by Bill Myers
Then I heard it. Ever so faintly. “What’s that?” I asked.
“What’s what?” Wall Street asked back over the walkie-talkie.
I scanned the sky, giving it a quick 360. At first I saw nothing. And then I spotted it. “A plane!” I shouted. “A plane, and it’s coming this way!”
“Stay put.” It was Miguel’s voice again. Weaker than ever. “They’ve probably seen the balloon, they’re coming to investigate.”
“Great!” I cried. “All I have to do is float over you guys and they’ll see where—”
“Don’t do a thing!” Miguel coughed. “Just stay where you are; they’ll find us.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Stay there, Wally. You’ve come this far, don’t blow it now.”
I gave a heavy sigh . . . careful to leave my finger down on the key so he could hear it.
The plane continued to drone toward me. Closer and closer it came. I was getting a little nervous. The thing had two very sharp-looking propellers, and I wasn’t crazy about either one of ’em. I hadn’t worked this hard to be chopped up in some Plane-o-matic.
Finally, the plane dipped its wing and circled around me. It was about time. The best I could make out there were four people inside.
I waved.
They waved.
I pointed toward the road.
They pointed toward the road.
I pointed some more.
They pointed some more.
“Come on guys, this isn’t ‘Simon Says’!” I shouted as I kept jabbing my finger toward the road.
Finally, somebody in the cockpit figured it out. (Rocket scientists, these guys weren’t.) The plane veered to the left, and headed in the direction I pointed.
We all waited.
A few seconds later they swooped down and made a tight little turn.
“They found us!” Wall Street shouted through the radio. “They found us!” I could hear them clapping and yelling.
“We did it!” I shouted back. “We did it!”
“Not quite.” It was Miguel.
“What do you mean?”
“We still have to get you down.”
Oh, that.
“How much fuel you got?”
I looked at the gauge of the last propane tank. “It’s almost empty, what do I do?”
“Uh-oh.”
“‘Uh-oh?’” I said. “What type of order is ‘uh-oh?’”
Miguel coughed again. “Look, Wally, you’re going to have to find a place, anyplace, and set her down . . . now.”
“But—?”
“Now, Wally! Drop her now so you have fuel to break your fall!”
‘Drop?’ ‘Break?’ ‘Fall?’ I didn’t like the sound of this one bit!
“Maybe I can get back to your road,” I said as I reached up and fired the burner. “Maybe I can—”
“Save your fuel, Wally!”
“But—”
“Save it!”
I released the lever.
“Now, pull down your parachute cord. Start letting air out.”
I did and shouted, “Where am I going?”
“Look for a break in the trees—any opening at all.”
The balloon started to rotate. “Mickey, I’m spinning!”
“Let up on the cord—you’re falling too fast! Fire the burner!”
I let go of the cord and fired the burner. After a second or two, it started to sputter. Then suddenly the roar stopped. So did the flame . . .
So did my heart.
“MICKEY!”
“Throw out the fuel tanks! Dump any extra weight you can find!”
I quickly unstrapped the fuel tanks and started throwing them over the side. “Bombs away . . .”
It helped, but not enough. The variometer said I was still heading down, and heading down too fast. “Now what?” I shouted.
No answer.
“Mickey . . . !”
“Crouch down in the basket—protect your head!”
“What?”
“You’re going to crash, Wally. With any luck you’ll hit the trees and they’ll break your fall!”
“HIT THE TREES!? THAT’S WHAT WE’VE BEEN TRYING TO AVOID!”
“DO IT, WALLY! TRUST ME AND DO IT!”
I took one last look over the edge. Well, if he wanted trees, I had trees. Millions of ’em. And by the way they were racing at me, I knew we were about to become close friends . . . too close.
I crouched down.
“Help him God . . . keep him safe. . . .”
I checked my mouth, but I wasn’t saying the words. It came from the radio. It was Miguel.
Praying! For me! Granted, it wasn’t the world’s greatest prayer, but I figured I needed all the help I could get. I managed to squeak out a feeble, “Amen.” And just in time.
SCRAPE . . . SCRATCH . . . CRUNCH . . .
I was thrown across the basket.
“Wally, can you hear me?!”
CRUNCH . . . SCRATCH . . . SCRAPE . . .
I was thrown to the other side.
“WALLY!”
CRUNCH . . . SNAP . . . SPLINTER . . .
Back and forth I went. It was like a giant Ping-Pong match, with me as the ball!
And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Completely. Nothing but dead silence.
Speaking of “dead,” I had to admit I was a little disappointed. As far as I could tell, heaven looked just like earth. No golden streets, no choir, no hot harp band . . . just me . . . and these trees . . . and— “Wally . . .” It was the walkie-talkie. “Wally, can you hear me?”
“Great,” I muttered, “all that hard work, and I’m still alive.”
I got to my knees and worked up enough courage to peer over the edge. In appreciation of my heroics, the basket gave a tip forward, and we fell another fifteen feet.
“AUGHHHHHHH . . .”
Still no ground. After a few more screams and lots more prayers (I figured it didn’t hurt to stock up on ’em), I worked up the courage to look over the edge again. The basket was still thirty feet from the ground. Only this time it wasn’t doing any more falling. This time the trees had us in a tight death grip . . . better make that a “life grip.” We didn’t move. Not an inch. Well, except for the mild swaying of the basket as it rocked back and forth in the breeze.
Boy, do I know how to have a vacation or what? Now, if I just had a diet Coke and a TV remote . . . Of course, a TV to go with the remote wouldn’t be bad . . . and a hotel to go with the TV. But, hey, at least I had my life. . . .
Good ol’ God. He did it again.
Chapter 10
Wrapping Up
I’m not going to bore you with all the details on how we got back. You know, things like . . .
—The rescue helicopter picking up Miguel and flying him to the nearest hospital.
—Or the search-and-rescue truck racing down the logging road to get Wall Street and Opera.
—I won’t even mention how they had to bring a fire engine all the way out, and use their ladder to pull me from the tree, or how the local TV crew tagged along and got it all on tape.
—And I especially won’t bring up the part where my pants got caught on a branch, and the rescuers kept pulling, and the pants kept holding, and the rescuers kept pulling, and the pants kept holding, and the rescuers kept pulling, and . . .
RRRRRRIIIIIIIP . . .
the pants stopped holding. I was free!
No more worries. No more pants for that matter. Which wasn’t too bad, except for the part of seeing me and my Fruit of the Looms on the six o’clock news.
I won’t bore you with any of that stuff. Instead, I’ll tell you about our last meeting with Miguel. He was in the hospital all stretched out like a human trampoline.
The guy was right about his body. Lots of stuff was broken. But the doctors said in time he’d be as good as new. Still, his mom wanted to stay with him a few more days (or months), just in case. (You know how moms are.)
So she had us all packed and ready to go home by bus. Dad would pick us up when we got there. On the way to the station, we swung by Miguel’s hospital room to say good-bye.
“Sorry about your vacation,” he said as we entered.
“Hey, it was great!” Opera shouted over his Walkman. “Everything was super . . . being out in the wild, living off the land, being one with nature. Think we can do it again next year?”
We all gave him a look.
He shrugged and flipped his tape over.
“Sorry about your balloon,” I offered.
“Don’t sweat it.” Miguel grinned. “You did a great job!”
“Yeah . . . I guess I kinda did, didn’t I?”
“Like a pro.”
“Of course, I had a little help,” I said, throwing a look up to heaven.
Miguel frowned. “You’re not going to start preaching again, are you, McDoogle?”
“No . . . well, yeah, maybe a little.” I smiled. “What about you—you going to start listening?”
He shot back a smile of his own. “No . . . well, yeah, maybe a little.”
We held each other’s smile until Wall Street stepped in. “God really did help us out, didn’t He? I mean, everything we prayed for, He answered.”
“I suppose,” Miguel said, trying to adjust himself. “Though I could have done without the extra bruises and broken bones.”
“Might be His way of getting your attention,” his mom suggested.
Miguel gave her a look. “Now, how did I know you were going to say something like that?”
“Oh, I’ll be saying a lot more than that.” She smiled. “Now that I have a captive audience, I’ll be saying a whole lot more.”
Miguel pretended to groan as we all laughed and moved in to say final good-byes.
Wall Street was right. God really did come through for us. . . .
—Opera was no longer petrified of the great outdoors.
—Wall Street’s prayers about her brother were finally starting to be answered.
—And me? Who knows, maybe I’ll finally be able to start riding escalators with my eyes open.
A few minutes later we were at the bus station saying good-byes to Wall Street’s mom. Of course, the two of them cried and did the usual mom and daughter stuff.
Once that was over, we climbed on board, and I did my famous “McDoogle Trip-And-Fall-On-My-Face” routine (the one I’ve been perfecting for years). With lots of good-bye waves and a couple more tears from Wall Street, the bus pulled away and we finally settled in for the long ride home.
After the first hundred or so times of reliving our adventure (with each of us being our own hero), things got a little boring. I whipped out Ol’ Betsy and turned her on. It was time to finish Ecology-Man’s turbulent and troublesome tussle with the tyrannically terrible (try tumbling those T’s over your tired tongue without tripping) . . . Toxoid Breath!
When we last left our no-preservatives-added good guy, he was about to be eaten by Toxoid Breath. Seems he made a little deal. Ecology-Man would let this bad boy destroy him in exchange for...er, uh...for getting to be destroyed. (Our hero was never too good at business deals.)
But suddenly, Molly the Mole reappears from her hole. Behind her she drags a bag of her recyclable soda cans.
The sight startles Toxoid Breath—— but for only a second. He has a dinner date with our hero that he doesn’t want to miss.
Taking his cue from Molly, ol’ Griz the bear races to his den and pulls out all the recyclable plastics from his garbage.
“What are you doing?” Toxoid Breath shouts. “Stop it, stop it at once!”
Soon the other woodland creatures catch on. Soon everyone begins to recycle...putting their paper in one pile, plastic in another, aluminum in another.
The sight is too much. Toxoid Breath starts to quiver. Then tremble. Then shake, rattle, and roll.
And still the animals continue....
——The woodchucks agree to cut back watering their lawns.
——The coyotes shorten their showers.
It’s too much for the horrible hunk of junk. He drops Ecology-Man and screams...“STOP IT...YOU’RE DESTROYING ME!”
But the animals continue:
——The gophers agree to use low-wattage light bulbs.
——The toads agree to convert to solar power.
Toxoid Breath’s bolts begin to pop loose. His seams begin to split. And still the animals continue their attack.
——Owls start recycling newspapers.
——Rainbow trout start carpooling.
And then it happens. All this concern for the environment is more than Toxoid Breath can handle. He blows his stack...literally.
KA-BOOOOOOM!!!!
Smoke and metal fly everywhere. The woodland creatures cheer.
But their celebration is short-lived. In the midst of the smoke and debris, there is a stirring. Everyone holds their breath. Is he coming back to life? Is there no way to destroy this mechanical menace?
Then out from the smoking wreckage stumbles...Kirby the vacuum cleaner salesman. “Hi, there. Boy, look at this place. What a mess. But no job is too big for Kirby.” Now that he’s free, he can again use his machine for good. He flips on the vacuum cleaner and starts cleaning up.
The forest creatures cheer as they race to our hero and lift him to their shoulders. Together they have saved the planet. Together they have made the world a cleaner, safer (if not more fanatical) place to live.
But that is not the end, dear reader. Who knows who our superhero will be next time? Who knows what fearsome foe he will fight? So hang onto your hats (especially if Kirby keeps running that vacuum cleaner of his). There’s no telling what’s in store...
