by Bill Myers
“And finally, least but not last,” Cowboy Roy said, “this year’s clown is . . . Wally McDoogle!”
The cheers weren’t exactly deafening. And the applause, well, it wasn’t exactly audible. But there was plenty of snickering. And giggling. Lots of giggling. Still, I wasn’t put off. No way. I figured they were just jealous ’cause they wouldn’t get to walk around in absurd-looking clothes, and wear huge, embarrassing-looking shoes, or be totally humiliated by putting on stupid clown makeup. And let’s not forget the big, moron-looking, red nose. I mean, who in their right mind wouldn’t want to wear a big, moron-looking, red nose in front of their parents and hundreds of strangers?
Needless to say, I left the meeting more than a little depressed. Fortunately, I had Opera to cheer me up.
“Hey, don’t, crunch, crunch, take it too bad,” he said, joining me as we headed toward our various practice areas.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Falling down, looking stupid, and making a total fool of yourself . . . at least you won’t have to practice. I mean, you’ve been doing that all your life.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“No problem, munch, munch. What are friends for?”
“What about you?” I asked as I watched him dip a chip into another jar of Pecos Bill’s Flame Thrower Hot Sauce. “I didn’t hear your name called.”
“That’s ’cause I’ve got a special assignment,” he beamed.
“Special assignment?”
“That’s, burp, right.”
“Like what?”
“I’m in charge of the concession, BELCH (wow, that was a good one), cart.”
I nodded, cranking up a little smile. Good ol’ Cowboy Roy. He really had a knack for knowing our strengths. “Hey,” I asked, “is that Chad’s horse over there?”
“Yup. The calf ropers are heading to the barn to learn to tie different knots and stuff. Why?”
“Oh, no reason,” I said.
But, of course, there was a reason. And as soon as Opera left for his concession cart training, I sneaked back to the horses. If Chad wanted to play hardball, I could play hardball. A little eye for an eye never hurt anybody (though so far I seemed to be the only one going blind). But that would all change. Very, very soon that would change.
It took only a minute to loosen the saddle’s cinch on his horse . . . not too much, just enough so it would gradually slip and come undone. When I was finished, I shoved my hands into my pockets, whistled a happy tune, and strolled over to the little trailer where they were going to measure me for my clown outfit.
Yes sir, things were going to turn around in no time. Little did I realize how turned around they would become. . . .
Chapter 6
A Goof for a Goof
The person in charge of measuring me for my clown costume was Mrs. Cowboy Roy. I know, as impossible as it is to believe, there actually was a Mrs. Cowboy Roy. And, even more impossible to believe, she looked and acted exactly like her husband . . . well, except for the spitting part. No way would you catch this fine lady spitting on the ground.
She used a cup.
To call it a “measuring” was a bit of a stretch. Basically, it involved Mrs. Cowboy Roy throwing the clothes at me from an old trunk (apparently, one size fits all) and ordering me to go into the back room to put them on.
I won’t bore you with the details of my new wardrobe. Just imagine bright green pants slightly larger than a water barrel (but not nearly as comfortable), bright red suspenders (industrial-sized to hold up my water-barrel-sized pants), socks that stretch up somewhere around my earlobes, and a big shirt with yellow and purple stripes so ugly it’s probably outlawed in most states, except California. Then, of course, there was the battery-powered bow tie. By pressing a button in my pants it would light up a bright red and begin to spin. In short, it wasn’t exactly the type of stuff you’d want to wear to church. In long, it wasn’t exactly the type of stuff you’d want to wear anywhere.
“So, how do I look?” I asked as I stepped back into the room.
Mrs. Cowboy Roy glanced up, then spit into her cup. “Just as stupid as last year’s clown.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“’Course, you’ll look even more ignorant with the clown makeup.”
“Oh, boy.”
“And”— she spat again—“the bright red nose.”
“You mean this big moron-looking nose?” I asked, holding a red rubber ball that had been cut in half.
“That’s the one.”
“Great,” I moaned.
“But that bow tie is pretty cool,” she said.
I nodded, having to admit she was right. I pushed the button in my pants, causing the tie to light up and start spinning around.
“That’s what Roy used to use to attract the bulls in the rodeo,” she said.
“Cowboy Roy used to be a rodeo clown?” I asked.
“One of the best,” she said as she spit. “Till he got hurt. Never been the same since.”
“What happened?”
“Some bull rider got throwed, and Roy jumped in to save him.”
“He did?” I asked.
“Yup. He leaped smack dab in front of the animal.”
“And . . .”
“And he got his attention, all right. The critter gored him with his horns, threw him to the ground, then nearly trampled him to death.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Then he turned on the cowboy.”
“What happened?”
“The kid didn’t have a chance.”
“You mean”—I swallowed—“the bull killed him?”
Mrs. Cowboy Roy nodded slowly. “ ’Course, everyone told Roy it weren’t his fault . . . but to this day he holds himself responsible.”
“That’s why . . . Is that why he’s so scared of Satan Breath?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“But if he’s so scared of bulls, why does he keep that one?”
“Need him for breeding,” Mrs. Cowboy Roy said. “Can’t have a cattle ranch, if you can’t raise cattle.” Then, more quietly, she added, “Not that it will be making all that much difference soon.”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Cowboy Roy took a long breath, and I noticed her voice got kinda thick and emotional. “Somethin’ in Roy died that day. He ain’t never been the same.” She reached out and cinched my pants up just a little higher than my eyebrows. Then she continued. “Don’t you be tellin’ him I told you or nothing, but every year we fall a little further behind in our payments for the ranch. Fact, running this camp for you kids is the only way we can make ends meet.”
“Is that why . . . this Parents’ Day rodeo thing is so important to him?”
She nodded. “To both of us. Bank is already closing in. If we don’t get more campers, we’ll be losing the ranch for sure.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“Terrible or not, it’s a reality.” She reached back into the trunk. “Now here,” she said, producing a pair of big floppy shoes, “put these on.”
“But they’re a hundred times too big.”
“That’s the idea,” she said. She forced me to sit and shoved the first one onto my foot.
“I can’t walk in these.”
“You catch on fast,” she said, shoving on the other. “Half the fun is seeing the clown stagger around the arena making a total fool of himself.”
I was about to point out that, being Wally McDoogle, I didn’t need a pair of shoes to do that, when Opera suddenly banged on the trailer door. “Hey, Wally! Wally, you in there?”
I stood and walked over to the
Flip-flop . . . fall
Flip-flop . . . fall
. . . er, I stood and tried to walk over to the door. After the twenty-third time, I finally arrived and opened it.
“What’s up?” I asked.
If his eyes had gotten any wider, you could have used them as headlights. Yes sir, my wardrobe
definitely left him speechless. Not only speechless but chewless. For the first time that I could remember, Opera actually stopped chomping on his chips and hot sauce—but only for 1.8 seconds. Soon he started up again and found his voice.
“Cool,” he said. “Do you get to keep the tie?”
“What’s up?” I repeated.
“Wall Street’s ’bout to start her barrel racing thing. Thought you’d want to see.”
I turned to Mrs. Cowboy Roy, and she waved me on. “Go ahead, we’ll work on the wig and makeup tomorrow.”
“Great,” I sighed. “I can hardly wait.” Closing the door behind me, I headed down the
Flip-flop . . .
tumble, tumble, tumble
stairs and ran
Flip-flop . . . fall
Flip-flop . . . fall
toward the arena.
As we approached, I could see that Wall Street was already starting to mount up. In front of her, out in the arena, were three big barrels. But it wasn’t the barrels that grabbed my attention. It was Wall Street’s horse. Well, it should have been Wall Street’s horse. But it wasn’t, it was Chad’s. For some reason Chad had lent her his!
“No! Wall Street!”
“What’s wrong?” Opera asked.
“She’s on Chad’s horse!” I cried.
“Yeah, he lent it to her ’cause it’s faster.”
“But . . .”
“What’s up?”
“But . . . but . . .”
“Wally, you okay?”
“But . . . but . . . but . . .” I knew I could either continue my motorboat imitation or move into action. Unfortunately, I moved into action. Quickly, I raced toward the corral. (Well, as quickly as you can race in size thirty-seven shoes.)
Flip-flop . . . fall
Flip-flop . . . fall
“Wall Street, don’t!”
She looked over to me, her smile fading. I wasn’t sure if it was because of my clothes or our last little conversation.
“Don’t do it!” I shouted. “Don’t ride that horse!”
She turned her head and purposefully ignored me. (Well, at least I had my answer.) But I continued running
Flip-flop . . . fall
toward her. “Wall Street, don’t!” I finally arrived at the arena and shouted over the fence. “Get off the—”
But that was all I said before she kicked her horse and took off racing out of the box. Dust and dirt flew as she charged toward the first barrel. She rounded it a little wide and started for the second one. But I wasn’t watching the barrels. I was watching the horse. Actually, the saddle on the horse . . . Chad’s horse.
Soon it began to happen. The saddle started to slip. At first no one noticed . . . except Wall Street. She tried to reposition herself as she approached the second barrel. She took the turn a little closer and tighter. Everyone cheered her on.
Well, everyone but me.
I watched in horror as the saddle kept slipping farther and farther to the side, as she kept readjusting herself, trying to hang on.
Everyone kept shouting and cheering.
The third barrel was directly in front of me, and as she galloped toward, it I started to yell and wave. “Wall Street!”
But again she ignored me.
And it was on that third and final turn that it happened. The saddle slipped all the way off and
“AUGH . . .”
For once in my life, the scream didn’t belong to me. But in another sense, it did—because I was the whole reason she was crying out. I watched in horror as, like some slow-motion movie, she slipped off the horse and . . .
K-Thud
hit the ground.
“W-w-a-a-a-l-l-l . . . S-s-t-r-e-e-e-t . . .” (That, of course, was me yelling in slow motion.)
She tumbled and somersaulted across the dirt like a rag doll—once . . . twice . . . three . . . four times, before she finally rolled to a stop.
“Wall Street!” I leaped off the fence and raced into the arena after her.
Flip-flop . . . fall
Flip-flop . . . fall
That was my friend out there, my buddy. What had I done?!
“Wall Street!!!”
But she did not answer. She just lay on the ground not saying a word, not making a sound. Come to think of it, she wasn’t making a move, either.
All this as I continued to
Flip-flop . . . fall
Flip-flop . . . fall
“Wall Street!! WALL STREET!!!”
Chapter 7
More Unforgiveness . . .
“Stand back, get out of the way!” Cowboy Roy pushed through the kids who were gathering around Wall Street. “Stand back!” We parted as Cowboy Roy arrived and kneeled down to her side. “Wall Street, can you hear me? Wall Street?!”
A couple hundred years passed (which may have been only a few seconds but it’s hard to measure time when you’ve killed your best friend). Then, at last her eyes began to flutter and finally open.
“You okay, kid?” Cowboy Roy asked.
She took a deep, unsteady breath. Then she nodded. She tried to sit up, but it was obvious she was still too dizzy.
“Just lay back and rest,” he said.
She nodded and looked up at all of the faces staring down at her. I was in luck ’cause her eyes didn’t meet mine . . . not yet. When she finally spoke, her voice was like sandpaper washed down with a big glass of gravel. “What . . . happened?”
“Your saddle slipped off,” he said. “You forgot to cinch it up tight.”
A frown crossed her face. “Are you sure?” she croaked.
“’Course, I’m sure.” Then, turning to the rest of us, he couldn’t resist giving another lecture. “Ain’t I always telling ya kids to keep stuff tight and double-check yer work?”
“But I did, sir.” We all looked to Chad Diamond, who was standing a couple of kids from me. “That was my horse, and I cinched up that saddle real tight . . . I’m sure of it.”
“Well, it didn’t just fall off by itself,” Cowboy Roy glowered.
The frown deepened on Wall Street’s face as she looked around the group . . . until her eyes finally connected with mine. I tried to look away, but couldn’t. Of course, she didn’t know what I was thinking, but she would soon enough. Hey, she was my best friend. Just ’cause I tried to kill her, doesn’t mean I could lie to her. . . .
* * * * *
“You did what?!” she cried, rising up from her bed.
“I, uh, I was the one who uncinched your saddle.”
“You did what?” she repeated, not believing her ears.
“Well, actually, it wasn’t your saddle. I un-cinched Chad’s saddle.”
“You did what?”
“Listen, would you mind saying something else for a while?”
Unfortunately, she did: “Wally, you nearly killed me.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to kill—”
“Well, you were sure doing a pretty good imitation of it!”
“But—”
“I know you’re mad at me for hanging out with Chad—”
“But, but—”
“And you think we planned that thing with Undertaker—”
“But, but, but—”
“But that’s no reason to try to hurt me.”
Growing tired of another one of my motorboat imitations, I finally shouted, “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I was trying to hurt Chad!”
Her eyes widened in astonishment. “You were trying to hurt Chad?”
“Well, not hurt, really.” I swallowed guiltily. “I just wanted to, you know, scare him a little.”
She lay back down on her bed. Although Cowboy Roy had said she was all right, he had still wanted her to go back to her bunkhouse and rest for a while, which she had been only too happy to do.
Unfortunately, she was not so happy to hear my story.
I swallowed and continued nervously. “I mean, after all the stuff he’s done to me, I just figure
d—”
“You still believe he’s trying to be mean to you?”
I shook my head. “He’s not trying, Wall Street, he’s succeeding.”
“So . . . you were going to get even,” she said. “You were after revenge?”
“Well, uh, yeah. I mean, if you want to get technical about it.”
She started to speak, then closed her mouth and shook her head.
I sat silently beside her, waiting.
But she said nothing.
I waited some more.
She said nothing some more.
The silence was killing me. She had to say something. Finally, after a couple thousand years, I cleared the cobwebs from my throat and said, “Listen, I’m really sorry. I know I messed up on this.”
She said nothing even some more.
“I mean, I’m totally to blame. I really thought Chad had it in for me. And I guess, I mean, even if he did, I should have just let it go.”
More silence.
“So, uh, well, I’m sorry. Okay?”
More silence some more.
“Okay?” I repeated.
And then, ever so slowly, she began to shake her head.
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
Her head continued to shake, harder. And the harder it shook the tighter my stomach got. Was she saying what I thought she was saying? I repeated, “Wall Street, what do you mean?”
At last she spoke. But, despite all of the silence, all of that time I had wanted her to talk . . . well, I would have given anything not to hear what she said. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Not this time, Wally. You’ve done some pretty stupid things in your life.”
“I know,” I croaked.
“And we’ve managed to stay friends through them all.” She hesitated. I could tell this was almost as hard on her as it was on me. Then, after a deep breath she continued, “But not this time.” She kept shaking her head, then she said the words even more quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “This time you’ve gone too far.”
* * * * *
I walked out of her cabin absolutely numb. It was lunchtime, and everyone was over at the mess hall eating. Well, everyone but me. I just kept on thinking as I wandered around the buildings up on the hill above the corrals—well, actually, as I flip-flopped around the buildings up on the hill just above the corrals. (That’s right, I’d never bothered to take off those goofy shoes.)
