My Life as a Broken Bungee Cord

by Bill Myers

  Finally, Miguel glanced down to us and nodded. We crawled back to our feet and looked over the edge.

  Not a good idea.

  Ever seen one of those pictures NASA takes of Earth from outer space? It could have been taken from our balloon. I don’t want to say we were high, but we all kept ducking our heads just to make sure we didn’t bump into the moon.

  “You said there wouldn’t be any problem!” Wall Street accused. She was practically in tears. “You said this would be safe!”

  “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Miguel snapped. “I don’t see any bleeding—no broken bones.”

  He had a point. Other than a few extra million gray hairs, we all looked pretty much the same.

  Now it was time to get serious. Now it was time to evaluate our problem and ask the important questions. Opera took the lead. “So . . . do you think we’ll be back in time for lunch?”

  Miguel gave him a look. “I just hope we’ll be back, period.”

  “What . . . what do you mean?” I asked.

  “That little thermal drove us up so high and fast, there’s no telling what direction the winds below us are heading.

  “That’s bad?”

  “It just means I don’t know where we’ll land.”

  “That’s bad.”

  With that bit of cheery news we all kinda huddled together in silence as Miguel pulled on the rope leading up to the “parachute.”

  “I’m letting hot air out of the top,” he volunteered, “so we can get back down and land.”

  I looked over the edge of the basket. “Land where?” I asked. “There’s nothing below us but mountains—miles and miles of mountains.”

  Opera gave a hearty gulp. “Not to mention a few grizzlies, cougars, wolves and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, we get the picture.” Wall Street cut him off. Turning to her brother she asked, “But you have some idea where we’ll land, right—I mean, like a general idea?”

  “Yeah,” Opera said hopefully. “Like near a Motel 6, or a McDonald’s, or—”

  “Sorry, guys.” Miguel shrugged as he worked the rope.

  Uh-oh.

  “I don’t have a clue . . .”

  Double uh-oh.

  So there we were . . . Miguel and three city slickers, a zillion miles above the earth, dropping into winds that blew in who-knew-what-direction so we could land in who-knew-what- location. Yes sir, another fun-filled day in the life of Wally McDoogle.

  I offered Opera my last mint and wondered who’d get my CD player now that we were both checking into heaven together.

  Chapter 7

  Going Down?

  The next couple of hours were pretty boring. I mean, once you know the “how” of how you’re going to die, and the “where” of where you’re going to die, it gets kinda monotonous sitting around waiting for the “when.”

  To help pass time, Opera and I figured we’d have a major argument on the subject. He was sure we were going to die when we became some grizzly bear’s dinner. I, being the optimist, insisted that once we smashed into the ground at a trillion miles an hour there wouldn’t be enough of us left for any animal to nibble on.

  Meanwhile, Wall Street just kept staring over the edge. No way could she see her mom from where we were. There was nothing but trees and mountains. But I guess she had nothing better to do.

  The only one who wasn’t bored was Miguel. When he wasn’t searching for the right air current, he was trying to contact his mom on the walkie-talkie.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have much luck in either department.

  “We’re out of range for the radios.” He sighed as he pulled the parachute to drop us down into another current. An air current that he hoped would take us west and toward home.

  Of course, it took us east and away from everything.

  “How long can we stay up here?” Wall Street asked.

  “We got plenty of fuel,” he said, motioning toward the tanks fastened to the inside of the basket. “But the winds are working against us—the longer we stay up the farther we drift into the wilderness.”

  “Wilderness?” Opera croaked.

  “The best I can figure, the nearest town is fifty miles.”

  “Fifty miles?” Opera exclaimed. He was beginning to sound like an echo.

  Miguel nodded. “Hey, check it out,” he said, pointing off to the right. “Down there on the ridge—it looks like a logging road.”

  “A logging road?” Opera repeated for no reason except it was getting to be a habit.

  We all looked. It wasn’t much, but with the miles and miles of trees, anything that wasn’t green was of interest.

  Miguel carefully surveyed the horizon. “There’s nothing else in sight—no fields, no nothing. It looks like we’ll have to take our chances and set down on that road.”

  “But . . .” Opera looked a little worried. “I don’t see any Burger King, or Taco Bell, or Kentucky Fried—”

  “It’ll have to do,” Miguel interrupted, “or they’ll never find us.” He pulled the parachute rope again. More air escaped and we dropped a little faster. We started to twist and turn, but not nearly as bad as before.

  “This is going to get tricky,” Miguel said. “The way those trees are blowing, it looks like we got ourselves quite a ground wind.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It’s going to be a fight to land on the road and not in the treetops.”

  We all looked down and watched as we came closer and closer to our brand-new enemies. Don’t get me wrong, treetops look great with twinkle lights, Christmas ornaments, and angels stuck on top . . . but somehow we suspected they wouldn’t look so great when jammed through the middle of a balloon basket.

  Carefully, Miguel edged the balloon toward the road . . . trying to outguess the wind, hoping it would push us in the right direction. Closer and closer we came.

  Suddenly, there was a scraping sound against the basket. “What’s that?” I shouted.

  “Treetops,” Opera called as he leaned over the edge. “We’re brushing against treetops.”

  “Don’t lean out!” Miguel shouted. “Keep your balance!”

  He fired the burner again. We lifted up slightly and continued to drift until we were clear of the trees and finally over the road. Quickly, Miguel let out more air. We dropped below the treetops and headed in for a perfect landing.

  Everything was fine until we were hit with another gust of wind. The balloon picked up speed. The road was just a few feet below us, but we couldn’t seem to drop down to it; instead, we kept racing above it!

  “Bend your knees!” he shouted. “We’re going to hit hard!” He yanked on the parachute.

  The ground came up fast.

  “When we hit don’t stiffen!” Miguel shouted. “Go limp! Just let your bodies—”

  But that was as far as he got.

  K—R A S H

  The balloon hit. But it wasn’t the crash that threw us. It was the

  SCRAPE . . . SLIDE . . . SLIDE . . . SCRAPE . . .

  that got our attention. Even though we had stopped going down we hadn’t stopped going forward. We were still racing down the road— only instead of above it, we were bouncing and sliding on it!

  Miguel yanked the parachute rope with all his might, but it did little good. We just kept scooting. Then the basket hit one too many bumps and tipped over. I was thrown out. Opera and Wall Street followed. Each of us rolled and skidded across the ground. “Ouch!” “Ooo!” “Boy, does that smart!”

  But the basket kept going. So did Miguel. He was still inside, hanging on for dear life . . . and heading directly for a stand of trees!

  “GET UP HERE!” he shouted back to us. “RUN UP HERE AND GRAB THE BASKET!”

  We scrambled to our feet. Opera and I were in the lead. We raced toward Miguel for all we were worth. We were pretty bruised and scratched, but we didn’t feel the pain—not yet.

  Unfortunately, Miguel wasn’t so lucky. The balloon kept drag
ging the basket, which kept knocking him around. But he wouldn’t let go of the parachute rope. Not for the world.

  “HURRY, GUYS!”

  At last we caught up and lunged for the basket. Opera caught hold of it. But all I caught was a handful of air . . . until I hit the ground. Then it was a mouthful of dirt.

  Opera hung on. He sat down, sliding along on his rear as Miguel was tossed and bounced around inside like a pinball.

  “MICKEY!” Wall Street screamed as she raced past me.

  I leaped to my feet and followed. Slowly, the balloon began to collapse until finally the basket came to a stop.

  “MICKEY!” Wall Street cried as she arrived beside him. “MICKEY!”

  “I’m all right, Sis—I’m all right . . .”

  But he wasn’t all right. One look at the side of his head, his scraped stomach, and his twisted leg proved that.

  “Jump on the balloon,” he gasped. “Don’t let it blow away!”

  Wall Street refused to leave his side, but Opera and I ran to the half-inflated balloon which was lying on the ground. We leaped into the giant air bag with all of our might, forcing out more of the air.

  “Don’t rip it!” Miguel shouted. “We might need . . .” But that was all he said.

  “MICKEY!” Wall Street screamed. “MICKEY!”

  We spun around to the basket.

  Miguel was sprawled out on the ground beside it. He wasn’t moving.

  “M I C K E Y !”

  * * * * *

  “I can’t believe it,” I said to Opera as we dragged another broken branch to the campfire. “It’s almost dark, and you still haven’t been eaten by a bear or skunk or ground hog or nothin’.”

  Opera scowled. “Laugh all you want, but the night’s still young.”

  The group gave a little chuckle.

  It was the first time any of us had laughed since the crash, and it felt pretty good. Despite the wind whipping over the ridge, we’d managed to build a pretty good fire. In fact, over the last few hours, we’d managed to set up a pretty good camp. I mean, if you worked at it, you could almost convince yourself we were on a little vacation. Of course, it would have been more convincing if we had cable TV, a spa, and maybe some room service. But at least we were alive.

  And that went for Miguel, too. For someone who was supposed to be dead, he was doing a pretty good imitation of being okay. Well, except for the broken leg, the concussion, and whatever else was wrong.

  “Don’t try to move me,” he had ordered when he finally came to. “I think something’s busted inside.” He coughed hard and winced in pain. “You’d better leave me here, stationary.”

  So instead of dragging him off to the campsite, we built the campsite beside him—right in the middle of the road. But that was okay. With all the overgrown weeds we figured there hadn’t been a major rush hour in, oh, the last ten to twenty years.

  “They’ll send up search planes at sunrise,” Miguel explained as he fiddled with the walkie-talkies. The radios seemed to work, but there was nobody in range to talk to.

  “How will anybody find us way out here?” I asked.

  “Oh, they’ll find us.” He coughed. “Maybe in two or three days, but they’ll find us.”

  “But you’re hurt,” Wall Street blurted out. “You need medical help now.”

  Miguel shrugged.

  “You’re the expert!” she practically shouted. (Once she knew he was alive, I guess she figured it was okay to be mad at him again.) “We can’t just sit around and watch you as you . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought, but we all knew what it was.

  After a nervous kind of silence I jumped in. “Couldn’t we walk back?”

  “Not on this road,” Miguel explained. “The way it winds and turns it would take forever.”

  “So what do we do?” Wall Street demanded. Her voice was getting kinda thin and shaky.

  Miguel looked at the ground and stared real hard. We waited, but we knew he didn’t have an answer. No one said a word. The silence grew longer and more uneasy. Then we heard it . . .

  A low growl.

  We looked at each other.

  “Do you hear that?” I whispered.

  “Shhhh . . .”

  There was another one.

  “What is it?” Wall Street whispered.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Opera said.

  We all spun to him. For being King of the Outdoor Cowards, he sounded pretty brave.

  There was another growl, even louder.

  “What do you think we should do?” I asked.

  Opera gave a sheepish grin . . . “Just find me something to eat—that’s my stomach growling.”

  We all groaned. He shrugged.

  Silence again fell upon our little group. Except for the crackling fire, Miguel’s occasional fits of coughing, and Opera’s intestinal rumblings, there wasn’t a sound. We all knew how bleak things looked.

  Finally, Opera spoke up. “Maybe we should, you know, pray.”

  “Pray?” Miguel asked.

  “Well, yeah . . .”

  “A lot of good praying did us,” Wall Street sulked.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She answered, “You’re afraid of heights . . . so we get caught in a major thermal. Opera’s afraid of the outdoors . . . so here we are, outdoors. Mickey doesn’t believe God loves him . . . so he proves it by nearly killing him.”

  “Maybe that’s why all this is happening,” Opera ventured. We all looked at him. He shrugged again. “I mean, maybe God wants to prove that He answers prayer by putting us all in a place like this where He can.”

  For some reason it seemed to make sense— at least to me. I couldn’t help giving a little smile. It’s nice to know that sometimes Opera has more between his ears than some new snack food.

  “He might have a point,” I offered. “I mean, isn’t that what Pastor Bergman’s always going on about? That we’re supposed to trust God even when everything around us says He’s wrong?”

  Wall Street sighed in frustration. She’d had enough unanswered prayers—she wasn’t in the mood for any more.

  “No, seriously,” I continued. “Opera’s afraid of the great outdoors, so God puts him here to prove He’ll protect him. I’m afraid of heights, so here I am. Wall Street doesn’t know if she can trust God . . . and Miguel doesn’t even know if there is a God. Think of it—I mean, what a perfect place for us all to find out.”

  Wall Street stared into the fire like maybe I might have a point, but she wouldn’t admit it.

  Miguel just looked at me and broke into a little smile. “Maybe you should give up writing and be a preacher, McDoogle.”

  I grinned back. He was right. It was a pretty cool sermon. I wasn’t sure I believed it, but it was definitely cool.

  Another pause. More stomach growling. More coughing.

  “So . . .” Opera hedged, “are we going to pray or what?”

  “Why not,” Miguel finally shrugged, “if you’re sure He can hear us over all that noise your stomach’s making.”

  Everyone snickered. Then finally, slowly, we all got around to bowing our heads. Nobody wanted to start. Least of all me. But if I didn’t, I knew we’d probably stay that way forever, so I jumped in to kick things off.

  As far as prayers go, it was pretty good. Even Wall Street managed to eke out a little something. Of course, Miguel didn’t say a word, but that was no surprise. Opera finally ended it with, “. . . and please Lord, if possible, help us find somebody’s leftover picnic basket.” We all chuckled and threw in a few extra “Amens”. But when we looked up we saw Miguel staring at the fire kinda funny like.

  “Listen, uh,” he cleared his throat, “this is kinda weird . . .”

  He started coughing again. We exchanged worried glances.

  “. . . but when you were praying I had an idea.”

  We waited.

  Finally, he looked up. “I know a way we can be spotted tomorrow.”

  “H
ow’s that?” Wall Street asked.

  “Tie down the balloon and send one of you up above the treetops in it.”

  “Do what?” we all asked in our famous three-part harmony.

  “Yeah.” Miguel was getting excited, which meant a little more coughing. Finally, he finished and continued. “Take that 200-foot bungee cord I have in the basket, tie the balloon down good and tight with it, and send one of you up above the trees.” He coughed a couple more times. “It’ll be a little rough in this wind, but once you’re up, any plane in twenty miles will be able to spot you.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said, glancing around the group, “but who?”

  “To conserve fuel, it has to be the lightest one.”

  Suddenly, his idea wasn’t so great. Suddenly, it stunk. Quickly, I puffed out my cheeks and stuck out my stomach—anything to look heavier. Too late. Everyone was already turning to me. Rats. Sometimes being the Lightweight Wimp of the World has its drawbacks.

  “It would be perfectly safe,” Miguel urged.

  “I, uh, I don’t know, guys . . .” I stalled as I nervously pushed up my glasses.

  “Come on, Wally,” Opera encouraged.

  “You can do it,” Wall Street said grinning.

  “Besides—” Miguel threw me another one of his little smiles—“if you really trust God, it shouldn’t be a problem, right? . . . Right?”

  “But . . . but . . .” I desperately searched my mind for an excuse. Anything would do. Anything at all.

  “But what?” Miguel asked.

  “But . . . I’m all out of breath mints.”

  Chapter 8

  Uh-oh

  It wasn’t the most comfortable night I’d ever had. Despite the rumors, hard ground is not good for your back, rocks do not make good pillows, and a giant, flattened-out balloon makes a terrible blanket.

  But the company was good. After our little talk and prayer, everyone seemed a bit more relaxed. Even Opera was less scared.

  “You’re starting to get the hang of this, aren’t you?” I asked as we all settled in for the night.

  “A little,” he admitted. “But I’m still not going to sleep.”