My Life as a Bigfoot Breath Mint

by Bill Myers

  I looked at her and blinked.

  “Your father’s more of a hero than your Uncle Max will ever be.”

  I looked at her like she had a screw loose.

  She continued. “Oh sure, he may not be in the limelight or have the fancy home and expensive things. But he’s there for us day and night. Whenever we need him, your father is there for us.”

  “But Mom, he’s just a—”

  “Do you know how tough it is to raise a family these days? Do you? To work your fingers to the bone, to make sure your children have food to eat, clothes to wear, a roof over their heads? Do you have any idea what it’s like to always put your wife and kids first and yourself last?”

  I wanted to interrupt, but I could see Mom had a pretty good head of steam, so I held my tongue.

  “Do you know why we came out here?”

  “Because we finally begged him to death?” I offered.

  She didn’t even hear me. “We came out here because your Uncle Max wouldn’t organize your great aunt’s estate himself.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “He’s too busy.”

  “He’s too selfish! All that man cares about is himself: his cars, his house, his career, his fame.”

  I wanted to defend him, but I could see Mom was starting to choke up. She angrily wiped at her eyes and continued. “You don’t see your father like I do. You don’t see him pouring his life into this family day and night when no one else is looking, when no one else seems to care.

  “He’s always there for us, Wally. Always. He may not have all the cool things or be superpopular or famous. He may not have the fancy job or look the part of a hero. But your father is a hero, Wally. He’s more of a hero than your Uncle Max will ever be. He’s ten times the hero of your Uncle Max.”

  With that she rose to her feet and glanced around a little lost. She obviously hadn’t planned to get that upset. Then, wiping her eyes, she regained her composure. “Go ahead and get your stuff ready.” She started toward the door. “If we’re taking you to Fantasmo World, you better get a move on.”

  Chapter 7

  Rehearsal

  “Okay everybody, listen up.” The stunt coordinator for the show, a big muscular guy with less hair than a hard-boiled egg, got everyone’s attention. “Julie’s sick, so we have a new cast member.” He pointed to where I stood. “Everybody say hi to Molly.”

  Thirty-five actors in costume turned to me. Some of them were dressed up like marching band members, others like Sasquatches, and others like soldiers.

  “Hi, Molly,” they shouted.

  “Actually it’s Wally,” I said, pushing up a band hat that was about ten sizes too big.

  “Molly, Wally who can tell in that get-up?” The coordinator laughed. Everyone chuckled with him.

  By get up, he wasn’t only talking about my goofy hat. He was also referring to the rest of my costume. My band uniform was so big that my twin brothers could wear it . . . at the same time.

  I pulled up my pants for the hundredth time and looked for Uncle Max. He said he’d be around to help. So far he was nowhere to be seen. I’ve got to admit it was a little nerve-racking hanging here all by myself with all these strangers.

  We stood in a stadium made to look like a town square in Alaska. It had everything—stores, a band stand, a giant totem pole. Directly behind us was what was supposed to be a huge dam, holding back an even huger river. Of course everything was fake, but from the grandstands nobody could tell.

  The stunt coordinator continued to give me instructions. “Now the scene goes like this, Molly.”

  “Wally,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. You’re busy marching in the high school band. A herd of Bigfeet come down from the mountains and invade your town. But it’s actually a trap set up by the army that’s using you guys as live bait.”

  I gave my pants another pull.

  “Anyway, the army comes out from behind those buildings to save you guys. And of course they start blowing up everything in sight—you know, with rifles, bazookas, missiles—the usual smoke and fire stuff. All the actors run for their lives. Then the king of the Bigfeet—Sid, where are you?”

  “Over here.” The man I’d met in the tunnel the day before gave me a wave.

  “Sid kidnaps you from the band and climbs that totem pole. Of course bazookas and bombs are flying all around. Unfortunately, one of the shells accidentally hits that dam behind you, and it bursts open. Water pours in everywhere. Then one explodes at the base of the totem pole causing the whole thing to tilt.”

  “Excuse me, excuse me.” I was waving my hand faster than a first grader who has to go to the bathroom.

  “Yeah, Molly?”

  “If there’re bazookas and missiles flying, what’s going to stop one from hitting us?”

  Everyone laughed. I felt like a jerk but figured if I was going to die it would be nice to know a few of the details.

  The stunt coordinator answered. “Most are just charges set to explode in the ground. But the rockets and bazookas shoot along tiny wires. As long as you don’t stand near the wires, you’ll be perfectly safe.”

  This was obviously a new definition of perfectly safe.

  “Just stay with me,” Sid called. “Once I grabs ya from the marching band, you’ll be with me the whole time.”

  “Until he drops you in the water,” the coordinator said.

  “Water?” I croaked. “I’m not the greatest swimmer.”

  “Don’t worry, Wally, I am.” I spun around to see Uncle Max coming from behind one of the stores. He flashed that famous smile, and a wave of relief washed over me. Now I knew I’d be safe.

  “I’ll show up from behind this building on a jet ski,” he said. “I’ll race up to you, snatch you out of the water, and save the day.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. It sounded great.

  He gave me a wink. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll do swell.”

  “All right,” the stunt coordinator yelled. “Places, please.”

  We started rehearsal, and it went fine. Well, the first five seconds went fine. That’s when I marched down the street with the other band members. We all pretended to play our instruments to prerecorded music.

  No problem . . . except for the part where I couldn’t see out from under my hat. Then, of course, there was the giant tuba I had to carry. It was so heavy that I was doing more staggering than marching. Back and forth and forth and back.

  The good news was I did it in step to the music, so I figured nobody would notice.

  The bad news was I was wrong.

  BUMP.

  “Hey, watch it!”

  “Sorry.”

  TROMP.

  “Hey, that’s my foot.”

  “Sorry.”

  And then came the big one.

  K-SMAAASHSH!

  “Look out! Molly just crashed into the totem pole! Look out everybody, it’s coming down! Timber!”

  CRASH! CRUNCH . . .

  Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.

  “Stop the music!” the coordinator shouted. “Stop the music!”

  We all came to a stop. I pushed up my hat. That was about when I noticed the marching band was on the opposite side of the stadium from me. Then, of course, there was the totem pole . . . the one I’d just knocked over . . . the one that had just fallen into the entire row of store windows, smashing out all of their glass. (Now you know what the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle was all about.)

  Everyone slowly turned from the stores to the totem pole to me. By their looks of amazement, I could tell they’d never been exposed to such incredible clumsiness.

  “Well,” the coordinator took a deep breath and sighed. “That was quite a performance, Molly. But not quite the one I had in mind.” He turned to a crew member who was already examining my handiwork. “How long will it take to fix the totem pole and those windows?”

  “Looks like a couple of hours, boss. But we’ll have to clear the area.”

  “All right,” the coordinat
or shouted to the cast. “That’ll have to do. We’ll see you all at 2:00 for the show.”

  Everybody nodded and started to leave.

  “But . . .” I searched the crowd for Uncle Max. Unfortunately, he had already disappeared.

  “But, but . . .” Finally I saw Sid and ran up to him. “But, but, but . . .”

  “Spit it out, kid.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You’ll have to fake it,” he said.

  “But . . .”

  “Just stay with me. I’ll carry ya through it.”

  He patted me on the head and walked off.

  I tried to smile, but I definitely had some big time doubts. I mean, if I did that badly in the rehearsal, I could only imagine what could go wrong in the show.

  Unfortunately, even my imagination wouldn’t be good enough for this one.

  We had a some time to kill before the show. And since Uncle Max was still in the midst of his vanishing routine, I decided to hang out with Sid. We entered the tunnel and stayed in a special room where the cast members waited before the show.

  Because I was kind of nervous and a lot scared, I did what I always do when I’m nervous and scared. I tried to take my mind off it by writing. I whipped out ol’ Betsy and started to work on my Floss Man story.

  When we last left Floss Man, he’d just fluttered down a smokestack. Now he is leaping out into the notorious and not so nice hideout of (more bad guy music, please)... Harry the Haircube.

  But he barely steps into the room before he comes to a stop. There are soap bubbles everywhere. Not the cool, round kind. Instead these have sharper and pointier edges than a punker’s haircut. Some are perfect cubes; others are rectangles. A few pyramids even float by. And each and every one is filled with a sinister smoke.

  Our hero tries to look past them, but there are so many he can’t even see across the room.

  “Who cough cough, hack hack...are you?” a voice shouts from the other end of the building.

  “I’m Floss Man, and I’ve come to stop your diabolical deeds...and to make sure you brush after every meal.”

  “Too late,” Haircube laughs. “Each of these bubbles is filled with a toxic ...hack hack, cough cough...gas that makes all curves into corners. I’m floating them into the world where they will pop and release their terrible toxicness.”

  “But why?” Floss Man cries, doing his best to dodge the floating bubbles.

  “Why not?”

  Floss Man scrunches up his forehead, trying to find an answer. But such logic is too powerful for our hero (what do you expect from a piece of string?). So, before he completely sprains his brain, Floss Man quickly moves to Plan B (which is a lot like Plan A except for where it’s different).

  He races through the room, dodging each and every bubble. Sometimes there’s only a thread’s width between the slippery soapsters, but that’s all he needs. (What strings lack in smarts they make up for in skinniness).

  “What...cough hack, cough hack...are you doing!” Haircube cries.

  “I’ve got to make you see reason,” our hero shouts as he expertly slips between the bubbles.

  “Stay...hack cough...back!”

  But Floss Man will not give up. (It’s in the fine print of his superhero contract, right along with not smoking, chewing tobacco, or kissing girls who do.) He pushes forward. Soon he spots the hacking Haircube. The foul furriness is standing beside an even fouler bubble machine. It’s filling each and every bubble with gas from the even foulerer ...Toxic Gas Makerer.

  But Floss Man will not be put off by such bad spelling. Before Haircube knows what has hit him, Floss Man leaps at him and quickly wraps himself around the bad guy’s feet.

  “Stop it! cough Stop it! hack”

  But his protests do little good. Soon, the phlegm-filled fiend loses his balance and topples to the ground.

  Quickly, Floss Man wraps himself around the Haircube’s arms and hands (good thing our hero comes in the large, econo size). Expertly, he ties him up in granny knots, slipknots, and—— but wait! Every one of those knots has curves.

  Uh-oh.

  Immediately, Haircube bangs his head into one of the nearby bubbles. It pops and releases its toxic gas on Floss Man’s handiwork. The tightly tied knots suddenly loosen and the square corners give Haircube plenty of room to slip free.

  “All right, String Thing,” he sneers as he leaps to his feet. “You want to play rough...cough cough, spit spit...(oh no, now he’s really getting gross) we’ll play rough.”

  Before Floss Man can defend himself, Haircube grabs one end of our hero’s flimsy frame and flings the fine fellow flying. (Say that with a mouthful of crackers.) Then, effortlessly, the bad guy with the even badder bronchitis points his bubble machine directly at Floss Man. He pulls the trigger. Immediately a giant bubble flies out, wraps around our hero, and imprisons him.

  “Har har...hack hack...more spitting, more spitting...Let’s see you get out of this, you tirelessly troublesome thread.”

  Oh no, how will Floss Man ever get free? How will he survive? And most important, how will he ever get under Haircube’s gums to get rid of the plaque that brushing just can’t reach? Before these and other unimportant questions can be answered, he suddenly——

  “Okay, Molly.”

  I looked up. The stunt coordinator smiled down on me.

  “It’s showtime.”

  Chapter 8

  It’s Showtime, Folks

  “All right, roll tape,” the stunt coordinator shouted into his headset.

  Marching music blasted through the stadium speakers, and everyone in our little band got into step. Well, everyone in our little band but me. I was still busy tripping over my elephant-sized uniform, staggering under the weight of my tuba, and trying to see out from under my hat. Fortunately, they put me in the center of the band, so I was trapped. I couldn’t stray too far without bumping into someone.

  “And . . . ACTION!” the coordinator shouted.

  We started forward, marched around the corner, and entered the stadium. It was filled with a gazillion people all sitting in the stands, staring at us eagerly.

  It was awesome.

  We marched toward the town square, pretending to play our instruments. Of course I was busy doing my human pinball imitation, bouncing off the other band members, but I figured that was okay. At least this way my family could tell where I was.

  “There’s Wally!” I imagined Carrie pointing and crying out from the stands.

  “How can you tell?” Mom would shout in excitement.

  “Who else would be that klutzy?” Burt and Brock would yawn in bored unison.

  The band had nearly come to the totem pole when we heard incredibly loud shrieking and screaming.

  We stopped.

  “Oh . . . no, what . . . is . . . that?” one of the actors beside me shouted.

  “Oh . . . my, it . . . is . . . a . . . herd . . . of . . . attacking . . . Bigfeet,” another actor cried.

  “Oh . . . dear, I . . . guess . . . we . . . had . . . better . . . run.”

  “Oh . . . yes, I . . . guess . . . you . . . are . . . right.”

  After that stupendous display of acting, the band members screamed, dropped their instruments, and raced out of the stadium.

  Well, all of the band members but me. Since we’d never gotten this far in rehearsal, I wasn’t sure what to do. I figured now would be as good a time as any to push up my hat to take a look.

  I wished I hadn’t.

  About a dozen Bigfeet were racing into town from my left. That wasn’t the problem, I knew they were just actors. The problem was all the arrows and flaming spears they were throwing . . . in my direction!

  ZIP, ZIP, ZIP . . .

  SINGE.

  YEOW! That last one was just a little too close. It managed to ignite the dorky little feather on my band hat.

  Desperately I looked around for Sid. He was supposed to come in and scoop me up. Unfortunately, it was about this tim
e that I noticed about a hundred army guys (complete with blazing bazookas, missiles, and a tank) coming in from my right.

  WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH . . .

  Great, I was trapped in a crossfire. The Bigfeet stormed in from my left with their flaming arrows

  ZIP, ZIP, ZIP . . .

  And the army came at me from the right with their missiles and bazookas.

  WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH . . .

  I was surrounded.

  K-BOOM! K-BOOM! K-BOOM!

  Wonderful, now all those army missiles and bazookas were exploding around my feet.

  What to do?

  ZIP, ZIP, ZIP . . .

  There was no place to run.

  WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH . . .

  No place to hide.

  K-BOOM! K-BOOM! K-BOOM!

  Well, almost no place . . .

  I still had my tuba. And being the part-time genius (and full-time coward) that I am, I quickly set the tuba down and squirmed inside the giant instrument until my head and chest were safely protected. So there I was, doing my best ostrich imitation, being safe and perfectly sound in my new tuba.

  ZIP-DING, ZIP-DING,

  ZIP-DING . . .

  Nice try boys, but there’s no way you can penetrate my armored tuba.

  WHOOSH-DING, WHOOSH-DING,

  WHOOSH-DING . . .

  And I was right. Well, except for one minor little detail.

  RUMBLE, RUMBLE, RUMBLE . . .

  What was that?!

  RUMBLE, RUMBLE, RUMBLE . . .

  Whatever it was, it was getting louder, and fast. I adjusted myself inside the tuba until I could see out one of the spit valves.

  RUMBLE, RUMBLE,

  RUMBLE . . .

  It was a tank! A real, honest to goodness Army tank. And, as McDoogle luck would have it, it was heading straight for me!

  I wasn’t sure where Sid was. And I wasn’t sure why Uncle Max hadn’t leaped out and stopped the show. But since neither seemed to be around and since the tank was getting closer by the second, I did the only thing I could do.

  I struggled to my feet and started to run.

  ZIP-DING, ZIP-DING, ZIP-DING . . .

  Of course the tuba was still over my head, which caused more than a few people to laugh. (When was the last time you saw a running tuba?)