by Bill Myers
So there I was, crushed to death by 1,788 fans (it would have been 1,793 but one of the girls left for the rest room—and you know girls, if one leaves, four or five gotta follow). Anyway, there I was, undergoing one of my better near-death experiences (it’s like anything else, the more you practice the better you get). Anyway, there I was (I’m going to finish this sentence if it kills me. Oh, I guess it’s too late). Anyway, there I was, getting ready to drop by heaven for a little visit, when I looked down and saw my body with Mr. Slicko on his knees giving me artificial respiration.
The good news was, after a few tries, his mouth-to-mouth resuscitation worked. Before I knew it, my heart was beating and my breath was breathing. The bad news was, Mr. Slicko has definitely got to cut down on eating all those onions. Whew!
A moment later I was staggering back to my feet. And a moment after that, he and the crew were helping me toward the limo. Luckily, the crowd was no longer a problem since they were now all busy holding their breath, trying to make their hearts stop, and pretending to have near-death experiences. (I guess imitation really is the sincerest form of flattery.)
“Isn’t this incredible!” Mr. Slicko shouted as we carefully stepped across the 1,788 bodies that were lying on the ground. “This is going better than even I had planned!”
“Yeah, right,” I gasped, while trying to reset the various ribs that had been crushed. But even then, somewhere in the back of my bruised brain, I again began to suspect that things weren’t as right as they should be.
Little did I realize how right I was in realizing that right wasn’t really that right at all.
Translation: Hang on, sports fans,
it’s gonna get worse . . .
Chapter 7
Reality Pays a Visit
Our limo pulled up to my house and I stepped out, worn and exhausted. (Being incredibly popular can really take a lot out of a guy.)
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Mr. Slicko called from the back seat.
“Are we through?” I asked. “Don’t you want to keep videotaping?”
“I do,” Mr. Slicko said, “but take a look at my crew.” He motioned to the sound man, the cameraman, and Lovely Assistant Doris who were all sitting beside him. Each one was still shaking and twitching a little from our last encounter.
“Think they’ll be all right?” I asked.
“Sure, they just need a little time off from you, that’s all,” he said.
“But you’re okay?” I asked. “I mean, with all the craziness and chaos and everything?”
“Oh, sure,” he said, grinning. “I used to work at Chunky Cheese.”
I nodded.
“But we’ll be there tomorrow night for the big game,” he said.
“Big game?”
“You bet. I promised Coach Kilroy his weight in pretzels if he’d let you play tomorrow.”
“Me?” I croaked.
“That’s right.” He grinned. “And this time you’ll have no stunt double. This time you’ll be a superstar all on your own.”
I did my best to swallow, but my mouth was drier than the Sahara Desert . . . at high noon . . . during a drought.
“So get plenty of rest. We’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. With that he motioned to the driver, rolled up his window, and the limo pulled away.
I watched as he disappeared. Needless to say, I was pretty nervous. Still, Mr. Slicko had worked everything out so far. I’d already become incredibly famous. And, if he thought I could actually play tomorrow, well then, maybe I really could— “Wally?”
I turned to see Wall Street heading down the sidewalk. It was great to see my old friend again. Despite our fight yesterday, it felt good to be around somebody who liked me just the way I was, and not because I’d suddenly become superpop-ular or anything.
“Hey,” I smiled.
“Hey,” she answered. I could tell something was on her mind. Finally, she spoke. “I just want to let you know I was wrong.”
Poor thing. She’d obviously come to apologize. “Don’t sweat it,” I said and shrugged. “Jealousy can really mess with a person’s head.”
“What?” she asked.
“I know it’s tough not to be envious of someone as popular as I am.”
“Wally, that’s not what—”
“And, believe me, I certainly understand if being jealous makes you a little, I don’t know, ‘cranky’ sometimes.”
“Wally,” she angrily cut me off. “I was talking about your toenail clippings collection.”
“Oh.” I smiled. “So you want to start selling them now?”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to sell them at all.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to make money off you pretending to be someone you’re not.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Wall Street not making money off me? Isn’t that like water running uphill, or snow in July, or for them to make a TV series about a weird blue dog who gives clues?
“You’re not serious.” I said.
She nodded. “All of my life I’ve made money off you. In kindergarten it was selling you bottles of freshly packed dirt . . .”
“From my own back yard,” I added.
“In third grade it was left over Kittles and Bits from Collision’s cat dish.”
“. . . and telling me it was a new type of breakfast cereal.”
“And last year, charging you for the air you breathed.”
“Yeah.” I shook my head, chuckling. “But I’m almost caught up on those payments, aren’t I?”
She nodded. “Just eleven more to go, Wally. But this . . .” She shook her head. “To make money off you trying to become someone else.”
“What are you talking about?” I protested. “The people love me.”
“No.” She shook her head. “They love the you you’re trying to be. Look at you. You’re worn out. You’re working so hard at being who they want you to be, you’ve totally forgotten who you want you to be.”
“Hey, that ride back at 21.2 Flags is who I am. There were one thousand seven hundred eighty-eight fans all trying to be just like me—well, one thousand seven hundred ninety-three, if you count the ones who had to go to the bathroom.”
She shook her head. “That’s just an image— that’s somebody you’re pretending to be. Don’t you get it, Wally?”
“That’s Willard,” I said.
“What?”
“Sorry,” I said with a shrug, “force of habit.”
“Remember how Pastor Swenson always says that each of us is unique—that there’s only one of you and one of me?”
“What’s that got to do with—”
“By working so hard to become somebody you’re not, you’re turning your back on the somebody you were created to be.”
“What about all those people falling down at the concert?” I argued. “They were trying to be just like me.”
“That’s just as bad. You’re encouraging them to be somebody they’re not.”
Wall Street was starting to bug me. I’d gone out of my way to still let her be my friend and she was pulling this? Talk about unappreciative. She should be thankful just to be in my presence. She should be grateful that I—
My thoughts were interrupted by Vincent, the mailman. As a postal worker he’s been delivering mail on foot for more than twenty years. And believe me, he’s got the dog-bite scars to prove it— poodles, Pekinese, pomegranates—you name it, he’s been bitten by it. But today he was driving a huge truck.
“Hey, kids!” he shouted.
“What are you doing in that truck?” I yelled.
“Delivering your fan mail.”
“My fan mail,” I said, slowly turning toward Wall Street and throwing her a major smirk. “Did you say fan mail?”
“That’s right,” he said. “There’s too much for the mailbox. Where do you want it?”
“Well,” I said, still smirking away, “I guess you can drop my fan mail at my front door. What do you t
hink, Wall Street? Isn’t that where most stars have their fan mail delivered?”
“Whatever,” she grumbled. “I’m out of here.” With that she turned and headed back down the sidewalk.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She was walking away from me? If anything it should be the other way around. But that was okay. If that’s how she wanted to be, let her. I had more than enough new friends. Who needed her?
I watched as Vincent backed the truck up our driveway until he was good and close to the front door. Then he pulled a lever and the whole bed of the truck started to rise. Suddenly, I realized what was happening. It was a dump truck! Vincent was delivering my mail in a dump truck!
“No, wait!” I shouted.
As the back end continued to rise, I saw it was completely filled with letters. Millions of them!
“Hold it!” I shouted as I ran toward the back of the truck. “You can’t dump them here! Not in front of—”
But that was all I said before the tailgate popped open and the letters began to
tumble
tumble, tumble
out. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by a pile of mail. A pile that just kept growing.
“Vincent, stop!”
But Vincent couldn’t hear as they continued to
tumble
tumble, tumble
tumble, tumble, tumble.
Suddenly, I was waist deep, then chest deep, then neck deep. Before I knew it, I was literally drowning in a mountain of mail.
“Vincent, stop!” I choked. “Vincent!”
But he didn’t hear me, and the mountain just kept growing.
tumble
tumble, tumble
tumble, tumble, tumble
tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble
tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble
tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble
I’m not sure how long it was before the search-and-rescue team finally saved my life (it’s hard to keep track of time when you’re unconscious). But by the lack of daylight when they pulled me out, I figured it was sometime in the middle of the night. I tell you, they were a great bunch of guys (and guyettes), and I really appreciated them risking their lives to save mine.
I also appreciated the opportunity to finally gasp, gasp breathe fresh air. To finally hug, hug feel Mom’s arms wrap around me. And to finally hear “Wallace, you know how much this search-and-rescue team is going to cost me?” from Dad.
However, I was not so grateful to see the glaring lights of Mr. Slicko’s TV crew or hear his voice shouting, “Look this way, Willard, look this way!” I turned to him and frowned. “Come on, guys,” I complained. “Can’t I have a little time alone with my family? I almost died in there.”
“I know.” Mr. Slicko grinned. “Isn’t it cool?”
“Actually, it was pretty painful,” I said.
“MY BABY! MY BABY!”
I spun around to see the same actor whose runaway car I’d supposedly saved yesterday and who was wearing the same woman’s wig. He/she clutched his/her chest and kept screaming, “My baby! My baby! My poor little poodikins!”
“What’s the matter, lady?” one of the search-and-rescue guys shouted.
“My baby’s still under there. She’s still under those letters!”
His/her acting had not improved since yesterday, and I could tell the search-and-rescue people weren’t entirely buying it. But being the heroes they are and figuring it was better to be safe than sorry, they ordered everybody to “stand back, stand back!” And a moment later, they were back to digging.
I could tell they were pretty tired, but they were also very dedicated; so, they kept on pushing themselves to dig and search and dig and search.
“Is there really a baby under there?” I finally asked Mr. Slicko.
“Of course not,” he whispered.
“Then why are you making those guys work? Let them rest, they’ve been at it for hours.”
“Are you crazy, Willard? This is your big chance.” “What are you talking about?”
“Just go over to that far side of the pile, way off to the left.”
“What’s over there?”
“Move a few letters, you’ll see.”
I glanced back at the search-and-rescue people. “Go,” Slicko whispered. “Go! The sooner you do, the sooner they’ll be able to stop.”
I gave a reluctant shrug and walked over to the far side of the pile. At the very edge I noticed a few letters moving. I glanced at Slicko, who motioned for me to bend down and investigate.
I stooped over, pushed a handful of letters aside and
“WHAAA!”
sure enough, there was a baby. A baby who had suddenly started
“WHAAAAAAaaa!”
crying its head off.
I quickly scooped the little critter into my arms and stood up just as Slicko’s TV crew turned their lights on me.
“You’re a hero!” the bad actor cried, as he/she raced to me and nearly knocked me over with his/her hug. “My hero!”
Slicko quickly shoved a microphone in my face. “Tell us, Willard, what does it feel like to save a baby’s life?”
I looked up at him, startled. It was obvious he was the one who had planted the baby and even more obvious that he expected me to play along. So I said what any honest, truthful individual would say: “I uh . . .” I cleared my throat. “That is umm . . .”
“Well?” Slicko asked.
“Great!” I suddenly heard myself shout. “It feels great!”
The neighbors and crowd surrounding us began to clap and cheer.
“And that’s why you’re so great!” Mr. Slicko shouted into the mic. “That’s why Willard McDorkel has become a hero loved by millions.”
I threw a nervous glance over to the search-and-rescue guys—the ones who had just saved my life. They stood quietly in the shadows watching. No one was busy talking to them, no one was busy asking them how they felt. And yet they were the ones who really saved somebody’s life. They were the real heroes.
And me . . .
“Come over here to the monitor, Willard.” Slicko slapped his hand around my shoulder as he escorted me to it. “Let’s take a look at the instant replay of you struggling against all those letters to save that baby’s life!”
And me . . .
I was the fake. I was the one pretending to be something I wasn’t. It was just like Wall Street had said. I was trying so hard to be somebody I wasn’t that I was forgetting who I was.
Unfortunately, it would get worse before it got better. A lot worse . . .
Chapter 8
Blame the Fame
That night I lay in bed unable to sleep. Tomorrow was the basketball game. My big day. Because out there on the basketball court, in front of all my fans, it was just going to be me. No stunt doubles in bad wigs saving runaway cars. No rock and roll bands and special effects making me out to be a superstar. And no finding buried babies to make me out to be a hero.
Tomorrow, I’d be all on my own. Just me.
But the question remained . . . who am “I”? Had I really been working so hard to be what other people wanted me to be that I was no longer being the me I wanted to be? Or, more importantly, to be the me God wanted me to be?
With these and about a million other thoughts rattling through my head, I reached for Ol’ Betsy. Maybe a good dose of ImaginMan would take my mind off my problems, because, as I recall, the poor guy had a few of his own . . .
When we last left our hero, he was having his brain drained, by a video game, which was a shame, and there was only one person to blame—— Hold it a minute! This is no time for rap music! Not when our hero is busy falling under the spell of the video game playing across the side of the Good Ear Blimp.
“Must . . . find . . . controls,” he gasps as he drops to his hands and knees desperately searching for a joystick. “Must . . . reach . . . next level.”
As luck would have it (along with the usual cool
writing on this author’s part), a discarded shopping bag sits on the curb just ahead. Hoping against hope, our hero crawls toward it. With his last ounce of energy, he reaches inside the bag. But instead of a joystick or remote, there is nothing but books . . .Robinson Crusoe, Treasure
Island, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and, of course, a copy or two of that great American classic series The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle. (Hey, it’s my story, I ought to put something in, shouldn’t I?)
As he stares at the covers of the books he begins recalling the hours of fun and adventure he had while reading them——the way they unlocked his imagination, the way they made him feel like he was really there. Not like those lame video games where you just press buttons and move controls. No, this was real imagination where he felt what the heroes felt, where he learned what the heroes learned, where he experienced what the heroes experienced.
As he recalls these things, his mind begins to clear. Once again he is able to think and reason——until suddenly a voice blasts out from above, “Look back up here, ImaginMan.”
Jumpin’ Jet Planes! It’s KidVid’s voice! He’s been up in the blimp allalong. No wonder ImaginMan couldn’t find his headquarters.
“Resistance is futile, ImaginMan. Join the mindless masses and look back up to my video screen.”
Using all of his strength, our hero somehow manages to resist the temptation. He will no longer let his mind go numb, he will no longer sit and mindlessly press buttons, he will no longer—— “Resistance is futile.” The voice from the blimp grows louder. “Join us, ImaginMan. Look up to the skies and turn your mind over to me.”
The temptation grows stronger. ImaginMan grows weaker. “What do I do?” he cries. “Help me! What do I do?” “Use your superpowers,” I type.
“Resistance is . . .”
“But what are they? What are my superpowers?!”
“Your imagination!” I type. “Use your imagination!”
“That’s it?!” ImaginMan cries. “The only power you’ve given me is my imagination?!”
“It’s one of the greatest powers there is,” I type.
BLEEP, PING, BLAM
