by Dan Gutman
So WBUA probably meant JOHN. They continued. O was directly below B, so the next letter was B. H was above U. Y was below L. So OHYY meant BULL.
JOHN BULL.
WBUAOHYY meant JOHN BULL.
“You’re really good at this, y’know,” Coke admitted.
His sister beamed. It wasn’t often that she received a compliment from her brother.
“Everybody’s good at something,” she replied modestly.
“The question becomes,” Coke asked, “who is John Bull?”
The door to their RV opened, and Dr. McDonald came out in his pajamas and slippers.
“You two are certainly up early,” he said.
Pep hid her notebook behind her back.
“Hey, Dad,” said Coke. “Did you ever hear of anybody named John Bull?”
“John Bull?” Dr. McDonald said, searching his memory. “Yeah, but John Bull isn’t a person.”
“Okay, what is John Bull?” Coke asked.
“John Bull is a train,” Dr. McDonald replied. “It was one of the first steam locomotives in the world. It was built in the 1830s, I think.”
He was right. Dr. McDonald taught American history at San Francisco State University, and it was hard to stump him on anything about the Industrial Revolution. He had written books on the subject.
Coke and Pep glanced at each other, puzzled expressions on their faces. Neither of them could fathom why they would receive a secret message about a train.
“Why do you want to know about John Bull?” their father asked.
“I received a mysterious coded message from a video game in the game room,” Coke replied. “It says ‘John Bull.’”
“Ha! You kids never cease to amaze me,” said Dr. McDonald, shaking his head. Then he went back inside the RV to brush his teeth and get dressed.
Pep turned to the previous page in her notebook and added to her list.
• July 3, two P.M.
• Greensboro lunch counter
• John Bull
Go to Google Maps (http://maps.google.com/).
Click Get Directions.
In the A box, type Sandusky OH.
In the B box, type Avon OH.
Click Get Directions.
“There must be some connection between the Greensboro lunch counter and that train,” she said to her brother.
“But what?”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait for the next cipher.”
“How far are we from Washington now?” Pep asked as they pulled out of the campground and got back on the road.
Mrs. McDonald looked it up on the GPS.
“Four hundred twenty-three miles,” she said. “We’re getting there.”
“So where are we going today?” asked Coke.
“The coolest place in the world,” his father said mysteriously.
He slipped a Rolling Stones CD into the slot and drove a little over forty miles, mostly on Route 2 East, following the contour of Lake Erie. And then, quite suddenly, there was a sign that travelers of a certain mind-set find hard to resist:
AVON, OHIO
Duct Tape Capital of the World
“Ben, stop the RV!” Mrs. McDonald shouted. “Pull over!”
The RV screeched to a halt. The refrigerator door flew open, and a jar of Smucker’s strawberry jam fell out and hit the floor.
“You gotta be kidding me!” Coke said, throwing up his hands. “This is the coolest place in the world? Do we have to go to a museum devoted to duct tape?”
As the RV sat on the shoulder of the road, Mrs. McDonald leafed through her Ohio guidebook.
“Relax,” she said, when she found the page she was looking for. “They don’t have a duct tape museum here. That would be ridiculous.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Pep said.
“But they have duct tape sculptures,” Mrs. McDonald said excitedly, “a duct tape parade, a duct tape fashion show, and a mascot called Duct Tape Duck. Doesn’t that sound cool?”
“No,” the twins agreed in unison, although, to be completely honest, it did sound pretty cool.
“Kids,” Dr. McDonald said, “this is the beauty of traveling cross-country. You never know what you’re going to stumble on. This is the adventure. I certainly wouldn’t drive two thousand miles to visit the Duct Tape Capital of the World, but here we are. We found it. Something brought us here. It’s almost like magic, or fate.”
“Duct tape is dumb,” Coke said. “I say we get out of here. All in favor, say ‘aye.’”
“Aye,” said Pep.
“This is not a democracy. We must stop here,” Mrs. McDonald said with finality. And when Mrs. Bridget McDonald said something with finality, it was final.
They drove all around the small town of Avon looking for duct tape sculptures, with no success. The kids sat in the back, bored.
“Y’know, they say you can solve just about any problem with duct tape,” Dr. McDonald said as he leaned forward to read the street signs in the distance.
“Except when the problem is that you’re stuck in the Duct Tape Capital of the World,” Coke said glumly.
“Is it duct tape or duck tape?” Mrs. McDonald wondered out loud.
“I believe it’s duct tape,” said Dr. McDonald. “It’s mainly used to help seal ducts.”
“I think it’s duck tape, Dad,” Pep said. “You use it to help duck seals.”
“Duck seals?” asked Mrs. McDonald. “Is that what you get when a duck and a seal mate?”
“No, if a seal is flying in your direction, you need to duck,” Pep explained. “That’s what duck seals means.”
“Seals don’t fly,” Coke pointed out.
“Maybe it’s called duck tape because the guy who invented it would throw it at people and they had to duck to avoid being hit by the flying tape,” suggested Mrs. McDonald.
“Who cares whether it’s duct tape or duck tape?” Coke said, his arms crossed in front of him. “It’s tape. It’s boring. Why are we stopping here?”
The conversation continued along those lines until Dr. McDonald turned onto a street called Just Imagine Drive, where there was an office building with a sign out front.
HENKEL CONSUMER ADHESIVES
Headquarters of Duct Products
“This must be the place!” Mrs. McDonald said, getting out her laptop and camera.
They pulled into the only parking space big enough for an RV and went inside. There was a pretty receptionist sitting behind the front desk.
“May I help you?”
“Yes,” Mrs. McDonald said politely. “Can you tell us where is the duct tape parade and what time is the next duct tape fashion show?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” the receptionist said, “but none of that is going on today.”
“What?!” Mrs. McDonald exclaimed. “We drove all the way from California to see people dressed up in duct tape.”
That wasn’t exactly true, but it sounded good. Mrs. McDonald was clearly agitated. She put her hands on her hips to demonstrate her annoyance.
“Calm down, Bridge,” said Dr. McDonald. “I am calm,” Mrs. McDonald said. “But this town advertises itself as the duct tape capital of the world. We’ve been driving all over town, and I haven’t seen any duct tape anywhere.”
“We have an annual Duct Tape Festival on Father’s Day weekend,” the receptionist explained. “That’s when we crown the Duct Tape Dad of the Year.”
“It must be really exciting,” Coke said sarcastically.
“I wish to speak to the manager,” Mrs. McDonald announced.
“He’s at a conference in Denver,” said the receptionist as she reached into the drawer next to her.
“They have duct tape conferences?” Coke asked. “Do they actually sit around talking about duct tape?”
The receptionist pulled a small roll of duct tape out of her drawer.
Go to Google Maps (http://maps.google.com/).
Click Get Directions.
In the A box, type
Avon OH.
In the B box, type Cleveland OH.
Click Get Directions.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “All I can offer you is this complimentary roll of duct tape.”
Mrs. McDonald snatched the tape out of her hand and stormed out the door in a huff. The rest of the family followed.
Back in the RV, she flipped the roll of duct tape over her shoulder toward the twins.
“Duck!” she shouted. “Tape!”
Coke played with the roll of duct tape as the RV pulled onto Interstate 90 heading east out of Avon. Dr. McDonald ejected the Rolling Stones and put on a Jimi Hendrix CD, nodding his head with the music. Mrs. McDonald passed out sandwiches for lunch she had made that morning. After twenty minutes or so on the highway, the tall buildings of a big city came into view in the distance.
“What’s that, Dad?” Pep asked.
“Cleveland, Ohio.”
“Cleveland?” Coke asked. “Are you taking us to an Indians game?”
“No…,” Dr. McDonald replied, and left it at that. He had a little smile on his face.
He got off the road at exit 174B. A sign said CLEVELAND MEMORIAL SHOREWAY. The twins tried to figure out where they were going as they passed by a little airport near the Lake Erie waterfront.
Soon, a few blocks ahead, Pep spotted a large glass building that was shaped like a pyramid.
“What’s that?” Pep asked.
“Only the coolest place in the world,” Dr. McDonald replied.
As they got closer, a sign came into view.
“All right!” both kids shouted.
The twins were surprised that their father, a serious student of American history, would get excited about a museum devoted to rock music. But Dr. McDonald explained to them that rock and roll is more than just a style of music. It changed the way we live, the way we dress, how we are entertained, and our attitudes on so many issues.
He pulled the RV into the parking lot and climbed out with a spring in his step, whistling “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Everybody was excited. Mrs. McDonald brought along her camera and notepad. Coke threw the roll of duct tape into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. Pep didn’t bring anything. She hopped out of the RV and began to sing as she skipped across the parking lot.
“Hit me with your pet shark! Come on and hit me with your pet shark…”
“Wait a minute,” Coke interrupted his sister. “What did you just say?”
“I said ‘hit me with your pet shark.’”
“It’s not ‘hit me with your pet shark,’ you dope!” Coke told her. “It’s ‘hit me with your best shot.’”
“It is not!” Pep said defensively.
“It is too!”
“Mom?”
“I’m afraid your brother is right, honey,” Mrs. McDonald told Pep. “It’s ‘hit me with your best shot.’ I remember that song. It was by Pat Benatar.”
Pep, who had gone through her entire thirteen years thinking the song went ‘hit me with your pet shark,’ had never been so humiliated. She broke down in tears. Coke couldn’t help but laugh, but both parents came to Pep’s side.
“Don’t feel bad, sweetie,” Dr. McDonald said as he put his arm around Pep. “People misinterpret song lyrics all the time. When I was a kid, there was a song called ‘When a Man Loves a Woman’ by Percy Sledge. I always thought he was singing ‘When a Man Loves a Walnut.’”
“Really?” Pep said, crying and laughing at the same time.
“You know that song ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ by Bob Dylan?” asked Mrs. McDonald. “When I was a kid, I thought he was singing, ‘the ants are my friends, blowin’ in the wind.’”
“You made that up!” Pep said, wiping her eyes.
“I didn’t, really!” her mother said. “I still think that’s what it sounds like.”
“Come to think of it,” Coke said, trying to cheer up his sister, “‘hit me with your pet shark’ is better than ‘hit me with your best shot.’”
Pep snapped out of it, and the family entered the huge building in a good mood. Dr. McDonald bought tickets and looked over the map of the museum. There were seven floors connected by escalators, with five little theaters showing videos.
Everyone had his or her own interests. The grown-ups wanted to see the exhibits devoted to blues, country, and rockabilly music. The kids wanted to head straight for rap, punk, and hip-hop. Pep had become a Beatles freak after playing Rock Band with her friends back home. Coke preferred heavy metal. Mrs. McDonald wanted to learn about Jimi Hendrix. Dr. McDonald was more interested in Les Paul and the invention of the electric guitar. There was so much stuff. It would take up most of the afternoon to see the whole place.
Rather than walking the museum as a foursome, everyone agreed they could cover more ground in a shorter period of time if they split up.
“The museum closes at five thirty,” Mrs. McDonald told the twins. “Meet you at the bench out front at that time. Don’t be late!”
The kids took off in one direction, and the parents went in another one.
“Do you think we’ll be safe in here?” Pep asked her brother. “Every time we go off without Mom and Dad, something happens.”
“What could possibly happen in here?” Coke replied. “You’re being paranoid.”
There are lots of cool places mentioned in this book, but the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is probably the coolest. If you love music, you should definitely go there at some point in your life.
The twins jumped from exhibit to exhibit, sometimes looking at every object very closely and other times skipping them entirely. The museum is filled with photos, posters, videos, handwritten lyrics to songs, stage costumes, and guitars and cars of the stars. You can put on headphones and listen to just about every rock song ever recorded.
“Look, there’s Jim Morrison’s Cub Scout uniform,” Coke pointed out.
“Who’s Jim Morrison?” Pep asked.
“Some guy who died.”
There are no statues or plaques of the musicians who have been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Instead, there’s a long, curving wall with all their signatures.
By five o’clock Coke and Pep had been through most of the exhibits, taking the escalators higher and higher until they had reached the top floor.
“We should probably head back down,” Pep said. “Mom and Dad told us to meet them on the bench out front at five thirty.”
“Relax,” Coke told his sister. “Hey, check this out.”
There was a door off to one side, where most people would not see it. The word RECORDING was above the door, and next to the letters was a little red lightbulb that was lit up.
“It’s a studio,” Pep said. “They probably record music or commercials in there.”
“Let’s go in,” Coke said.
“We’re not allowed in there,” said Pep.
“Says who?” Coke replied. “I don’t see any ‘Do Not Enter’ sign. It’s a museum. It’s open to the public. We paid our admission. Come on.”
He pulled open the door. Reluctantly, Pep followed. They were in a tiny room now, not much bigger than an old-fashioned telephone booth. There was another door on the other side. The first door clicked shut behind them.
“I don’t like this,” Pep said nervously.
“Shhhhh,” her brother said.
He pushed on the other door, and it opened into a larger room dominated by a huge control panel with hundreds of dials, knobs, and switches on it. Neither of the twins had ever been in a recording studio before. It almost looked like the cockpit of a plane.
There were three large chairs in front of the control panel. All of them swiveled around, as if on cue.
There were three people sitting in the chairs—the two bowler dudes and Mrs. Higgins.
Chapter 13
THE LOUD FAMILY
“Eeeekkk!” Pep screamed. “It’s them!”
Coke turned to grab for the door handle. I
t was locked. They were trapped. Again.
“Well … well … well,” said Mrs. Higgins.
The bowler dudes smiled and laughed their stupid laughs. Each of them had a club, like the kind policemen carry. They hit the clubs rhythmically into the palm of one hand.
“How did you get in here?” Pep demanded.
“The question isn’t how we got in here,” Mrs. Higgins replied. “The question is how are you going to get out?”
“Good one, Mrs. H.,” the mustachioed bowler dude said, chuckling.
Coke looked around quickly. They were at the very top of the pyramid-shaped building. He could see the Lake Erie waterfront and the sky through the glass windows surrounding them on all sides. The only exit was locked. They were outnumbered. He had no weapons, while both of the bowler dudes had clubs. There was an electric guitar sitting in a stand on the floor. But what was he going to do, hit somebody over the head with it? It was a bad situation.
Pep couldn’t help but marvel at Mrs. Higgins. One day she was working as a paid assassin for Dr. Warsaw. The next day she managed to get a job working in the public relations department of the Chicago Cubs. And now she had somehow talked her way into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Maybe she was right—she did have good people skills.
“That wasn’t very nice what you kids did at Wrigley Field,” Mrs. Higgins said, wagging a finger at them. “The fans were very upset that the Cubs forfeited the game.”
“It was your fault!” Pep shouted. “You told us there was a bomb in the dugout! You gave us those T-shirts! You almost got us killed!”
“I’ll try harder this time.”
“Good one, Mrs. H.,” said the clean-shaven bowler dude.
Both bowler dudes laughed and slapped the clubs into their palms. There would be no way to overpower them.
“What are you going to do now,” Coke asked, “blow up the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?”
“Heavens no!” Mrs. Higgins replied. “I love rock and roll. Put another dime in the jukebox, baby!”
