out into the lung faster than a kid can hide steamed broccoli in his dinner napkin. I was spun and tumbled like one of those socks Mom keeps losing in the dryer. For a moment I was literally clueless about which end was up (I know, I know, so what else is new). It wasn’t until I passed through a forest of midget trees and grabbed hold of one that I finally came to a stop.

  Midget trees?!

  Well, I guess it really wasn’t a tree. I mean when I looked up I couldn’t see any leaves or branches or anything. It was just a black, ten-foot pole that waved back and forth like the million other ten-foot poles surrounding it.

  Whatever it was, tree or pole, it didn’t matter. I just hung on and waited as the river of blood quickly shrunk, then dried up all together.

  I tell you it was definitely weird to feel dry ground under my feet again. And I was more than a little glad to finally be able to stand. The surface was soft and spongy, but it definitely held my weight.

  Then there was the wind. We’re not talking a gentle breeze here. No, this was definitely hurricane stuff. But, as soon as I braced myself against it coming from one direction, it changed and came from the opposite direction. Then it changed to the first direction again. Then to the opposite. Talk about confusing. It took a while before I finally figured out the reason:

  If I was in the lungs, then this was Opera breathing . . . in and then out, in and then out.

  Trying to stand against the wind was tough, but you didn’t hear me complain. No, sir. Whatever direction he breathed, it meant air . . . which meant I could breathe without the scuba tanks . . . which meant I could finally pull off my face mask and gulp in the fresh air.

  It was wonderful. Marvelous . . . well, except for the smell of slightly stale potato chips.

  I turned back to the artery I’d just come from. Although there were plenty of those waving poles blocking my view, I could still catch a glimpse of the hole Wall Street had cut—at least what was left of it. Talk about amazing. Those platelet thingies had attached themselves to the opening and were already sealing it up.

  Incredible.

  And then, ever so faintly, over the howling wind, I heard Wall Street. “Wally . . . help me . . . Wally . . .”

  But I didn’t hear her over the radio headset. This time it was out in the open. I spun around, looking all directions.

  “Wall Street!” I shouted. “Where are you?”

  “Help me . . .”

  And then I spotted something off in the distance. A clear, liquid wall. A wall of thick goo that rose up through the poles and flowed over the top of them like a stream. A slow moving wall of liquid that was being pushed forward by the waving poles. And there, on top of the thick, gooey stream, was Wall Street!

  “Wally . . .” she gasped. “It’s got me stuck. I can’t move!”

  Without thinking, I leaped into action (which, of course, meant crashing into a couple of dozen of those pole things along the way). But that was my friend up there, and somebody had to help her—even if that somebody had to be me.

  “Opera,” I shouted over the radio as I continued running (and crashing). “Opera, are you there?” “Where have you guys been?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I shouted.

  “Where are we now? And what’s with all these waving poles and this gooey stream?”

  “Gooey stream? Waving poles?”

  “Yeah, they’re long and tall and keep waving back and forth.”

  “Hang on, I’ll check . . .”

  When I finally arrived at the stream, it was pretty weird to look up and see the wall flowing past me. The stuff was so thick and sticky it wouldn’t spread out. And there, trapped on top of the stream, like a fly to flypaper, was Wall Street.

  “Wally . . .”

  “Hang on!” I shouted. Since the stream moved slowly, I was able to trot along beside it and keep up. “Don’t go anywhere, Wall Street. Don’t move.” “That’s the problem, Wally. I can’t.”

  “Here we go,” Opera shouted over the headset. “You guys are in something called my bronchioles. They’re a bunch of little passageways that branch off from my windpipe. And that stuff that’s waving back and forth, it’s called cilia.”

  “Cilia?” I asked.

  “Right. And that sticky stream you’re talking about, that must be mucus.”

  “Mucus?” Wall Street cried.

  “You don’t mean that grungy junk we cough up and spit out?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Wall Street shuddered. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Opera kept reading. “It says that the mucus traps foreign particles that enter the lungs and that the cilia push the mucus forward.”

  “It’s another one of our body defenses,” I said.

  “Yup.”

  Wall Street was beginning to panic. (I guess the idea of being caught in Opera’s mucus didn’t thrill her.) She fought harder to get free, but the harder she fought, the deeper she sank—until she was so deep in the stuff it looked like she’d never get out.

  Someone had to do something. And since I was the only someone around, it looked like that someone would have to be this one. I took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and leaped into the mountain of moving mucus.

  For the briefest second, it felt great being the hero. It felt terrific getting to save Wall Street’s life for a change. Of course, it might have felt just a little bit greater if, after leaping into the goo, I could have moved my arms. Or my feet. Or any other part of my body. Unfortunately, the goo had me stuck tighter than Scotch tape smothered in Super Glue and topped off with Velcro. The point is, I was stuck in a major, I-ain’t-going-nowhere-and-I-ain’t-going-there-fast kind of way.

  “Wally?” Wall Street cried as she looked down and saw me struggling. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m saving your life!”

  “Oh.”

  “Just give me time!” I shouted. “I’ll get this figured out.”

  “You can’t save me if you’re stuck like me.”

  But that’s where she was mistaken. I opened my mouth, ready to set her straight, ready to prove how completely wrong she could be. Unfortunately, the only thing that came out was: “Oh . . . I guess you might be right.”

  But I wasn’t through yet. No way. They don’t call me Wally-the-Disaster-Master for nothing. I bore down for all I was worth. I began kicking and thrashing and squirming. And when that didn’t work I tried squirming and thrashing and kicking. Unfortunately, the only thing I managed to free was my left big toe, which really didn’t seem all that helpful.

  But, oddly enough, it was. For the briefest second that left big toe scraped against the inside of what Opera had called his bronchioles. When it did, there was a series of tremendous explosions, like a half-dozen cannons going off. And with each explosion Wall Street, myself, and the entire river were thrown forward.

  Opera was coughing as he shouted over the explosions. “Wally!?”

  C-OUGH C-OUGH C-OUGH

  And with each cough came another explosion

  K-BOOM, K-BOOM, K-BOOM

  and more flying forward.

  “OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!”

  “What are you doing!?” he cried.

  “What am I doing?” I shouted. “What are you doing?!”

  He coughed some more.

  C-OUGH, C-OUGH, C-OUGH

  Which meant more

  K-BOOM, K-BOOM, K-BOOMs

  and a lot more flying for us.

  “Something’s tickling me inside and making me cough!” he cried. “Is it you guys?” He gave a few more hacks, which set off a few more explosions, which meant a few more broken body parts.

  Amidst all of the flying and dying, I managed to catch a glimpse of my big toe. Sure enough, it was still
sticking out, still wiggling, and still scraping against the side of his bronchioles.

  “You might be right,” I shouted. “It might be my toe!”

  “Well, don’t stop!” he shouted back.

  “WHAT??”

  “According to the readout, that’s how we get stuff out of our lungs. We cough it up.”

  “You don’t mean, we’re heading—”

  He fired off a few more hacks

  C-OUGH, C-OUGH, C-OUGH

  K-BOOM, K-BOOM, K-BOOM

  “YEOW! OUCH! OUCH!”

  “Hang on!” he shouted. “I’m definitely coughing up something.”

  He continued coughing and wheezing as Wall Street and I continued flying and dying.

  “This is it!” Wall Street cried as she shot past me. “We’re heading up his windpipe!”

  More coughing, more explosions, more flying.

  Now it was my turn to sail past her. “Then what!?” I shouted.

  More coughing.

  Now she was flying past me. “We’ll find out when we get there!”

  I knew she was right, but I wasn’t thrilled about it. I mean here was my one chance to finally be a hero, and I wind up getting killed by being coughed up and spit out of some guy’s mouth. It wasn’t exactly the ending I’d hoped for. Even now I could imagine the headlines that would be in tomorrow’s paper:

  Local Youth

  Dies as Human Hairball

  Yes sir, it wasn’t the ending I’d hoped for at all. Most people dream of going out with a big bang. I was going out with a wheezing hack.

  “Hang on!” Wall Street shouted. “I think I see the opening up ahead!”

  Chapter 10

  Wrapping Up

  As we shot up Opera’s windpipe, I could tell we were growing bigger—and we were doing it a lot faster. In fact, it looked like we might not even get out of there in time. I don’t want to say I was worried, but I was definitely afraid of giving Opera a new meaning of the phrase, “I’ve got something caught in my throat.”

  Wall Street continued pointing to the opening above us. There was a light that was growing bigger and bigger. “It’s the back of his mouth!” she shouted. “We’re heading up into his mouth!”