by Brian Bakos
“It means you can get things done on your own,” Joe says.
“I can get home on my own,” I say. “You don’t have to come, just stay out here and talk to yourself.”
“Really, there’s nothing to it,” Joe says. “I’ve been down this hill lots of times – on that same bike you’re riding now. It knows the way.”
Right, as if the bike can actually think!
Time drags by under the hot sun. We lean against our bikes, saying nothing. I take another drink from the water bottle. Far off, some dark clouds start to gather. A storm could be on the way. Time to go home. I get on my bike.
Then I notice a big crack in the road shoulder. Had it been there before? I move in for a closer look. It seems to go on forever through the black top, disappearing into darkness. I move back under the shade.
“Tell me about Mr. Buxtable,” I say.
I’ve always been too curious for my own good.
Three: Things Get Serious
10. The Man Who Expected an Earthquake
Joe smiles.
“Mr. Buxtable was afraid of nearly everything,” he says. “He was even afraid of dinosaurs, and they haven’t been around for millions of years. He was truly a man with obsessive ideas.”
Great, more obsessive ideas. I’m getting pretty bored with them.
“But the thing Mr. Buxtable feared most was an earthquake,” Joe says. “He expected the ground to start rumbling any second, crack open, and swallow him up.
“His obsessive idea was so powerful that it brought the very thing he feared. A horrible earthquake crack appeared deep underground, right below Mr. Buxtable’s feet, waiting for a chance to surface.”
“Wow!” I say. “He had his own personal earthquake?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d like to have a couple of those,” I say. “There’re some people I could give them to for Christmas – like Melissa.”
“That’s very generous of you, Brett,” Joe says. “Anyway, one day Mr. Buxtable sees a frightening portent in the sky – ”
“What’s a portent?”
“It’s a warning,” Joe says, “a sign of nasty things to come.”
“Oh,” I say, “like when your grade report comes and it’s not as good as you said it was, and you know you’re going to be really embarrassed?”
“Yeah, sort of like that,” Joe says.
I’m beginning to understand how Mr. Buxtable must have felt. The story continues . . .
***
All Mr. Buxtable talked about was how an earthquake was going to get him some day. It got so bad that people didn’t want to be around him anymore, for fear that the earthquake would get them, too.
He was terrified of all cracks and refused to step on one. This could be difficult when he had to walk on an old, broken-up sidewalk. He looked like he was playing hopscotch.
Finally, his wife couldn’t stand it anymore.
“You’re crazy as an old loon!” she cried.
She got in her car and drove off. She was gone two days before Mr. Buxtable noticed that the side of the garage where her car used to be was now empty. He thought about it a second, then he went back to his obsessive ideas.
Soon afterwards, he saw the portent in the sky, and he really got scared. He escaped in his own car to a faraway city that was famous for never having earthquakes.
But as he drove, his personal earthquake crack followed him underground. He thought he was getting away, but his fear had become so important to him that he just couldn’t stand to be without it.
He traveled past King Crabbeus’ castle. The crack edged over and broke into the treasure pit. The gold fell through and disappeared.
[I groaned. Joe didn’t seem to notice.]
Finally, Mr. Buxtable got to the new city. Nobody knew him there, so he tried to make friends.
“I won’t tell anybody about my obsessive ideas,” he said to himself. “No sense being the local screwball again.”
Deep inside, though, he still cherished his fears. He bought a house and invited the neighbors over for a cookout. Everyone came, jamming the backyard.
“This Mr. Buxtable is pretty nice,” one neighbor said. “He doesn’t seem weird at all.”
“Yeah,” another man said, “not like the guy who used to own this house – the one who washed his car every day.”
“That’s right,” one of the ladies said, “and if his car wasn’t dirty enough, he’d drive it through my flower bed to get it all muddy.”
But then things took a drastic turn.
Just as Mr. Buxtable had finished cooking the first batch of hamburgers, just as he was about to yell: “Come and get it!” – the ground began to rumble.
The earthquake crack surfaced, splitting open the lawn with a horrible ripping sound. A ghastly stench filled the air, belching up from deep inside the earth. Mr. Buxtable tried to run, but it was no use. He fell into the crack and was never seen again! He didn’t even get to serve a single hamburger.
The neighbors had to go home hungry, but at least they got some free entertainment.
11. We Get an Audience
While this amazing story is being told, Tommy and Ken arrive. Joe is so wrapped up in the drama that he doesn’t notice them at first. He is too busy walking about, throwing his arms in the air and changing his voice to speak for the various characters.
Tommy and Ken get off their bikes and stand next to me in the shade patch. How embarrassing! Well, at least they aren’t trying to beat me up. They do look kind of sour, though.
“I’m really sorry about the ice cream scam,” I semi-whisper. “It won’t happen again.”
They look at each other for a couple of seconds, then they grin.
“Forget it,” Tommy says. “It was our fault for being so dumb. Besides, it was fun watching Melissa turn purple.”
“I actually owe you one, Brett,” says Ken. “I was grounded today. But after all the kids came over, Mom got so mad that she told me to go outside.”
“You’ll explain to the others?” I say. “Let them know I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Sure,” Tommy says. “We’ll talk to the guys, they’ll be okay.”
“You’ll probably have to buy off Melissa, though,” Ken said. “Pay for her ice cream next time.”
“No problem,” I say.
Excellent! Now I can go outside again without getting clobbered. My world has suddenly become a lot bigger. As far as Melissa is concerned, Joe can spot me the money. I figure he owes me for being such a captive audience.
“Telling wild stories runs in the family,” I say. “Joe is trying to con me into doing something I don’t want to. He says I’ve got ‘obsessive ideas.’”
“My older brother used to do that, too,” Ken says. “Once he told me there were valuable comic books hidden under the trash in the garage. A thief had put them there just before the police caught him!”
“Did you find anything?” Tommy asks.
Ken shakes his head. “I had the trash all picked up before I realized I’d been tricked. You have to understand that I was only six at the time.”
I want to say that he’s a lot older than six now but had still fallen for my story. That doesn’t seem like a very good idea, though.
“Joe is trying to get me to ride down the hill,” I say.
“No way, man!” Ken says. “You’re not going to do it, are you?”
I don’t answer. It’s clear that Ken is scared to try – Tommy too, probably. Why not let them think that I might be brave enough to do it? I cross my arms and lean back against my bike – the silent, heroic type of guy.
***
Joe wraps up the tale of the earthquake at last.
Once he noticed that more people were in the audience, he started it again from the beginning – adding a juicy detail here and there. The second time around, the earthquake crack had a diabolical laugh, and Mr. Buxtable could be heard screaming all night under the neighbors’ houses.
>
But now that he’s finished, he acts as if Tommy and Ken aren’t even there. He addresses all remarks to me only. The newcomers just stand off to the side, their heads turning from me to Joe while we talk – as if they’re watching a tennis match.
“Isn’t it terrible what happened to Mr. Buxtable?” Joe says.
“It sure is,” I say. “I would not enjoy a cookout where the cook gets swallowed instead of the hamburgers.”
“Right,” Joe says. “Buxtable’s greatest fear found him no matter how hard he tried to run away from it.”
“You mean, if I’m afraid of this hill, it’ll come after me?”
I have this vision of a giant hill following me home, parking outside the school and scaring everybody.
“Maybe the actual hill won’t follow you,” Joe says, “but your fear can.”
Is there supposed to be some message buried under all this chatter – like those comic books under the trash? I walk my bike around the big crack and get ready to hop on. I can ride back with Tommy and Ken now and don’t need Joe to protect me. I’m sick of Joe protecting me all the time.
“Sounds like Mr. Buxtable had a bad day,” I remark, “and if I stick around here much longer, I’m going to have one, too.”
Then I pause. If I leave now, it would definitely mean that I’m chickening out. Ken and Tommy will not be impressed with me any more.
I decide to stall for time.
“So ... what was that ‘portent in the sky’ that Mr. Buxtable saw?” I ask.
Joe smiles. “I was just getting to that part.” he says.
12. The Lady Who Feared Hurricanes
“Mrs. Elliot lived with her husband in a beautiful seashore house,” Joe says, “but she never noticed the fine view. Whenever she looked out her window, all she could think about was a hurricane roaring in from the ocean to get her.”
“Is that all she did,” I ask, “hang around her house all day looking out the window?”
Ken and Tommy chuckle. Joe gives them a sharp look.
“No, it wasn’t,” Joe says. “She was a school teacher. The kids didn’t like her much.”
“She sounds like Mrs. Rasho,” Tommy says.
“Yeah,” Ken says, “Only she wouldn’t be afraid of hurricanes. They’d be afraid of her!”
Joe holds up his hand.
“Silence, please,” he says.
We all quiet down. The story continues . . .
***
The area where Mrs. Elliot lived was too far north for hurricanes, but this made no difference to her. All she talked about was hurricanes, hurricanes, hurricanes!
She dragged up an old history book that said, yes indeed, a hurricane actually had gone through the area two hundred years before. It was all worn out by the time it arrived and caused no damage, but that was beside the point. A hurricane had been there once and it would surely come again. And next time, it wouldn’t be worn out but full of power and fury.
The kids at school were sick of listening to her, especially right before lunch break. Her constant frightful talk gave them indigestion, and the cafeteria food was bad enough already.
Her husband was sick of listening. Her voice banged against Mr. Elliot’s ears day and night like some maniac drum. He was convinced that he would soon be crazy if he didn’t get some relief. So, one day he jumped in his car and drove off alone.
He stopped for lunch several miles outside town. Wouldn’t you know, Mrs. Buxtable was at the same restaurant sitting at the table across from him. He immediately recognized her as another victim of obsessive thoughts.
“Hello,” he said.
Mrs. Buxtable looked up from her salad.
“Yes?” she replied.
Her first thought was: This guy seems kind of weird!
Still, he wasn’t bad looking. He just needed to rest up a bit and put on some nicely ironed clothes. And after she’d been ignored by her husband for such a long time, it was kind of nice to have a guy notice her, even if he was a little weird.
“I don’t believe I know you, sir,” she said.
“I feel like I know you,” Mr. Elliot said. “There’s somebody in your life with obsessive ideas, right?”
“There certainly is!” Mrs. Buxtable said. “My husband was forcing me to ‘crack up’ so I had to get away. But how did you know?”
“Oh, I can tell,” Mr. Elliot said. “You look all miserable and depressed – just like me.”
“Yes, you do look pretty rotten,” she agreed, sliding over to Mr. Elliot’s table.
They discovered that they really liked each other, that neither of them was weird at all. They were just the victims of obsessive ideas held by others. After lunch, they drove away together and were never seen again.
Mrs. Elliot wasn’t too concerned about her husband disappearing. He was all grown up, she thought, and could take care of himself. The police never asked her what happened to him, and if they didn’t care, she didn’t either.
All she worried about was that nasty hurricane swirling over the ocean somewhere just waiting to get her. She was so sick with worry that she was on the verge of a total collapse. Her doctor ordered her to take a long vacation trip to regain her health.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” Mrs. Elliot objected. “It would cost too much money.”
“Suit yourself,” the doctor said. “My brother in law is an undertaker, by the way. He’ll be glad to handle your case.”
He gave her a pamphlet for the Easy Rest funeral home.
“It shouldn’t cost you too much,” he added. “Check out their ‘Economy Exit’ package.”
Mrs. Elliot studied the pamphlet carefully.
My, the prices really are reasonable, she thought. I can save a ton of money with these people!
But then she came to a different decision.
“Well, if you put it that way, doctor,” she said, “maybe I can afford a vacation, after all.”
The doctor looked a bit disappointed, but he said: “You’ve made the right choice, Mrs. Elliot.”
She got out of the doctor’s office fast. She didn’t even hear him calling after her:
“My sister in law is a travel agent!”
13. The Hurricane Lady, Continued
Joe pauses and tries to take a swig from the water bottle.
“Hey, it’s empty,” he says. “I don’t know if I can continue with a dry throat.”
Well, I’m not going to fall for that dodge! No way am I going to beg him to continue. My new, confident self doesn’t need to ask for things. I just stand with my arms crossed, holding my ground; so does Ken. Tommy ruins our united front, though.
“So, what happened next, Joe?” he asks.
Joe coughs. “Well ... maybe I can keep going, if you insist. It’s kind of dusty out here, you know.”
He looks toward me. Of course, I want to hear the rest of the story, but I’m not about to let him know that. I notice something interesting on the ground and study it intently.
Silence. Then the story resumes . . .
***
Mrs. Elliot was very upset when she left the doctor’s office. Where was she going to get the money to take a long vacation trip? But then she got to the bank and found that she had lots of money. She’d been worrying so much about hurricanes, that she’d hardly spent any of her paychecks.
Why not take a big trip, then? she asked herself.
School would soon be out, and Mr. Elliot wasn’t around to object if she took off. He was a “boring old poop” anyway – always staring at the TV and never listening to her.
She started to pack. But when she wasn’t looking, a tiny hurricane slipped in through the window and hid in her suitcase, right underneath her new summer outfit. She closed and locked the suitcase, unaware that her greatest fear was lurking inside.
She left the next afternoon, right after school ended.
“Have a nice summer, everyone!” she said, but she really didn’t care if they did or not.
“You too, Mrs. Elliot!” the kids all said, hoping they wouldn’t be in her class next year.
She drove nonstop way out to the desert where there was only scrub brush and an occasional cactus to break up the dry scenery. Kind of like in that science fiction movie, Them –
“I saw that at the Saturday Matinee,” Tommy breaks in. “Those giant ants were cool! I liked the part where they wiped out everybody on the ship.”
“Right,” Ken agrees. “They’d be glad to eat you up, whether you had ‘obsessive ideas’ or not.”
“Even a ‘person of substance’ would look pretty sad when those ants finished chewing on him,” Tommy says.
Joe does not seem to appreciate the interruption. He gives Tommy and Ken a disagreeable look.
“Uh, sorry,” Tommy says. “Go on with the story.”
Joe gathers his thoughts for a few seconds, then he continues . . .
The land looked as like it hadn’t been rained on in years. If anyplace was hurricane free, this had to be it, Mrs. Elliot was convinced.
She checked in at the Last Gasp Hotel. The place was small and far from the highway; she was the only guest. Mrs. Elliot had to wake up the clerk who’d nodded off to sleep behind the front desk.
“Excuse me,” she said. “There couldn’t possibly be any hurricanes out here, right?”
“No ma’am,” the clerk said, “just rattle snakes, scorpions, and a UFO flying over now and then.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep,” the clerk said. “You’ll like it here.”
“Just as long as there aren’t any hurricanes,” Mrs. Elliot said. “There’s plenty of time to be afraid of those other things later.”
“Sure there is,” the clerk said. “You can have the Presidential Suite, seeing as the President ain’t here. Then come on down to our coffee shop. We’ve got great cherry pie.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” Mrs. Elliot said.
She went to the Presidential Suite up on the top floor to unpack. It wasn’t very big or fancy.
Which president did he mean, she wondered, the president of the UFO club?
Still, the rooms were very cozy, and Mrs. Elliot felt safe. She’d run as far as possible to escape a hurricane, but when she opened her suitcase ... there it was!
That hurricane was plenty mad after being cooped up for so long, and it roared out of the suitcase like an angry lion.
“You’re not supposed to be here!” Mrs. Elliot gasped.
“That’s right,” the hurricane said. “Let’s go!”
