by Tom Birdseye
“And there will be no more practicing for an attempt at a world record.”
“But, Mrs. Caldwell—”
“And there will be no eating food in an attempt to break a world record at Lincoln Elementary School. Not in the cafeteria, or the classroom, or in the boys’ bathroom.” She leans even farther forward in her chair. “Is that clear, Arlo?” she asks.
I’m afraid it is. I’d better agree with her—or die at an early age. But where is she getting her information?
“Yes, ma’am,” I manage to squeak.
“Good,” she says, leaning back in her chair and smiling. “I admire your courage at setting a high goal for yourself, Arlo. But it’s just as well that this stops now. It is obviously not healthy for young children to eat so much, so fast. And besides, I don’t think you could do it anyway. You simply can’t.”
Can’t? Did she say can’t?
“It’s just too much to ask of yourself.”
Can’t?
“I’m sure we won’t have to talk about this again,” she continues.
Wrong, Mrs. Caldwell. I can break the world record.
“And that there will be no further problems,” she says.
I’m going to be in the Guinness Book of World Records… you can bet on that.
CHAPTER 20
“A bet is a bet.”
—MURRAY WALLACE
Mom packed a tuna sandwich for my lunch again today. I usually like tuna. But now, sitting in the cafeteria, I’m not hungry. I’m churning inside. I’ve got a big problem to solve: do I let Mrs. Caldwell tell me what I can’t do, or do I do what I believe I can?
My PBA says that I can do it. I can, I can, I can, I can. And I believe that.
Mrs. Caldwell tells me I can’t. She’s the principal. She’s in charge. She could get me in big trouble.
But who’s supposed to run my life? Me or somebody else? That’s the big problem.
“Hi, Arlo. Did you have a good visit with Mrs. Caldwell?”
It’s Murray. Murray Wallace, sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch. I didn’t even notice him—Murray Wallace who has a smile on his face. Murray Wallace who I’ll bet gave Mrs. Caldwell her “information.” Murray Wallace the informer.
“Thanks a lot, Murray,” I say, almost spitting the words at him.
“What are you talking about, Arlo?” he asks, acting innocent.
“You know what I’m talking about,” I say. “Mrs. Caldwell and her information.”
Murray smiles at me like a cat smiles at a mouse. “Oh, it was nothing. I’d do it anytime for a good friend.”
Friend? Blaggh!
“Yeah, well, our bet is off,” I say and finally bite into my tuna sandwich.
“Off? What do you mean?” Murray asks.
“It’s off,” I repeat. “Mrs. Caldwell put the stops on everything—no bets, no world-record attempts.”
“A bet is a bet, Arlo, no matter what Mrs. Caldwell says.”
“Pig feathers, Murray! It’d be me getting into trouble, not you.”
“Oh, I get it,” he says, “you’re afraid of Mrs. Caldwell. This is your excuse to get out of a bet you can’t win. I should have known you’d back out in the end, Arlo. Laura knows the truth—I’m more of a man than you are. It’s a plain and simple fact—you can’t do it.”
That does it. It’s time for action.
“Can you, Arlo?”
I’m in charge here, Mrs. Caldwell or no Mrs. Caldwell. Rules or no rules. I’m sick of Murray and his mouth. I’ll show him once and for all that I can do it. Commando Mucho and Xexus of Zoidtron to battle. Five … four … three … two … one … blast off!
“Attention! Attention, everybody!” I yell at the 180 students in the Lincoln Elementary cafeteria. I’ve climbed up onto a table so I can be seen and heard. The crowd turns.
“You are now about to witness one of the most wondrous events of our time …”
Ooohs and aaahs fill the room.
“I, Arlo Banana Moore, will now give you a show of my world-record-breaking banana-eating skill.”
All eyes are riveted on me. This is my finest hour.
“As I eat, not one, not two, but three bananas in less than twenty-one seconds,” I say, pulling the bananas from my lunchbox. “Ready!”
The tension mounts.
“Set!”
The crowd is at the edge of their seats. I’m to be a hero. I can feel it.
“And …”
“Stop right where you are, Arlo Moore!”
Oh, no.
“Get down off that table this instant!”
It’s Mrs. Caldwell.
“I’ll see you in my office, now!”
I think I’ve made a mistake.
“We’ll see what your parents have to say about your lack of respect for authority!”
Yes, I’ve definitely made a big mistake.
CHAPTER 21
“I’ll die a true hero.”
—ARLO MOORE
During dinner, Mom told Dad about her telephone conversation with Mrs. Caldwell. I sat and stared at my macaroni and cheese. I watched it go from steaming hot to gooey and cold.
Dad didn’t say a thing. He just looked at me and then finished eating. Mom “suggested” that I clean up the kitchen while she and Dad talked in the living room.
I’ve finished cleaning off the table. I’ve also finished scraping the little bits of macaroni and cheese goo off the plates. I’ve wiped the orange plastic tablecloth with a wet rag and swept the kitchen floor. And now I’m elbow-deep in suds. I’ve saved the worst till last. I’m washing the dishes.
I wonder what it would be like to live inside a bubble. This sink is full of suds—thousands, maybe even millions of bubbles. It’s like a huge mound of bubble houses.
But who wants to live in a house you can see through? Everyone would know how messy my room is.
Besides, this stuff blows around too easily. I can destroy this bubble mound in one breath. Whoosh. The bubble houses go scattering with the force of Hurricane Arlo. Whoosh. Thousands of homes are blown over with the force of my hurricane breath. Blasted into the outer reaches of the atmosphere, they fly. Hurricane Arlo keeps them from falling to the kitchen floor. Whoosh.
“Arlo.”
“Huh? Oh, hi, Dad.”
“Quit playing and finish the dishes. Your mother and I want to have a talk with you.”
Uh-oh, that sounds serious. I think I’m going to get lecture number thirty-four. That’s the one on being honest. Or I might get lecture number twenty-seven. That one covers behaving at school. I’ll probably end up getting lectures number thirty-four, number twenty-seven, and number forty-three on respecting authority. All this labor in the kitchen, plus three lectures? That seems like too much to me. Mom and Dad have always told us to stand up for what we believe in. That’s what I was doing: running my own life, following my own destiny. Is that such a crime?
I’m probably going to have to clean up the kitchen until I’m eighteen years old. All of that dish-washing will give me prune fingers. I won’t be able to play soccer or baseball, or peel bananas.
Maybe I could buy an automatic dishwasher. Yeah. I’ll empty my piggy bank and get one tomorrow. I’ll give them eight dollars as a down payment. Then I can use my allowance money to pay on it every week. Mom and Dad will like it so much they’ll feel sorry for me.
But it’ll be too late. I’ll have already been worked to the bone. I, Commando Mucho, prisoner of war, will lie dying in my cell bunk. Doctors will be rushed to my aid. Banana medicine will be flown in from Brazil. My fans will mourn me, but it’ll be too late. I’ll die a true hero, giving my life for the good of my kitchen. I’ll be famous.
And Mom and Dad will feel guilty. They’ll be sorry they treated poor Arlo so meanly. They’ll come to the funeral and sit in the front row and cry. “Oh, poor Arlo! Why did we treat him so cruelly? We made him wash the dishes, and scrub and clean. We lectured him. And he was just following his destiny. Oh, poor
Arlo!”
“Arlo, are you almost done?” Dad asks from the living room.
Woops, better finish in a hurry.
“Be right there, Dad.”
Commando Mucho, prisoner of war, reports as ordered to the firing squad.
CHAPTER 22
“Like a worm on the sidewalk.”
—ARLO MOORE
Sometimes I feel like a worm on the sidewalk —confused about how I got there and wondering where I should go.
Here it is, Friday, September 23. I’m sitting alone in my room. Tomorrow is the big day. Tomorrow I go for the official Guinness Book of World Records banana-eating challenge—seventeen bananas in less than two minutes. I should be excited. I should be nervous. I should feel confident, or scared, or something. But right now I feel like a worm on the sidewalk.
This has been a rough week. Mom and Dad gave me lectures number thirty-four, twenty-seven, and little bits of lecture number forty-three. Dad was very stern. So was Mom. It was serious business. Then they told me that as punishment for my banana-eating and cafeteria crimes, I had to be on kitchen duty for two weeks, plus I had to apologize to Mrs. Caldwell.
I don’t mind the kitchen duty so much. I just play with soap bubbles in the sink, chant my PBA, and slowly get the job done.
Apologizing to Mrs. Caldwell was tough, though. I hate to apologize to people, even if they deserve it (which I guess she did).
But it’s part three of my punishment that really gets me. It’s part three that tastes like sour milk. It’s part three that I just can’t swallow. They told me I couldn’t try to break the banana-eating world record. Dad said I can’t. Period.
So every day this week, I’ve become Commando Mucho, top-secret banana-eater and world-record trainee. Mike Snead, Kerry, and I have sworn secret allegiance to our mission. We meet in Ben’s garage after school and practice. We will attempt our goal. Despite injury, illness, pain, and parents, we will endure.
Mike’s stitches came out yesterday. He has a little pink line on his forehead. You can even see the thread holes if you look really closely. He laughs and calls it his “battle scar.” But he also told me it aches a little worse than the rest of his head when he eats ice cream really fast.
He can eat a quart of vanilla in less than thirty seconds now. That’s good. He’s improved. But it’s not nearly good enough. He’s not going to make it. But he keeps on trying and practicing. I like that about Mike; he’s got guts.
Kerry has guts, too. Not only is she still trying hard to spit those melon seeds sixty-five feet, four inches, but she even went out and got a pair of Dad’s old boots from the garage. They’re huge. She measured exactly twelve inches from the heel of each boot. Then she cut the extra part clean off with Dad’s saw. Now, when she spits, she can measure how far the seed went by walking a straight line and putting the heel of the front boot and the toe of the back boot right up against each other. Each step is one foot. She says that’s the way serious seed-spitters do it.
But Ben is another story altogether, and that’s what’s got me confused and wondering. Ben quit. He says he can’t do it anymore. His stomach just can’t take it. He still wants to be my trainer. He still reminds me to do my daily PBA. And he still lets us use his garage after school. But he quit. They told him he can’t, and he believed them. I don’t understand. Like a worm on the sidewalk, I’m confused.
CHAPTER 23
“I believe in you.”
—MICHELLE ANGIER
Standing before me are my chimpanzees. I see them, thousands of them. They’ve come to visit the Banana King. Each chimpanzee holds a banana in his hand. As I raise my giant banana above my banana-crowned head, the chimpanzees shriek with delight and do back flips. The time has come. We are ready to begin the Banana Festival.
“Pssst, Arlo …”
Slowly I peel the giant banana. Slowly the thousands of chimpanzees peel their bananas.
“Arlo, wake up.”
And I, the Banana King, give the official signal—with a wave of my hand we begin.
“Arlo! Wake up. You’re sleepwalking.”
“Huh?”
“Wake up,” John says. “It’s eleven-thirty at night. You should be in bed, not parading around out here in the living room with a banana in your hand and a sheet over your shoulders.”
I take a look at myself. Sure enough, I’m standing in the middle of the living room with a banana in my hand and a sheet over my shoulders. John and Michelle are sitting on the couch staring at me.
“Sorry,” I apologize, “I thought you were chimpanzees.”
Michelle laughs softly.
John looks at me. “No, not the last time I checked. I’m John, your big brother. And this is Michelle, who already thinks I’ve got a strange family. Do you have to rub it in?”
The TV is on. They’ve been watching the late-night monster movie—Godzilla Meets King Kong.
“Sorry, John. Sorry, Michelle. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s OK, Arlo,” Michelle says. “I knew I could count on you for a little entertainment.” She looks at John and smiles.
I’m not sure how to take that statement. Entertainment?
“Good night, Arlo,” John says.
I think he’s telling me to vacate the living room.
“Oh, yeah, good night, John. Good night, Michelle,” I say with a yawn, then start to turn toward my room.
“Oh, Arlo …”
“What, Michelle?”
She smiles at me. “Good luck tomorrow with your world-record attempt. I’m betting on you.”
Wow!
“You are? Really?” I ask.
“Yep. You can do it. I believe in you.”
“Gee … thanks, Michelle,” I stammer, feeling a little embarrassed.
She believes in me. Michelle believes in me. I knew she was smart. She’s got “sparkle.”
I’m back in bed now. I feel good. I feel great. Someone important believes that I can break the world record for eating bananas. And she’s almost an adult. This is wonderful.
But what if I can’t do it? I ate five bananas in forty-three seconds today at Ben’s garage. As good as it was for me, it still isn’t good enough.
Michelle believes in me, though. Dad doesn’t. I’m not sure about Mom. And John sure doesn’t. Mrs. Caldwell and Murray the Nerd and a lot of kids at school don’t believe I can do it. And worst of all, Laura doesn’t. Laura McNeil, the most beautiful girl at Lincoln Elementary School, doesn’t believe in me. I’m sure she doesn’t. She doesn’t even want to talk to me.
But Michelle does. I’ve got to remember that. Think positive—the Positive Brain Approach. And remember, Arlo Moore, you can do it.
CHAPTER 24
“Gazonk!”
—KERRY MOORE
This is probably the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. We’re all here: Ben, Kerry, Mike, John, me, and even Michelle. We’re here even though we’re not supposed to be. We’re here even though everybody said we can’t. And we’re here in Ben’s garage to witness history being made, to see fame come to Seagrove, Oregon, and hopefully to watch at least one of us claim our rightful place in the Guinness Book of World Records (except John, who is here to collect on his bet).
“OK, Mike, you drew the queen of diamonds,” Ben says. “That means you go first.”
“Aw, c’mon, Ben,” Mike pleads, “not me. Not first.”
Ben looks at me, up at the ceiling, and back at Mike. “Look, we agreed that whoever got the queen would go first. Then whoever got the king would go second, and the ace would go last. You drew the queen. You go first.”
Mike lets out a long sigh. “Aw … OK. I guess it’s fair,” he admits, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to another. “But why can’t Arlo go first? This was his idea to begin with.”
“Mike, we agreed,” Ben reminds him.
“OK, OK … I’ll go first. Who’s got the ice cream?”
Ben has the ice cream in the big chest freez
er they keep in their garage. The freezer is full of frozen beans, peas, corn, orange juice, chicken, beef, and fish. When you open it, an icy fog rises slowly up and around your head. It’s like watching the creature of the black lagoon rise out of the murky swamp. Down in the back corner of the freezer are hidden three quarts of Lucerne Old-Fashioned Vanilla Ice Cream. “Pure and natural” it says on the carton. Mike says that if he’s going to die from eating too much ice cream, he wants to go naturally.
Ben rises out of the murky swamp with the three quarts. That’s three pounds, six ounces of ice cream. The same amount Tony Dowdeswell ate in 50.04 seconds.
Mike has done his warm-up exercises: jumping jacks and toe touches. He’s now sitting in front of a card table. We are gathered around. I’ve “borrowed” Dad’s stopwatch. Ben has it set on zero, point zero, zero.
“OK, Mike, this is it,” Ben says solemnly. “You have fifty seconds to eat all that ice cream.”
This is just like the Olympics. I can feel the tension in the air before the first big event. Thousands of spectators jam the stadium. Millions watch breathlessly on satellite TV.
Mike has a calm look on his face. He is sitting dead-still. He has his favorite spoon in his right hand, held like a flag in a parade.
Ben starts the countdown. “Take your mark …”
The three quarts of Lucerne Old-Fashioned Vanilla Ice Cream are lined up before him. He is staring at them. I’ll bet he’s planning his strategy.
“Get set ….”
Kerry is in her cheerleader’s position. We all take a deep breath. This is it.
“Go!” Ben shouts and clicks the stopwatch on.
Mike isn’t moving.
“Go, Mike! Go, go, go!” Kerry screams.
Mike still isn’t moving.
“Shisk, boom, bah! Go, Mike! Eat, eat, eat!” yells cheerleader Kerry.
Mike still isn’t moving.
“You’re wasting valuable time,” yells Ben. “Start eating!”
Mike is now looking at me. He hasn’t moved. His spoon is still in his right hand, shining bright, clean, and unused.
“I can’t do it, Arlo. You were right,” he says in a trembling voice.
