Do you see what I had to deal with here?
Porscha Crisp Blogsnot’s fourteenth birthday was one month away (yes, I know, her emotional maturity stopped at eight and a half). Little Porscha had one wish this birthday, the same as her last three: She wanted Daddy to kidnap a Judas Brother. She wasn’t picky—she’d take any of them.
There’s Aspen Judas (he’s the cutest), Lukas Judas (he’s the oldest), and Jo Jo Judas (he’s the baby).
The Judas Brothers were born and raised in the hills of Kentucky by their hardworking preschool teacher/church choir singer mom and beet farmer dad. Despite their fame (according to Preteen Scream Magazine [online edition]), they are good boys with good grooming habits, and when they are home in Kentucky, they dig up beets twelve hours a day.
Anyway, Daddy Blogsnot (Irving, to you and me) told Porscha that he could not and would not kidnap a Judas Brother. He tried it once, several years ago, and almost lost a thumb. “It’s just not as easy as all that, honey,” he told Porscha. “They have huge bodyguards!”
(Note to Admissions Committee: I, Perry Gonzales, am not much of an artist, but I will include a drawing of the Judas Brothers’ Samoan bodyguards.)
Shelley Blogsnot told me she wouldn’t talk to Irving for a whole week because he broke Porscha’s little heart; he let a few burly bodyguards, who carry sharp objects and are black belts in tae kwon do, stand in the way of their daughter’s happiness!
Porscha finally relented on her one true wish. This is what Porscha Crisp Blogsnot then decided she wanted for her birthday:
New Lhasa apso
No more little brother (can’t remember his name!)
Eyebrow and nasal surgery to look exactly like Aspen Judas!
And, most importantly: the Judas Brothers to play a concert in my very own backyard!!!
Shelley and Porscha presented this new, very fair request to Irving. Who blanched (blanching is when someone turns pale, like at the thought of bungee-jumping off Mount Everest or getting the Judas Brothers to play a concert in your backyard). They insisted I be present as a legal witness. Frankly, you couldn’t pry me from this scene with a crowbar.
“Darling, sweetheart,” he pleaded to Porscha, “the apple of Daddy’s eye! Do you know how much a Judas Brothers concert would cost Papa?”
Porscha burst into tears. “Does this mean you won’t be getting me my concert?” she cried.
“Irving!” Shelley said. “Look at our daughter—she’s getting wrinkled from the crying. It’s disgusting—how could you?!”
“How could you, Daddy!” Porscha yelled. Her new hot-pink Lhasa apso, Jo Jo, shuddered.
“Mom, Dad, what’s going on?” L.V. asked, having wandered into Irving Blogsnot’s mahogany-and-gold–trimmed office with giant palm trees in each corner.
“My God, L.V.!” Irving yelled. “Can’t you see your sister is upset? How can you be so insensitive as to interrupt us?”
L.V.’s big eight-year-old eyes got even bigger. He blew his nose in his Mark Frost Academy (sponsored by Wild Pockets Banking, Ltd.) jacket sleeve. He wondered if he should tell his mom and dad—or Shelley and Irving, as they preferred to be called—about the straight A’s he got on his report card. He wondered if he should tell them that his teacher said he was the smartest boy she’d ever had in second grade—he was reading at a ninth-grade level and he was already doing mathematical algorithms.
“L.V.,” Shelley said, “I know you don’t mean to be cruel to your sister, but remember we went to the therapist about this? Remember what the therapist said?”
L.V. nodded his head slowly.
“‘L.V.,’ she said,” Shelley repeated, “‘your sister has an artistic temperament, she’s very, very fragile, she could crack like an eggshell, or the skull of a baby bird dropped from a high branch onto a hot sidewalk, and so we, meaning you, have to be very careful with her feelings.’”
And that’s when they had moved L.V.’s room to the other side of the house.
L.V.’s old room had been converted into a monument to the Judas Brothers. Porscha’s parents bought up every bit of Judas Brothers memorabilia on eBay they could get their hands on. There were Jo Jo’s old crib, Lukas’s third-grade artwork (a papier-mâché globe), and Aspen’s eyebrow clippings. There was a closet full of the Judas Brothers’ concert costumes—dating back to the first time they sang in church. They tried to buy the Judas Brothers’ boyhood home and reconstruct it in their football field–sized backyard.
“For crying out loud, L.V.,” Shelley said, “don’t you have anything else to do right now? Go . . . go do your . . . logorrodent things!” Shelley Blogsnot did not like having both her children in the room at the same time. She didn’t like to be reminded that she was the mother of two—it made her feel old.
“Okay, Mom—but there’s something . . . I got my grades—”
“L.V.!” Shelley said, exasperated. “How many times have I told you? My name is Shelley, I want to be called Shelley, not ‘Mom.’ And please, you know we don’t want you harping on your grades in front of Porscha!”
“Mom!” Porscha wailed. “Why does he always have to harp on his grades? Why?”
“Sorry, Mom—I mean, Shelley,” L.V. said while Porscha wailed.
“Please, L.V.,” Irving said. “We’re begging you—go . . . take your growth shots!”
And with that, tiny Irving Blogsnot closed his mahogany doors on little L.V. (who was actually taller than his father by now). And L.V. shook his little head (which was actually quite sizable and round).
One Week Later:
Irving Blogsnot had no luck booking the Judas Brothers for a backyard concert. He’d made phone calls, sent e-mails, IMs, and plaintive tweets. Nothing!
Meanwhile, poor little Porscha had lost all interest in eating and sleeping. Even more alarming, she’d lost all interest in shopping. (However, she did buy twelve scarves at the Abercrombie & Fitch website—four for each JB!) Even tiny dogs and big diamonds started to lose their charm for her. This is a short approximation of how the week went:
Tuesday: Porscha refused to eat.
Wednesday: Porscha refused to sleep!
Thursday: Porscha refused to bathe!
Friday: Porscha refused to shop!!
Saturday: Porscha refused to whine!!!
Sunday: Porscha refused to breathe!!!!
The therapist weighed in on speakerphone: The Blogsnots must follow little Porscha’s interests and trust her judgment. At any cost.
Porscha, who had been put on a respirator and breathing tube—diamond-encrusted, natch—blinked her eyes in agreement. Tiny Irving Blogsnot nodded and slunk back into his office to make one more phone call. The entire family, including Porscha, lying on a gurney, waited outside his mahogany doors.
Finally, he swung open those doors, pulled up to his full height of just over five feet, and made an announcement: “I, Irving Blogsnot, have procured the Judas Brothers to play a concert for our precious Porscha in our very own backyard.”
He only had to sell his soul and his yellow Ferrari to do it.
Porscha jumped off her gurney! Great news! Within minutes, she was back to normal: eating, bathing, shopping, breathing, and treating everyone badly again! She only had one week to go before the concert! There was so so much to do! Plans must be made! People and dogs must be abused!
Everything had to be just right for the Judas Brothers! Porscha and Shelley geared up for the big day. This was the plan:
Send out invitations to all Porscha’s friends at Mark Frost Academy (sponsored by Wild Pockets Banking, Ltd.).
Send out invitations to all Shelley’s friends at the Ivy, the Polo Lounge, Neiman Marcus (fifth floor), Barneys New York shoe department, and the Beverly Hills Surgical Institute.
Send out invitations to all Irving’s friends at the Creative International Agency, the Grill, and Club Fed (
the penitentiary).
Find the same caterer who did the Fast & Furious 18 premiere (the Judas Brothers love mini-burgers!).
To cut back on expenses, have L.V. and the gardener do the valet parking. There should be only three hundred cars, give or take.
Finally. The Big Day arrived.
But there was bad news: L.V., who studied meteorology in his spare time, tried to warn his parents that a rare Beverly Vista monsoon was wending its way up from the Gulf of Mexico.
Porscha, Shelley, and Irving didn’t listen to L.V. They thought he was just trying to get out of valet parking three hundred cars. Even though he wasn’t big enough to reach the gas pedal, he could manage!
The guests were to arrive at six o’clock.
They didn’t.
By six thirty, a light rain had started to fall. I was in a rain slicker and boots, showing my support. And taking notes. And passing around mini-burgers on trays.
Hey, a buck is a buck.
And I did mention, did I not, that the Judas Brothers are super cute.
Meanwhile, Shelley was upset because of her hair—she hated frizz! She fired her hairdresser . . . but rehired him when she realized she’d fired every hairdresser in town.
By seven fifteen, there were still no guests. But there was a rainstorm. Shelley insisted, via walkie-talkie, that Antonio and L.V. remain waiting at the gate.
At seven thirty, a helicopter drifted over the rain-soaked backyard.
And landed.
Out hopped Aspen Judas, Lukas Judas, and Jo Jo Judas.
Porscha rushed the helicopter, narrowly missing the whirling blades. Lukas, the oldest, signaled Irving to come to the side for a conversation.
Over the booming of thunder and the crackle of lightning, Luke shouted out: “We have to cancel! It’s too dangerous to play in this weather!”
“What weather, this?” Irving shouted above the storm as drizzle dripped down his nose. “ABBA went onstage in an Australian typhoon in ’74!”
Porscha fainted from all the excitement. Shelley rushed to her side, but paused to have the photographer snap photos of her with all the JBs.
L.V., meanwhile, was bored. There were no cars to park, and he had been kind of looking forward to using his driving skills, once he found the gas pedal. He wandered into the backyard and went to check out the helicopter.
“Hey,” Aspen said.
“Hey,” said L.V.
“You think they’re going to make us play?” Aspen asked.
L.V. looked at his dad, arguing with Lukas. Irving was winning. “Yes,” he told Aspen, “I’m afraid so.”
Porscha and Shelley escorted the Judas Brothers into their home to take lots of photos inside the JB Memorial Room.
The stage was set.
Lukas took his brothers aside. “Don’t touch the microphones, and you’ll be okay,” he told them. “Just sing.”
They listened to him, nodding their heads and high-fiving. I fed them a few mini-burgers before their inevitable life-threatening injuries.
L.V. couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy when he watched the brothers do a group hug.
Porscha, Shelley, and Irving made themselves comfortable at the front of the stage. Porscha was grinning from ear to ear and vibrating with excitement. Every two seconds she let out a yelp. And she had already fainted three times from the stress! Her latest Lhasa apso, JB3, had run from her lap in fear for his life—every time she’d yelped, she’d squeezed him way too hard!
But L.V. couldn’t take his eyes off the Judas family—he’d never had a group hug with his parents and sister.
Wait. He did have a pat on the head once.
Or was that a slap? He couldn’t remember.
The Judas Brothers began singing as the rain continued to pour. They seemed perplexed that there wasn’t anyone else there, but were energetic and enthusiastic. They started off with “He Doesn’t Even Know Your Shoe Size”—Porscha’s very favorite song!
Halfway through the chorus, Aspen was wiggling his famous eyebrows and singing in his famous falsetto:
“He doesn’t know-oh-oh,
He doesn’t even know-oh-oh
Your shoooooe si-i-i—”
Suddenly, Porscha sprang from her seat and rushed the stage—she couldn’t sit still during the chorus of her very favorite song on the whole planet from her very favorite member of her very favorite group of all time!
She pushed Aspen aside, grabbed the mike, and—
Oh.
Sparks shot out from the microphone. Porscha flew up in the air. Her hair spiraled from her head like an old-school ’fro. Her body lit up like a Christmas tree!
And then, just as quickly, Porscha dropped to the stage. The microphone rolled away from her, off the stage, and onto the grass.
The Judas Brothers stood back in horror. Aspen rushed over to Porscha. Steam was coming off her body as rain hit her forehead and sizzled off. Shelley and Irving rushed onto the stage.
Aspen, bending over Porscha, was shaking. “I think . . . I think she’s . . .”
“Why did you stop playing?” Irving demanded.
Aspen looked up at them.
“Honey.” Shelley bent over her daughter. “Honey, get up, you’re missing everything!”
The photographer kept snapping photos of the scene.
“Irving!” Shelley yelled. “Tell Porscha this is not the time!”
“Now, listen here,” Irving said to the Judas Brothers. “I paid for a concert, and I want a concert!”
“But, sir,” Jo Jo said, “your daughter doesn’t look too good—”
L.V. leapt up onstage and put his head to Porscha’s sizzling chest.
“Call an ambulance,” he yelled at Shelley.
“Don’t you yell at me,” Shelley said, then turned to the photographer, who was still snapping away. “Can you get one of me with the boys onstage?”
L.V. was already calling 911 on his cell phone—although everyone knows the reception in Beverly Vista is not very good.
Meanwhile, Lukas Judas finally had enough. “Mister, I’m giving you your money back—you people are crazy!”
Shelley kept taking photos with the stunned brothers.
“With interest!” Irving shouted.
L.V. turned to Lukas and started helping him pack up.
“You all right?” Lukas asked, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” L.V. said, looking back at his mother and father. “Hey, listen, I can’t sing, but I can lift anything, and I’ve got determination and desire. I’d like to join you.”
“What about your parents?” Lukas looked from L.V. to his parents, still making a fuss onstage. L.V. shrugged. “What does L.V. stand for, anyway?”
“It stands for . . .” L.V. was about to answer, then just shook his head. “Just call me Lou.”
“’Kay, Lou—you need to pick up that speaker over there and put it on the ’copter.”
“You got it.”
And Lou picked up the speaker, which was very heavy, and grinned so hard, it hurt.
I raised my hand to say good-bye as the helicopter took off, swinging back and forth in the torrential rain amidst the distant howl of an ambulance.
L.V. put his hand to the window and smiled.
I’ve never seen a happier boy.
The End
Sometimes, even I, Perry Gonzales, feel sorry for myself. “Why don’t I have a normal family?” I ask my mother, the R.N. “Why don’t I have a father, a brother, a sister, a dog . . . a hamster? An espresso machine?”
(I’m just kidding about the espresso machine. But I would like a microwave. Just putting it out there.)
I’ve been told by my mother, the inestimable Yelena Maria Gonzales, that you can never really know what goes on in other people
’s households. That, in fact, the most normal family of all may be somewhat . . . abnormal.
Take the following domestic unit, for example. If you had driven by the Wankre (pronounced “WANK-ray”) home on a sunny day, you would have seen Mr. Wankre, our ninth-grade bio teacher extraordinaire, watering the lawn; Mrs. Wankre, on her hands and knees, working in the garden; and the Wankre twins, almost-seven-year-old carrot-topped sprites named Mabel and Prudence, skipping rope in the front yard.
And then, if you were very observant, or very curious, or very nosy, or if your car was moving very, very slowly, you might have seen that Mr. Wankre’s right arm was in a sling, Mrs. Wankre kept digging the same hole over and over (while muttering softly to herself), and the twins were not jumping rope, but were, in fact, fashioning nooses. You might also have noted that their practical Volvo sedan had four flat tires and a smashed taillight.
And if your senses were sharp as a bat at night or the tip of a rattlesnake’s forked tongue, you might have caught the stream of black smoke coming out of the chimney. You might have felt the earth shift ever so slightly. You might have heard crashing sounds and a wild animal—no, a wild, prehistoric monster—bellowing from inside.
Seven Deadlies Page 2
