My Life as a Broken Bungee Cord

by Bill Myers

  “No way!” Opera shouted over his Walkman. The guy always shouted over his Walkman. But he didn’t listen to heavy metal. No sir, Opera didn’t get his name for his love of Guns n’ Roses. It was Mozart to the max. Haydn to the hilt. Rock and rollin’ with Rossini. In short, the guy loved classical music . . . almost as much as he hated the great outdoors.

  “Come on, Opera,” I teased. “You should get out there and experience the elements.”

  Opera scowled. “If God wanted us to experience the elements, He wouldn’t have invented central heating and air-conditioning.”

  “What are you afraid of ?” I persisted.

  “Nothing, unless you count the little things like avalanches, flash floods, tornadoes, hurricanes, forest fires . . . then, of course, there are those lovely bears, cougars, wolves, skunks, bats, coyotes, ticks, rattlesnakes, scorpions, mosquitoes—”

  “Mosquitoes?”

  “Hey, I worked hard for my blood. Why should I share it?”

  “But Opera,” Miguel interrupted, “once you understand the wilderness and learn to respect it, there isn’t that much to fear.”

  “Unless you’re flying balloons or doing other foolhardy things,” Miguel’s mom argued.

  “Momma,” he said, turning toward her. “I’m twenty years old. That’s my job. As recreational director, one of the things I do is take guests up in the balloon.”

  “Madness.” She shook her head. “Utter madness.”

  “Momma, I’ve studied and taken tests. I’m fully qualified to—”

  “You could have done that at home. They have balloons at home. Why quit school? Why move halfway across the state, away from your only family?” Suddenly, her voice began to quiver and sound a little high.

  “Momma,” Miguel spoke soothingly as he crossed the room to where she was sitting. “Momma . . . we’ve got four days together . . . please, let’s don’t spend it arguing. Okay?” He reached out and touched her arm. “Okay?”

  She bit her lip and nodded. It was pretty obvious she was fighting back tears. I threw a look over at Wall Street. She was doing her own version of lip chewing. You could tell she really loved the guy.

  Finally, Opera cleared his throat. “So if we’re like guests here, does that mean we can go up in the balloon, too?”

  “Sure,” Miguel answered. “We could do it tomorrow if you want.”

  Wall Street’s face brightened.

  Her mom’s darkened.

  And mine? Well, mine started sweating. Like a fire hose. You see, heights and me, we’re not the best of friends. In fact, remember that little dream I had about falling with the eagle? Technically, that wasn’t a dream—it was a nightmare. Like the type I’ve had at least once a month for as long as I can remember.

  Mom says it came from some childhood trauma. Dad says it’s something I’ll grow out of when I become a real man. Burt and Brock, my twin brothers, say it’s ’cause the doctor dropped me on my head.

  The point is, I’m so scared of heights that I get dizzy just stepping up on street curbs. No way was I riding in some overgrown kid’s toy!

  An hour later Opera and I were up in our room unpacking. Well, Opera was unpacking. I was pulling out Ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer. This sudden exposure to fresh air and nature had already started me thinking of another story. . . .

  “Go long, go long!” Ecology-Man shouts as he runs from a charging moose and fires off a perfect pass. The crowd of forest animals cheers as the football (actually, a 3½ pound rainbow trout) spins through the air. (Don’t worry, rainbow trout love to spin.)

  At the far end of the field a grizzly bear stretches his paws high into the air. But the trout is too high above ol’ Griz’s head to catch. The overgrown fur ball must leap into the air. Looking like Michael Jordan in a fur coat, the bear makes a tremendous jump. He catches the slippery seafood and races toward the goal line.

  The forest creatures cheer.

  Griz is at the 15-yard line, the 10, the 5...and then, just when everyone is sure he’s going to score, that they’ll win and go on to the “Super Brawl,” Griz pops the delicious tidbit into his mouth and swallows it whole.

  The crowd groans. Wolves howl, crows cry, and slugs...uh...slime.

  “No, no, no,” Ecology-Man shouts. “You’re supposed to run with the ball, not eat it!”

  Ol’ Griz shrugs with a sheepish smile and a rather loud burp.

  Ecology-Man shakes his head. For years he’s tried to teach his forest friends the fine art of football, and for years he has failed.

  Abandoned in the forest as a child, Ecology-Man was raised by a family of porcupines. Not a bad life, though it made hugging and kissing a little... (here it comes)...sticky... (hey, I warned you). He didn’t remember much of his human past——except how his older brothers, Burt and Brock, always hogged the TV for Monday night football.

  As he grew, he learned to call upon the powerful forces of nature, like wind, rain, fire, and underarm odor. He also became best buds with all the forest creatures. (Well, except for those slug guys...and you really can’t blame him for that. Ever try to slap a slug on the back over a good laugh? It can get a little messy, unless you’re wearing a raincoat and safety goggles.)

  Suddenly, a swarm of bees swoop down onto the field. They race to our biodegradable1 big boy bearing the bulging biceps and buzz his beanie. (Say that five times fast.) He strains to make out what they’re saying, but they’re too excited.

  He shouts back, “Bzz...Bzzzbzz... Bz...Bzzzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz...Bz...Bz... Bzzzz...Bzzzzz bzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz... bzzzzz...”

  (Translation: “Say what?”) Instead of going through all that again (thank goodness), the bees drop to the grass and spell out their message...

  “TOXOID BREATH!”

  Ecology-Man gasps. The mechanical monster Toxoid Breath is on the loose! Created by the mad industrial scientist Marcus Make-a-Buck, this giant robot storms through the environment, killing everything in its path.

  His methods are endless, but the results are always the same....

  Bye-bye birdies, hello freeways and shopping malls.

  Suddenly, there is a loud crash, the splintering of trees, and the roar of an old-fashioned, eight-cylinder gas guzzler.

  Ecology-Man spins around as the robot smashes out of the forest and rolls toward him on its giant tank-tread feet. It is no taller than a man, but stretches as wide as an eight-lane freeway.

  “TOXOID BREATH!” our hero cries.

  The mechanical monster laughs. Chemical waste drools from the corners of its lips. Suddenly, it exhales a cloud of poisonous gas at our environmentally safe2 hero. But that’s okay, Ecology-Man visited Los Angeles; he knows all about breathing poisonous air.

  Next, Toxoid Breath reaches down and snaps on the stereo in its iron belly. Suddenly, the peace of the forest is destroyed by the blasting noise of the heavy metal group... MegaEverything.

  The noise pollution blows over trees, forces animals to race for cover...and, worst of all, musses our hero’s hair!

  That’s right. Ecology-Man’s hair is no longer perfectly plastered in place! Now he’s mad...real mad. He thrusts out his manly jaw and calls to the forces of nature——

  “Hey, Wally, you gonna turn that light off or what?”

  I looked up. Opera was already in bed. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 10:00.

  “Sorry,” I said as I pressed F10 and shut Ol’ Betsy down for the night. “I was really getting into that story.”

  “No sweat,” Opera said. “But we’re going to need our sleep, if we’re going up in the balloon early tomorrow morning.”

  The word hit me like a ton of bricks. Not the word sleep, not the word early, not even the word balloon. It was that other word . . . the “u” word. The one that starts with “u” and ends in “p” and doesn’t have any letters in between.

  “Shouldn’t . . .” my voice kinda cracked. “Shouldn’t we, like, call up our folks and get permission first?” I asked.

  “Already
did.” Opera yawned. “Miguel talked to both your parents and mine while you were up here typing.”

  “Oh,” I said, already fearing the worst. “And?”

  “And it’s a ‘GO’. . . first thing in the morning.”

  I tell you there are times you think your folks love you and times you’re not so sure. But as I crawled under the sheets that night I no longer had a doubt. I could finally rest assured that they absolutely, positively, in every way, shape, and form . . . HATED ME!

  It looked like I was going up in the balloon, which meant I was going to die. And as we all know, dying can really ruin your spring vacation.

  1. BIODEGRADABLE: easily broken down and decomposed by nature.

  2. ENVIRONMENTALLY SAFE: not harmful to the environment.

  Chapter 3

  Up, Up and Away

  At precisely 6:24 the following morning, I had it. I finally had proof that God really exists! And more importantly, I knew that He loved me . . . me, Wally Walking Disaster McDoogle.

  Opera, Wall Street, and I were downstairs in the restaurant trying to eat (or drink) the slimy, half-cooked eggs. Eating them wasn’t the problem. Trying to get the slippery little fellows up to our mouths was the trick. Just when we were ready to trade in our forks for some straws, Miguel strolled in. “Bad news,” he said. “It’s too windy to go ballooning.”

  My soul sang, my spirit soared, my heart leaped.

  “So,” he said, “I guess we’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.”

  My soul groaned, my spirit crashed, my heart fell on its face. I was still going to die. It was just going to be a day later. Either way it looked like there was going to be a definite lack of birthday gifts (let alone birthdays) in my future.

  “So what do we do today?” Wall Street asked.

  “Not camping!” Opera blurted out. “Or nature walks, or any of that outdoors junk!”

  “Relax, Opera,” Miguel said, breaking into an easy grin. “I’ve got something even you’ll enjoy!”

  “It doesn’t involve hiking boots, sleeping bags, or freeze-dried anything, does it?”

  Miguel chuckled. “Meet me down in the parking lot in two hours.” He headed back toward the door. “Oh, and Sis?” He turned to Wall Street. “Be sure to bring your hair dryer.”

  “My hair dryer? Why?”

  “Two hours,” he repeated. With that he turned and left.

  The three of us looked at each other. A hair dryer?

  Opera shrugged. Hair dryers meant electricity, which meant civilization, which meant he wasn’t worried. So he caught the waitress’s attention and did what he did best. “Excuse me, ma’am. Could I have some more of those delicious eggs . . . in a glass?”

  * * * * *

  A half-hour later, Wall Street threw open Opera’s and my door and stormed into our room.

  “I hate him!” she cried. “I hate them both!”

  I glanced down at Opera. He was on his knees with a half-eaten Twinkie, trying to lure a cockroach out from under our dresser. I guess he was getting kind of bored with my company.

  “Hate who?” I asked Wall Street as she plopped down on my bed.

  She gave a good sniff and angrily wiped away the tears in her eyes. “God! . . . My brother! . . . My mother! . . . Everybody!”

  Well, that about covered everyone I knew.

  She continued. “Pastor Bergman’s always saying if you pray for something hard enough and believe . . . and if it’s the right thing, God will answer it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’ve been praying ever since Mickey left home. I’ve been praying and believing that he’d come back again.”

  “And . . .”

  “He’s in the room going at it with Momma again. They’re shouting and everything. No way is he coming back! All those prayers were a waste!”

  “Wall Street,” I tried to explain, “just ’cause you prayed—”

  “I believed and everything, and it still didn’t work!”

  “Sometimes praying and having faith isn’t—”

  “If God can’t answer a simple prayer like bringing my brother home, then maybe He can’t answer any prayer!”

  Before I could say anything, Wall Street hopped off the bed and stormed out of the room. She was pretty torn up. And she had a pretty good reason. Like I said, we prayed for her brother all the time in Sunday school—that he’d come home and start believing in God and everything. And now, after all that prayer, it sounded like things were worse than ever.

  I really wanted to help, and I was sorry she’d left. But a part of me was also glad she’d gone. ’Cause that part of me had no idea what answer to give her.

  * * * * *

  Wall Street’s hair dryer made it down to the parking lot, but she never did.

  “Probably got some hot tips on the stock market,” I joked. Wall Street was the only kid I knew who planned to make a million by the time she was fourteen.

  Miguel nodded as he unwound the extension cord and plugged in the hair dryer. He knew the real reason she was gone. Like me, he knew it had nothing to do with making money or the stock market. He knew it was because of him.

  Opera was beside us, finishing off his third bag of corn chips. He’d passed a vending machine in the lobby and thought he’d stock up till lunch. One thing you can say about Opera, he does love his empty calories. Don’t get me wrong, the guy still believes in your four basic food groups. Only his four food groups are . . .

  COOKIES, CHIPS, CHOCOLATE, AND CANDY.

  “The four K’s” he calls them. (Opera isn’t so hot at spelling either.)

  “So what’s the plan?” I asked.

  “Since it’s too windy to use a real balloon, I figured we’d make a model one.”

  “Make?” I asked, nervously shoving my glasses back on my nose. “You mean, like, with our own hands?” Obviously, this guy didn’t fully appreciate my reputation for clumsiness. It’s not that I’m a klutz, but how many people do you know throw their backs out when opening a pop can? Or electrocute themselves by turning on a light switch? Or whose parents call 911 whenever they see him carrying a hammer or screwdriver?

  “That’s right, you’re going to make a model all by yourself.”

  “Maybe you should give the paramedics a call and have them stand by just in case,” I offered.

  Miguel reached into a bag and took out a bunch of foot-long squares of tissue paper— twenty-seven to be exact. Also some glue, scissors, paper clips, and wire (all instruments of death in my inexperienced hands). Then he told us what to do.

  Before I knew it, Opera and I were working up a storm. (I’ve thrown in some diagrams and instructions in case you’re interested in making your own.)

  There were a few minor setbacks, like the glue bottle that was all plugged up till I squished and squeezed and . . .

  KEEEERSPLATTT!

  . . . it exploded on everyone.

  Then there were the scissors. Somehow my T-shirt and jeans wound up more cut than the paper. And someday I’ll have to apologize to Opera for the big chunks of hair missing from the back of his head (if he ever finds out).

  In a couple of hours we were all finished. We had ourselves a giant, three-foot-tall paper balloon.

  “I still don’t know why we need the hair dryer,” Opera said.

  “Watch and be amazed.” Miguel smiled as he shoved the hair dryer inside the balloon and snapped it on.

  Our balloon immediately began to fill with air. And as it filled, it started to rise.

  “Grab hold of it; don’t let it get away,” Miguel ordered.

  “Why’s it rising like this?” Opera shouted as he grabbed the bottom.

  “’Cause it’s hot air,” Miguel explained. “That’s what makes the big balloons float, too.”

  “That’s why you use that burner thingie when you fly,” I offered.

  “You got it. Hot air always rises.”

  “If that’s the case, why doesn’t Vice Principal Watkins float off ?” I a
sked.

  Before Miguel could answer there was a loud . . .

  KWHOOOOOOSH!

  I threw my head back to see a giant balloon slowly drift over our heads. “That’s your balloon!” I exclaimed.

  “Not mine,” Miguel said as he shielded his eyes from the sun. “The markings are different.”

  “Hey, Mickey!” Three fellows shouted and waved from up in the basket.

  Miguel hollered back, “Hi, guys!”

  “Why weren’t you flying today—it was beautiful!”

  “Too much wind!” he shouted.

  “Too much wind?” The tallest member of the group started to laugh. “More like too little courage!”

  I could tell by the workout Miguel gave his jaw that they’d hit a nerve. But he played it cool. “We’ll see about courage! You fellows still planning to race me Saturday?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” the tall one shouted, “unless, of course, you chicken out!” They were nearly out of view as they drifted over the trees on the other side of the parking lot. But you could still hear them laugh.

  “I’ll be there!” Mickey yelled after them. “Count on it!”

  More laughter as they finally disappeared.

  “Who are they?” Opera asked.

  “Idiots,” Miguel answered. “That tall guy with the mouth works for the other resort down the road. He’s always bugging me.”

  “You guys have races?” I asked.

  “All the time.” Miguel nodded.

  “Hey, maybe we could do that with you!” Opera exclaimed.

  I shot him my strongest death glare. The type that says, “I hope you have a life insurance policy or at least know a nearby hospital.”

  Finally, Miguel snapped off the hair dryer. Our little balloon was bulging at the seams and bucking to be let go. “Shall we do it?” he asked.

  Opera and I nodded—and for good reason. If we hung on much longer we’d be joining those other guys in the sky!

  “Okay,” he ordered, “on my count. One . . . two . . . three!”

  We let go of our balloon. It shot up like a rocket but didn’t make a sound. Nothing. Total silence. Higher and higher it rose until it was over the tops of the trees. It’s amazing what a little hot air and paper could do—(plus whatever pieces of my shirt and Opera’s hair were still glued to it).