Tommy Puke and the Boy with the Golden Barf

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Tommy Puke and the Boy with the Golden Barf

  By

  Robert T. Jeschonek

  Chapter 1

  "Look!" Tommy Puke, the most disgusting kid in town--and my only friend--points a filthy finger at a shadowy niche in the sewer wall. "There it is!"

  As I lean forward to look over his shoulder, my eyes cross from the stench of his body odor. I want to lean back to get away from the smell...but then I catch sight of what he's pointing at, gleaming in the flare of his flashlight.

  It looks like a golden blob, as if a bar of pure gold had melted into a puddle, then hardened again. The puddle is lumpy, as if the molten gold had oozed over a cluster of pebbles. Either that...

  ...or it's exactly what he said it was. The object of the crazy and stomach-churning quest he's taken me on. The legendary prize that's supposed to change my life forever.

  Solid gold vomit.

  "You know what this means, don't you, Josh?" Tommy scratches his head, and dandruff flakes shower down from his unwashed rat's nest of hair. "We're close now! This is his lair!"

  I look around nervously. "Do you really think so?"

  "We're about to find him!" Tommy turns and grins. A bell clapper of glistening green goo hangs inside his left nostril. "We're going to meet the son of the god of vomit! We're about to throw down with the Boy Who Barfs Gold!"

  Suddenly, a strange voice booms from the darkness ahead. "Don't you mean throw up?"

  *****

  Chapter 2

  How did a nice, neat kid like me get mixed up with a boy like Tommy Puke? He saved me with his loogies, that's how.

  The first time I met Tommy, three eighth-grade goons were kicking my butt. They'd gotten off the bus at my stop, then chased me up the block and caught me at the corner. They said it was "Sixth-Grader Idol" day, and if I passed the audition, they were going to beat me up every day after school.

  "Lucky you!" The biggest goon, Brendan, let me have it in the gut while his buddy Crick held my arms. "You're a star!"

  The other goon, wiry Red, shot video with his cell phone and laughed like a donkey. "Smile for the camera, Jiggles!"

  When I heard that nickname, it went through me like a lightning bolt. A kid in my class, Zach, had come up with it, and the name had stuck. All because I'd gotten nervous giving a speech. Could I help it if I got the shakes sometimes?

  My belly still ached from the first punch when Brendan hauled back his fist for the second. "Don't keep it all inside, Baby Jiggles. Feel free to cry for your fans!"

  Punch number two felt like a wrecking ball plowing into my stomach. The pain made me want to double over, but Crick wouldn't let me. Laughing, he jerked me straighter, setting me up for the next attack.

  Brendan grinned at the camera. "How was that?" He flexed his arm and gave his bicep a big kiss.

  "Quit holding back!" Red hustled closer, sticking the camera in my face. "Check it out! Jigs is laughing at you!"

  Brendan shoved Red out of the way and pinched my chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Jiggles, Jiggles, Jiggles. You think this is funny?"

  I shook my head. It wasn't the slightest bit funny to me.

  "Hey, Crick." Brendan pinched my chin harder, twisting my head around. "What did we do to that funny kid the other day?"

  "It was hilarious!" Crick's breath hit the back of my head as he laughed. "Step one, strip him naked!"

  Red was also laughing. "Step two, make him dance for the camera!"

  Brendan let go of my chin and slapped me hard across the face. "Step three, post it online. And step four..."

  He never got to step four.

  Before Brendan could make another move, Red screamed at the top of his lungs. We all looked in his direction at once.

  Red had dropped the cell phone and was wiping some kind of yellow goop from his eyes. Wailing and scowling, he hopped from foot to foot as he swabbed at the slimy substance.

  "What the hey?" Brendan stared, then broke into a laugh. "Did a bird crap on you or something, Red?"

  "Get it off me! Get it off!" Red turned in circles, scrubbing harder at his goop-covered eyes. "It stinks! Oh please, it stinks so bad!" He coughed so hard, he gagged.

  Brendan laughed harder. "Hold that pose!" Jogging over, he bent down and grabbed Red's phone from the ground. "Let me get a shot of that, dude!"

  Just as Brendan raised the phone and started shooting video, Crick suddenly let go of me. Stumbling away, I turned and looked back. What I saw was this: Crick, bug-eyed, flailing his arms, as someone held a hand over his mouth.

  It was a filthy hand, covered in smudges of dirt, smears of grime, and streaks of blood. The nails on the fingers were chipped and cracked, with black crescents pushed up under them. A buzzing fly circled twice and landed on the thumb.

  When the hand lifted, I could see that Crick's mouth and chin were coated with the same yellow ooze that covered Red's eyes. The second the hand moved away, Crick started spitting and hacking, fighting to clear the stuff.

  It was then that Brendan stopped shooting video of Red and turned in Crick's direction. "Huh?" This time, he didn't start laughing or shooting video. "What the heck is that stuff? Egg yolk or something?"

  As he said it, a strange figure stepped out from behind Crick. It was then that I saw Tommy Puke for the first time.

  He was about my height, five feet tall, if you didn't count the forked plume of hair sticking up eight inches from the top of his head. His brown eyes were wide and bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept in a month. He had a huge hooked nose like a warty pickle hanging down over his duck bill lips.

  And every inch of him was as filthy as the hand that had covered Crick's mouth. His plume of hair glistened with grease; powdery white dandruff was sprinkled through the unkempt tangles. Splotches of grit on his cheeks and chin made him look like he had a five o'clock shadow, a beard in the making. Patches of unidentifiable scum caked his neck and arms and bare feet.

  Stains of many shapes and colors painted his hole-covered bluejeans and his t-shirt, which might have been white once but now looked gray-green-brown. Flies did loop-de-loops around his scrawny, knobby body; he didn't shoo them off when they landed.

  The words on the chest of his shirt read, "Neatness Counts."

  When he turned to me and smiled, his teeth were yellow as bananas. "Hi, I'm Tommy. What's your name?"

  "Jiggles," snapped Brandon before I could answer. "Just Jigs for short."

  Tommy gave me a wink. "'Scuse me a minute, will you?"

  I shrugged. "Okay."

  It was then I found out where that yellow goop on Red and Crick's faces had come from.

  Tommy looked at Brendan and opened his mouth. A gurgling sound started deep in his throat and steadily grew louder, as if he were dredging up something from the bottom of his lungs.

  When the gurgling reached his mouth and stopped, he clamped his lips shut. Cheeks puffed out, he cranked his head back, then flung it forward, launching the contents of his mouth straight at Brendan.

  So that was what he'd dredged up from his lungs--a yellow glob of ooze. A massive loogie shooting through the air toward Brendan's face.

  If only Brendan hadn't dodged to one side, letting the loogie sail harmlessly past. "Nice try, Doctor Hork-and-Spew!" Laughing, he pounded his fist in his palm and stomped toward Tommy. "Now it's time to meet Doctor Break-a-Few!"

  My heart pounded. I thought of running over to lend a hand...but Tommy had the situation under control.

  Grinning, he held out his hands, palms up, and wiggled his fingers. "Come and get it, tough guy!"

  Just as Brendan was about to pounce, Tommy turned sideways and flun
g up his arm. He aimed his crusty underarm point-blank at Brendan, and a little cloud of green gas wafted out.

  The gas swirled up around Brendan's face, and he started coughing. He flapped his hands, but he couldn't make the gas dissipate. "What the heck?" He coughed harder and squinted his eyes shut. "This stuff's...some kind of poison."

  Frowning, Tommy sniffed his underarm and shrugged. "Smells like roses, if you ask me."

  "Can't stand it!" Brendan wobbled and sank to his knees. "Like...rotten eggs...mixed with sewage!" He choked so hard, he fell forward on his elbows.

  Tommy shook his head. "Such a drama queen." With that, he gurgled deep in his lungs again and hawked up another loogie. This time, Brendan didn't dodge; it landed square on the back of his head like a blob of melted French vanilla ice cream.

  As Brendan gagged and groaned, Tommy turned my way. "Mission accomplished." He strolled over, brushing his hands as if to dust them off...though they were so dirty, I couldn't imagine them ever coming clean. "Now what did you say your name was?"

  "Josh." I smiled. "And thank you."

  Tommy cocked his head and gave me a funny look. "You know how you can really thank me, Josh?"

  "How's that?"

  "Help me find something." Tommy let loose a resounding belch. "I guarantee it'll change your life forever."

  The smell of Tommy's breath in my face made my eyes water...but I made sure not to flinch. Because the truth was, as bad as his hygiene was, I didn't hate what he was saying. If anyone could use a changed life, it was me.

  I was sick of getting picked on and laughed at and beaten up. I was fed up with not having any friends. And that nickname.

  Sometimes I thought if just one more person called me "Jiggles," I was going to jump off a cliff.

  So why not give him a chance? "Okay." Why not see about this life-changing of his? "What're we looking for?"

  Tommy placed a dirt-caked hand on my shoulder and steered me away from the three bullies. We left them there on the corner, gagging and wailing and dripping with loogie juice, spirits utterly crushed. We left them there and moved on to the next adventure.

  "I'm on a quest." Tommy gave my shoulder a squeeze. "Have you ever heard of the Golden Barf?"

  *****

  Chapter 3

  Tommy Puke was already pretty ripe with B.O., and as the afternoon grew warmer, he got even riper. I didn't want to be rude after he'd saved me and all, but I had to keep my distance as we walked through the neighborhood. If I got too close, the smell got crazy strong.

  The story he told was crazy, too. But I still hung on every word. Even if it was totally made up, it was still an amazing tale.

  "There's a legend in Africa, in the Congo." Tommy picked his nose as he talked. "Ever hear of a god called Bumba?"

  I frowned and shook my head. "What about him?"

  "They say he puked up the universe." Tommy yanked his finger from his nose and stared at something brown on the tip. "He's the god of vomit."

  "The god of vomit?"

  Tommy sucked the booger off his finger and grinned. "We're kindred spirits." Then, he went back to picking. "After all, my last name's 'Puke,' you know."

  "Really?" I'd never known anyone with that last name before, but I tried not to act too surprised.

  Tommy dug something else out of his nose, something green. When I glanced at it, I swear I saw it moving. "So anyway, Bumba threw up the sun and the moon and the Earth and the stars, and then he went away." Instead of eating the green thing on his finger, Tommy wiped it on the front of his t-shirt, leaving a long, green smear. "But he left his kids behind. One of his sons was named Chonganda."

  "Chonganda?"

  Tommy nodded. "The boy with the golden barf." He picked his nose again, then combed his fingers through his greasy plume of hair. "His vomit is solid gold. That's what the legends say. Can you imagine?"

  "Wow." I caught a whiff of his blooming B.O. and moved another few inches away as we kept walking.

  "Guess where Chonganda is right now." Tommy leaned toward me. "According to these dreams I've been having, he's right here in Pristine, Pennsylvania!"

  "Dreams?" I squinted one eye at him. "Why would you be having dreams about Chonganda?"

  "There can be only one answer," said Tommy. "I must be a direct descendant of Bumba, the god of vomit." He sounded pretty excited. "Perfect, right?"

  I shrugged. "If you say so."

  "I mean, look at me." Tommy spread his arms wide. "I've got to be Bumba's descendant. Which means it's my destiny to find Chonganda and the golden barf!"

  He was sounding crazier by the minute, but I nodded supportively. "Makes sense, Tommy."

  "I know, right?" He looked over with his bulging, bloodshot eyes. Globs of gray goop--leftover sand from being asleep, maybe?--were stuck in the corners. "So I've been reading my poop and snot-casting for clues to Chonganda's location."

  "Reading your poop?" I grimaced. "Snot-casting?"

  "Like reading palms or tea leaves or rolling bones. I can demonstrate snot-casting right here." He stopped and took a deep breath. "You just blow out a snot rocket..." He demonstrated, pressing one side of his nose shut and blowing hard from the other. A quivering yellow and bright green blob landed on the sidewalk at our feet. "The configuration, color, and consistency tell you things about the future. Go ahead and take a closer look, if you want."

  I shook my head. "Thanks anyway."

  "Suit yourself." He shrugged and kept walking. "Anyway, the poop and snot showed me the way. They told me I have to perform four labors to find Chonganda and get the golden barf."

  "Four labors?"

  "Like the twelve labors of Hercules. And I've already done the first one." Tommy grinned and bumped my arm with his elbow. "I rescued you from the Three-Headed Monster."

  I couldn't argue with that...but it made me wonder about something. "Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me you predicted I'd need help?"

  Tommy chuckled and slapped my back. "Ask the poop and snot, Grasshopper. They'll never steer you wrong."

  *****

  Chapter 4

  After walking for a while, Tommy and I came to Hind Avenue, a busy street on the edge of the neighborhood. There were plenty of places to go, lots of shops and restaurants on both sides of the street.

  And we walked past all of them without stopping or even slowing down.

  Sadly, I watched a comic book shop slide by as we marched past it. "So where are we headed?" It was Wednesday, new comic book day, and I was dying to get a look at the latest issues.

  "We're almost there." Tommy nodded and chewed the nail of his left pinky. "The second labor is dead ahead."

  I scanned the street ahead of us. "You mean the bakery? The post office?"

  "Further ahead." Tommy stopped chewing his nail and pointed up the street. "See that big brick building past the barber shop?"

  My eyes widened. "You mean the old folks' home?"

  "That's the place." Tommy went back to gnawing his nail. He managed to bite off a strip and swallowed it, leaving a jagged tip. "Nemean Manor."

  *****

  As soon as we pushed through the front door of Nemean Manor, the bitter smell of old folks' pee washed over us. So did the sound of old folks calling Tommy's name.

  They were set up in a semi-circle around the door, at least a dozen of them, all in wheelchairs. Most of them were women; only three old men were scattered through the group.

  "Hey guys." Tommy waved and smiled. "What's happening?"

  One of the old men wheeled forward and wrenched the olive drab Army cap off his head. "The races, that's what! Guess who won the Triple Toilet Seat?"

  "Beulah?" Tommy pointed at one of the old ladies, then swung his arm over to point at someone else. "Wait, no! It was Margareta, wasn't it?"

  "Neither one," said the old guy with the Army cap. "Sylvia won the pot!"

  "For real, Harry?" Tommy gaped at a tiny old woman up front with a tightly-curled, blue-tinted hairdo. "But what about you
r constipation, Sylvia?"

  She beamed and reached toward him. "I guess you helped me loosen up, Tommy."

  Everyone laughed, and Tommy took her hand. She didn't seem a bit bothered by the fact that he was covered with filth.

  "Then I'll put my money on you this time, Sylvie. I'll bet you can out-crap all of them again!" Tommy turned to look at me. "You want in on this action, Josh? The Craptucky Derby is set for this weekend!"

  I shook my head, amazed that they were talking about poop races, more amazed that they were betting money on them...and most amazed of all that Tommy seemed to be the ringleader.

  "So what brings you here today, Tommy?" said Harry. "You don't usually show up till Sunday."

  Tommy let go of Sylvia's hand and scratched his butt. "I need to talk to Mr. Diogenes."

  The old folks fell silent and looked at each other dramatically. The background noise of the nursing home rose up to fill the gap--ringing phones, beeping medical equipment, nurses' voices in the halls.

  Harry cleared his throat. "Diogenes ain't doing so good, Tommy."

  Tommy's eyes shot wider. "What?" He sounded alarmed. "Why didn't anybody call me?"

  "Easy, Tom, easy." Harry patted the air with both hands. "It's not like that, buddy. Mr. D. isn't any sicker than usual."

  "But his peace of mind's another story." Little Sylvia rolled her wheelchair aside to clear a path. "You'd better go see for yourself."

  *****

  Chapter 5

  "You come here on Sundays?" I said as we hurried down the hall.

  "Yep." Tommy's eyes stayed focused straight ahead. "Every Sunday I can."