My Life as a Screaming Skydiver

by Bill Myers

  “Look out!” I shouted.

  WOOF!

  “Coming through!”

  WOOF! WOOF!

  So there I was doing a dogsled imitation through the airport as all sorts of folks leaped out of the way. With a little bit of strain and a lot of stretching, I reached forward to the leash. I tried my best to untangle the knot, but the harder Fido pulled, the tighter it got.

  “Do something!” Wall Street yelled.

  “Like what?” I cried.

  “Like anything!”

  Actually, I figured I’d done enough already. With all the trouble I’d gone to to get us into this mess, I figured it was only fair that somebody else get us out. And since Dad was the designated grownup of the group, I turned to him for help.

  “You have to cut the leash!” he shouted.

  “With what?” I yelled. “I don’t have anything but this shaving kit.”

  “Look inside! There must be something!”

  I opened the kit and shook my head. “There’s just this toothbrush, toothpaste, and nail clippers—”

  “That’s it!” he shouted. “Use the nail clippers!” I pulled out the clippers, and after the usual fumbling, I managed to get them open. Then, reaching out to the leash, I began cutting away.

  I was amazed at how sharp the clippers were (superspies must have supertough toenails). In a matter of seconds the leash snapped. Ol’ Fido broke free and ran off to share his terror with the rest of the airport—which was okay by me because as I glanced up, I saw we’d soon be experiencing plenty of terror on our own.

  Directly in front of us was a moving escalator!

  “AUGH!”

  SWOOSH

  BANG BANG BANG BANG

  Well, it had been in front of us. Now we were busy bouncing down its stairs.

  “W-w-w-will . . . s-s-s-ome-b-b-body . . . t-t-t-urn . . . this-is-is . . . th-th-thing . . . of-f-f-f-f !?” I cried.

  But my buddies were too busy screaming their own lungs out to pay attention. The ride seemed to go on forever—and for good reason.

  It was.

  We were bouncing down an UP escalator. As we kept rolling down and down and down, the stairs kept coming up and up and up. It was like one of those perpetual motion machines, never stopping. We would be there to this day if it weren’t for that poor little man with the cane who didn’t bother to look up before he stepped on.

  “Look out!” I shouted. “Mister, look—”

  K-BLAMB

  “YEOWwwwwww . . .”

  “Sorry . . .” I shouted as he flew high over our heads.

  Fortunately, the little collision knocked over our cart and we tumbled out. For a moment we lay there, sprawling this way and that, as the moving stairs carried us back toward the top.

  Unfortunately, when we arrived there was a welcoming party waiting for us.

  “Good effening. It’z zo nize of you to stoop by and—” But that was all my bad guy buddies got out before

  “. . . wwwwwwAAHH!”

  Flying Gramps with the cane landed smack dab on top of them.

  K-SMASH!

  We reached the top of the stairs and scrambled to our feet. Unfortunately, the bad guys were also scrambling to theirs.

  “Run!” Dad shouted. “I’ll hold them off. Run!”

  “But—”

  “Run, Wally! Run!”

  I tell you, just when you think you’ve got your parents figured out, just when you’re sure the only reason they had you was so they could get a tax deduction, they go and pull something like this. Don’t get me wrong, I know my dad loves me. But as a man’s man he doesn’t go out of his way to say it. Still, when the chips are down, there he was ready, willing, and—

  “Wally, will you quit jabbering and get your rear in gear!”

  See what I mean? I nodded and the three of us took off faster than a kid who’d drunk too much prune juice.

  But not fast enough.

  BEEP BEEP

  K-BAMB!

  Suddenly we found ourselves the hood ornament to one of those golf-cart-like people transporters.

  “Move it!” the driver shouted. “I can’t see! Move it! Move it!”

  I looked up, and there was my old pal, Beefy the Biker Boy—all three thousand pounds of him. I wanted to ask how’d he been, maybe check out the latest pictures of his kids, but he was too busy trying to see where he was going.

  “Move it! Move it! Move it!”

  Yes sir, it was just like old times.

  Once again, people were screaming and leaping out of the way. Once again, we were swerving wildly out of control.

  We zipped by the ticket line.

  “Look out!”

  Past the ticket agent.

  “Coming through!”

  And entered the long Jetway. For a moment everything appeared to be settling down until

  K-THUNK

  we hit the doorway of the plane. Fortunately, the golf cart was too big to get inside and came to a sudden halt. Unfortunately, we weren’t and didn’t. The three of us flew into the plane and

  K-THUDD

  hit the opposite wall.

  For a moment I lay there on my back sort of dazed. Then, when I finally started to move, checking for missing or broken body parts, I heard an all too familiar voice.

  “Good evening, Wallace. You really are quite good at this catastrophe business, aren’t you?”

  I looked up and, sure enough, there was James Blond sitting in a humongous leather chair, checking his watch.

  “And, as always, you’re right on time.”

  The plane was fixed up to look like a fancy condo, complete with kitchen, living room, and entertainment center. It was pretty cool (although I thought the hot tub and racquetball court in the back were a bit much).

  After Mr. Blond promised me a hundred times that Dad would be okay and that the bad guys were after me, not him, I tried to relax. It might have been easier if I weren’t so scared of heights. (As you may remember, I’m the one who gets dizzy just stepping up onto street curbs.) I had to find something to take my mind off the flying.

  “Moo mome mritting,” Opera suggested as he buckled in beside me.

  (Obviously he’d found their stash of chips in the kitchen.)

  “How can I ‘do some writing’?” I complained. “I don’t even have Ol’ Betsy.”

  “Mhat’s mat?” he pointed.

  I looked over to a nearby table. Sure enough, there was another laptop exactly like the other Ol’ Betsy.

  “These guys are good,” I marveled.

  “Mhey mure mare,” Opera agreed as he crammed another half bag of the deep-fried, empty carbos into his mouth.

  I reached for Ol’ Betsy III and snapped her on. It would be several hours before we landed in Africa, and Opera was right. There’s nothing like a good, danger-filled fantasy to take your mind off your own danger-filled reality.

  When we last left Gigabyte Guy, he’d just learned that the entire world was being bathed in the dreaded (and not all that easy to pronounce) Irresponsible Beam. Every human on the planet was being filled with more excuses than a kid who didn’t do his homework. No one was taking responsibility for anything.

  Fortunately, since he’s not human, the beam has no effect upon our hero’s magnificent microchip mind. No wonder the President had called him. He’s the only one who can save the world!

  Giga Guy races to the edge of his monitor screen and starts to leap out when he hits the glass.

  K-LUNK

  “Oh, that’s right,” he says, slapping his forehead. “I’m a computer character. I live inside computers.” (Hey, just ’cause he’s created by a computer doesn’t mean he’s as smart as a computer.)

  “I heard that, Mr. Wally!”

  Oh boy, he’s trying to talk to me again. I pretended to ignore him and typed faster.

  Gigabyte Guy turns from the monitor and surges through the computer’s printed circuits. Grabbing his virtual reality coat and slipping on his virtual realit
y galoshes (How else is he going to stop from catching a virtual reality virus?), our hero prepares to exit through his modem when suddenly—— “Greetings, earthling.”

  He comes byte to byte with a strange character from an even stranger computer game——but not just any strange computer game. This is from the one and only (insert spooky X-Files music here)

  ALIEN ENCOUNTER!

  But how did the game get on our hero’s computer? His owner’s mother never lets him buy computer games—— unless they’re the educational kind. And from the looks of things, this bugeyed alien isn’t your average talking purple dinosaur trying to teach the ABCs. In fact, this alien doesn’t look like he’s interested in teaching anyone anything——unless it’s a close-up examination of his razor sharp teeth and the inner workings of his digestive system.

  Gigabyte Guy leaps to the left.

  But ol’ Bug Eye blocks his path.

  He leaps to the right.

  Bug Eye’s path-blocking program repeats itself. Then, with a terrifying and somewhat irritating electronic laugh, the creature cries, “Prepare to die, earthling.”

  Bug Eye approaches and Gigabyte Guy braces himself for the worst.

  Closer and closer it comes. Wider and wider it opens its mouth. Holy hard drive, what will our hero do? It’s hideous. Horrendous. Horrifying. But that’s enough about Bug Eye’s breath. Let’s get back to Gigabyte’s future—— or lack of it. In a matter of seconds, his delete button will be hit. He’ll be clicked and pointed to the nearest recycle bin, a soon-to-be-forgotten blip on the printed circuits of life.

  And then, just when the computer analogies are wearing thin...

  Our plane gave a sudden jerk. And then another.

  I looked up from the computer. “What’s that?” Wall Street glanced from her newspaper and looked out the window. “Uh-oh.”

  There was another jerk.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  “Company?!”

  Another jerk.

  “Yeah, it’s the old, midair docking routine. They do it in all the movies now.”

  “Who’s doing it?!”

  “Let’s see . . . oh, there’s your father.”

  “My dad?!”

  Wall Street nodded. “And your two buddies from the airport, and their two guns—or are those missile launchers? It’s kinda hard to tell from this angle. Oh, and there’s—”

  Suddenly a deafening hiss filled the cabin.

  “What’s happening!?” I cried.

  “They’ve broken the seal!” Mr. Blond shouted as he raced toward the front of the plane. “We’re losing cabin pressure! Buckle in kids, looks like our little picnic is over.”

  Picnic?! If he thought this had been a picnic, I’d hate to see his version of ants. But, of course, I would, soon enough.

  He turned to me and shouted, “Wally, do you have that shaving kit we gave you?”

  “Right here!” I yelled.

  “Good. Get ready to use it!”

  “But I’m too young to shave!” I shouted.

  “Just get ready!”

  Chapter 6

  Midair Detour

  The air continued hissing out of the cabin. Don’t get me wrong, I like a gentle breeze as much as the next guy, but things were getting windy in a Hurricane Hugo sorta way.

  “What’s happening?” Opera yelled. He would have yelled, “Mhat’s mappening,” but the wind was so strong that it had sucked the potato chips right out of his mouth, giving new meaning to the term air pollution.

  “They’ve broken into the airplane!” Wall Street shouted.

  “Who?” Opera yelled.

  “Wally’s friends!”

  “I don’t see them!” I cried. “I don’t—”

  K-RASH Thud Thud Thud

  Suddenly, they dropped through the roof and landed in front of us. Talk about making an entrance. It was great to see the whole gang together again. I was particularly pleased to see Dad. Of course I wanted to leap up and run into his arms, but there was something about the way Tall Guy and Short Stuff shoved their weapons into my chest that made me a little shy about showing affection.

  But not my dad. “Wally!” he cried. “Are you all right!?”

  I nodded so hard you could hear my brains rattle.

  “Son!” he shouted. “These men have something very important to tell you!”

  “Zat’s right!” Tall Guy cried. “Zings are not az zay appear! Vee muust talk to you.”

  I threw a nervous look up to Mr. Blond who was still standing in the front of the plane. They caught my glance and spun around to him.

  “Zer hee iz!” Tall Guy shouted.

  “He’z alive!” Short Stuff shouted back.

  They pulled their weapons from my chest and spun around to Mr. Blond who began to yell, “The toothpaste, Wally! In your shaving kit, use the toothpaste!”

  I reached down and started digging the toothpaste out of the kit.

  The bad boys looked at me like I had a screw loose. Who could blame them? There they were, holding their superautomatic, blow-you-to-kingdom-come guns, while I was grabbing my supertube of Whitey Bright Toothpaste . . . (regular flavored, not even mint).

  “Squeeze it, Wally!” Mr. Blond shouted. “Pop the cap and squeeze it!”

  I yanked off the lid and squeezed the tube. But instead of toothpaste, out shot a thick, gooey stream of what looked like . . . rope! Some sort of liquid rope! It squirted from the tube and instantly covered our two new guests. They shouted and tried to raise their weapons, but the rope was so sticky and strong that it bound their arms and hands, making it impossible for them to move.

  “What are you doing?” Dad shouted. “You’ve got the wrong—”

  But that was all I heard. Because as the bad boys struggled with the ropes, Mr. Blond broke into a loud, echoing laugh. “Excellent, Wallace. Simply excellent.”

  I nodded, giving the tube one last squirt (right in the middle, just in case either of them was a neat freak). Talk about being tied up in knots. Tall Guy and Short Stuff couldn’t move a muscle.

  I threw a triumphant look over to Dad, but instead of smiling, he was shaking his head.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Mr. Blond shouted, “I hate to be a party pooper, but I have a few errands to attend to.” He pulled out what looked like a miniature keypad from his pocket, hit a few keys, and his image started to flutter and waver.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned. “You did it to me again, didn’t you?”

  “Quite right, old bean.” His image grew more and more transparent. “Now if you’ll excuse me, it is definitely time to disappear.”

  And, just like that, he was gone.

  Unfortunately, Tall Guy and Short Stuff weren’t. They seemed more real than ever. And so was the truth Dad was about to share . . .

  “What?” I cried. “No way!”

  “I’m afraid it’s true, Son.” Dad looked me straight in the eyes. “Your friend, Mr. Blond, is the spy. He’s the one our government is trying to catch. These gentlemen here,” he motioned to the two men who were busy climbing and struggling out of the rope, “they’re on our side. They’re the good guys.”

  I couldn’t believe it. You could have bowled me over with a Ping-Pong ball; with a piece of lint on a Ping-Pong ball; with a piece of dust on a piece of lint on a Ping-Pong ball—well, you get the picture.

  “But . . . how?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

  Dad nodded. “I checked with the FBI, CIA, NSA, and, of course, the PTA.”

  “But . . . but, I mean they’re the ones who talk funny—not Mr. Blond.”

  “Zat iz becauze vee hav been hired by your government. Vee are zpecial double agentz.”

  “But . . . but, he seemed so sincere, so real.”

  “Az real az hiz holographic image?” Short Stuff asked.

  I was beginning to get the picture.

  “Zat’s vhy vee hav been chasing you. To try and explain it to you.”r />
  I turned to Short Stuff. “You said you would ‘blow me to kingdom come’!”

  Short Stuff shrugged. “Juz a figure of zpeech.”

  “He’z been vatching too many late night cable moviez,” Tall Guy explained. “Zorry if it frightened you.”

  “So what’s really going on?” Wall Street asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Does that mean there isn’t really a Giggle Gun?”

  “And if there’s no Giggle Gun,” Opera frowned, “does that mean we won’t get any more free junk food?”

  “Actually,” Dad explained, “before his death, Blond’s partner stole the Giggle Gun and hid it in an African cave.”

  Tall Guy nodded. “Zat much iz true.”

  Dad continued. “But instead of risking his life to track it down, Blond figured he’d send you out to take the chance.”

  “But I’m just a kid.”

  “Ezactly,” Short Stuff nodded. “Hee figured no von vould ezpect a kid.”

  I took a long breath and slowly let it out. “So he’s been using me all of this time?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Dad said. “Ever since you ran into him at the Destructo Lasers—”

  “Hey, that wasn’t my fault!”

  Dad simply looked at me. “Like it wasn’t your fault that you tied these guys up a minute ago?”

  “But . . . but . . .” There I was doing my famous motorboat imitation again.

  Dad shook his head. “Wallace.”

  Uh-oh, now I was in for it. Whenever I became “Wallace” it was time to buckle in for another lecture.

  “There’s nothing wrong with making mistakes,” he said. “People do it a dozen times a day. You tied up these fellows because you thought it was the right thing to do.”

  I nodded.

  “It was a mistake, as simple as that. And it was a mistake when you ran into Blond at Destructo Lasers.”

  I started to argue, but he held up his hand. “That’s okay, accidents happen all the time.”

  “But if I keep making them,” I protested, “then you’ll keep treating me like some immature kid.”

  Dad shook his head. “That’s not true. Grownups make mistakes all the time. People only think you’re immature when you don’t admit to making them, when you don’t take responsibility for them.”