The End of FUN

by Sean McGinty

  Just out of principle I knew I was going to have to beat her—if not for the sheer joy of winning, then just to demonstrate the superiority of FUN®. It was John Henry versus the steam hammer all over again, and I was the steam hammer.

  I found this free upgrade, CodeCracker™ by LiteTouch Industries® (YAY!), that said it could do anagrams. But when I went to download it, Homie™ denied me.

  > oh so sorry!

  FAILed users may not download upgrades without permission!

  “So give me permission.”

  Homie™ flickered.

  > permission denied!

  :(

  “Aw, come on!”

  “Trouble with FUN®?” Katie sang.

  Homie™ popped back up.

  > guess what original boy_2?

  i will be your best friend!

  i know how u earn temporary permission for download a free upgrade!

  “Great. What do I have to do?”

  > learn the bramburry farms® new cow boogie™!

  “What?”

  > it’s the hottest craziest dance!

  Which, no, it wasn’t. What it was was a rip-off of the New Bronx Boogie, and a good nine months too late to be relevant. Homie™ wouldn’t let me do it sitting down, so I got up and danced around like an idiot, with Katie laughing her head off.

  I completed the Bramburry Farms® New Cow Boogie™, including the YAY! at the end, downloaded the anagrammer upgrade, inputted the letters TEE­FTH­GIE­EVI­LON­AIS­SUR­RAE­NGID, and Homie™ flickered for a second….

  > error!

  unable to display results!

  insufficient image space!

  987,665,098,765 possible combinations!

  :(

  “Seriously?”

  > seriously original boy_2!

  987,655,098,765!

  :/

  “So show me SOME of them. Five at a time. And make it have meaning.”

  > sorry!

  “meaning” cannot be derived from given letters!

  “No—I mean give me something that makes sense.”

  > ok i can make word “sense”!

  :)

  TEE­FTH­GIE­EVI­LON­AIS­SUR­RAE­NGID =

  “i hogtie fragile SENSE and virtue.”

  “duh go SENSE a vigilante tire fire.”

  “dough SENSE: fritter a genii alive.”

  “digital giver of SENSE a unit here?”

  “ugh i SENSE a fad: lingerie over tit.”

  “Wait—no. You don’t understand. The word ‘sense’ doesn’t have to be in it. Take the sense back out. Make it mean something.”

  > of course!

  i can take sense out and make something mean

  TEE­FTHG­IEE­VIL­ONAI­SSU­RRA­ENGID =

  “inane devil egg, ur testis r oafish.”

  “get a sieving retina, horse flu, die.”

  I glanced over at Katie to see how she was doing.

  “Hey. No peeking!”

  So I told Homie™ to subtract the letters A, A, R, O, N and give me some sentences starting with that.

  > u bet!

  TEE­FTHG­IEEV­ILON­AISS­URR­AEN­GID – AARON =

  (AARON) “the gift is elusive in greed.”

  (AARON) “i live thus in fried egg tees.”

  (AARON) “the fun is rigged see it live.”

  (AARON) “i lied if i ever hit gene’s guts.”

  I scanned the next four, and the next after that. I was getting nowhere fast, and then Katie shouted out that she’d gotten it, so I picked the best one I could find in the vast sea of crap data and said I had it, too. Maybe.

  “Yeah?” she said. “So what is it?”

  “Show me yours first.”

  “Fine.” She handed me a paper, and there it was, written out in her neat, schoolteacher’s handwriting:

  Aaron, evil heirs get suiting feed.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s like, ‘Be a good boy or you might get screwed.’”

  “You think that’s what he spent all this time trying to say?”

  “Well, what did you come up with?”

  So I wrote it out for her:

  Aaron, I give hugs, i.e. ‘el friend test.’

  She started laughing. “Oh. Right. That makes a lot more sense. ‘El friend test’—what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Both solutions were admittedly lacking. That much was evident. We searched a little longer, but without the same fire as before, and then Katie said it was time for her to go.

  I thought about her all night long. I dreamed about her. She was sitting on my grandpa’s recliner teasing me about how she knew the code. And when I woke the next morning to the sound of knocking at the front door, I was sure it was Katie with the answer. It wasn’t. It was the little cowboy woman from the funeral, Anne Chicarelli, the one who sang “Amazing Grace,” dressed in a long gray coat and a beat-up old cowboy hat to match.

  “Adam,” she said in her gravelly voice.

  “Aaron.”

  “There are two kinds of people in this world: those who believe it will end in fire, and those who believe it will end in ice. Which kind are you?”

  What a weird question. “I don’t know. Isn’t the sun expanding into a red giant or whatever? So maybe fire?”

  Anne raised the brim a little to gaze at me with dark eyes. “There is a third option, you know.”

  “Asteroid?”

  “There is a great land, Adam, beyond the horizon. Few people in this world ever get there anymore. And yet some do. Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat upon them, nor any scorching heat. Do you know what I’m talking about? I’m talking about heaven, Adam. And do you know what the key to heaven is? Jesus Christ.”

  “I see.”

  “Have you found him yet?”

  “Um, I wasn’t really looking.”

  She smiled. “Your grandpa, he was the same way. Stubborn to the end. Oh, he let me talk—I could talk and talk and talk—but he always had that same smirk on his face. Very similar to the one you’re wearing now, I might add. I will tell you the same thing I told him. You want to know where Jesus is?” She patted her chest. “He’s in your heart. But that’s not what I came to talk to you about today. Did you know I have a twin sister? Not identical—fraternal. She lives in Phoenix, and if anyone got the better genes, it was Georgia. She’s a foot taller than me and never smoked a day in her life, yet her insides are riddled with cancer. Now, you tell me this, Adam: If Harriet is dying, what chance do I have?”

  She hawked up something and spit it out.

  “I came here to ask you a favor, Adam. I have to go to Arizona soon to visit her. I was wondering if you could watch Cain and Abel for me.”

  “Who?”

  “My horses. Do you like to ride horses? Your grandfather sure did. He’d go out into the hills with Abel and be gone half the day. You’re welcome to ride Abel. He’s gentle as a breeze. Cain, on the other hand…I wouldn’t recommend Cain unless you really know what you’re doing—and even then he’s likely to surprise you.”

  “I don’t really ride horses, but I could watch them for you, sure.”

  As soon as I said that I kind of regretted it, though it seemed the quickest way out of the conversation. But Anne Chicarelli wasn’t done yet.

  “Wonderful. Shall we pray?”

  She took my hands in hers and we prayed again. I mean she prayed and I pretended to listen very reverently because, again, why rock the boat? She talked about Jesus and God the Father and all the things they would do for us, how they would move mountains for us—or maybe we were supposed to move mountains for them? I was a little distracted.

  I’d just gotten one new message(s):

  katie_e: call me when u get a chance!

  After the amens, Anne said she would let me know in the next week or so when she was leaving for Arizona. I said that was fine.

  Then
I called Katie.

  “Guess what?” she said. “I think I cracked it!”

  “Cracked what?”

  “The code! It’s so easy a child could figure it out! Which, to tell you the truth, is exactly what happened. I wasn’t the one who solved it at all. One of my students showed me. I can’t believe I missed it the first time. Look, I’ve only got a couple minutes, so I just wanted to tell you that the message is—”

  “Wait! Now, just hold on.”

  Funny, but suddenly I kind of wanted to figure the answer out on my own. Because if Katie just handed it over, what was the fun in that? Especially if it was easy. Shouldn’t I at least take another stab at it? After all, it was from my grandpa.

  “Maybe you could give me a hint.”

  “A hint?”

  “Yeah, so I can figure it out myself.”

  “A hint,” she said. “Fine. OK. Look in a mirror.”

  “What?”

  “That’s your hint. Look in a mirror!”

  It was a terrible hint. I mean, here’s how a hint should work: a hint should lead a person gradually across the long bridge from question to answer; it shouldn’t just lift you up with a Manitex® Series S Tandem Axle crane (YAY!) and plunk you down on the opposite shore. It shouldn’t be like that. The transition needs to be gentle.

  You probably figured it out already, but anyway, here it is—here’s what I saw when I held the letters up to a mirror. The letters were all backward now, but I could still read the message. And here’s what it was:

  Finally! An actual, workable clue!

  I was all ready to head out to the Russian olive and start some digging, but then Homie™ popped up with a message from Evie. She and Sam were hosting a barbecue for Sam’s little sister Shiloh, who was visiting and would stay through the summer. OK, then how about offer me a ride or something? I wasn’t going to walk ten miles, but there was another solution. My grandpa’s blue Ford Ranger. My blue Ford Ranger. I found the keys and got inside—and it was the best smell ever in there. All warm with stale cigarettes. Like a man’s truck. And whaddya know? It fired right up.

  I found Evie and Dad relaxing at her dining room table with some iced tea. Bones was there, too, and scattered around her were about a dozen stuffed animals—ducks and otters and bears and lions. She was pacing back and forth between them, picking one up and dropping it next to another.

  Dad took his feet off a chair and pushed it my way. “Your sister got an e-mail.”

  “From San Francisco,” said Evie. “From the hivehouse.”

  “The hivehouse? Why are they writing you?”

  “Apparently you never gave an official notice of vacant occupancy. Apparently you owe five months’ rent. Apparently you signed my name as your cosigner on the lease.”

  “Crap. Right. I had to because I was a minor.”

  “You didn’t have to forge my name! They threatened to send the bill to collections! You’re going to ruin my credit!”

  Dad sipped from his canteen. “You really outdid yourself this time, buddy.”

  “OK, so we write them a letter or pay them back or something.”

  “I already did,” said Evie.

  “You already paid them?”

  “Yes.”

  “You owe your sister,” said Dad. “That house needs to go on the market pronto. Either that or we rent it.”

  “If we rent it, where do I go?”

  “Stay at my place. Finish up your GED from there.”

  “No way. That’s not going to work. I need to be at Grandpa’s to find the treasure.”

  “Treasure?” said Evie. “Aaron, has it crossed your mind that maybe Grandpa was—”

  “‘Crazy’ is the word for it,” said Dad.

  “But that’s just it! He wasn’t! Look at the will!”

  I spread it out on the table. I showed them the pinpoints. And the first code. And the second. And I was like, Take that!

  “Dig near Russian olive eight feet. He buried something out on the property! Some kind of treasure. There’s something out there, and until I find out what it is, the property is NOT for sale. Or rent. But you know what? Eight feet is a pretty small area to work with. I bet I can find it within a week. And when I do find it, I’ll pay you both back, and everything will be cool, OK?”

  They just looked at me. I looked right back, holding my ground as best I could.

  “You really think there’s something there?” said Evie.

  “Yes! Did you not read the code? It’s buried by the tree!”

  “You ask me,” said Dad, “the old man was—”

  “Crazy. I know—you already said that. Listen: there’s money there. I know there is.”

  All this bickering was making me thirsty. “I’m thirsty. What are you guys drinking?”

  “It’s called kombucha,” said Dad. “Your sister made it. Know what kombucha is?”

  “Iced tea for hippies.”

  “It’s a symbiotic relationship between bacteria and yeast,” said Evie. “There’s a pitcher in the fridge. I guess you can have a glass. You might want to add a little honey and ginger.”

  “Ah,” said Dad. “Is that what the zing is? Ginger? I was wondering.” He turned and gave me one of his looks, like, Ah, my sweet Evie doth fill me with such pride—and then there’s you.

  I went into the kitchen and got some kombucha—not delicious RiverEarth™ Kombucha, but nasty homemade kombucha—and then I saw that my dad had brought a bottle of gin over, too. I dumped half of it out in the sink, and then on second thought poured some in my kombucha, and then filled the bottle up with water until it was at its previous level.

  My drink needed some ice, so I opened the freezer, and there was that yellow BIOHAZARD bag again—the one with the puppies—staring back at me. I slammed the door shut, fought off a shudder, and using what supplies I had, I mixed myself a warm kombuchatini.

  But the truth is I’m not much of a drinker, and there are reasons why kombucha isn’t commonly used as a mixer. It was even worse than the Sparkl*Juice™ Katie had served up. I took one sip and just about dumped it out in the sink. But I was starting to twitch a little, and I needed something to do with my hands.

  Back in the dining room, conversation had moved on to other things. Dad was getting his band back together. Nothing new there. He was always getting his band back together. I didn’t even know that they’d officially split. They were a Christian rock band now—or as Dad put it, a band that just happens to be Christian—and they were calling themselves “The JC Wonder Excursion.” Or at least that’s what Dad wanted.

  “But Manuel, our bassist? He wants the JC Wonder Experience. I keep telling him, Hendrix already used Experience. That name is taken. You tell me, which is better?”

  “I agree,” said Evie. “Excursion, not Experience. How about you, Aaron?”

  “Have you considered Riven Filth?”

  “Risen Filth?” said Dad. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Not risen—riven. It’s cooler that way.”

  The door flew open and Sam appeared.

  “Greetings, all! The arrival of sister Shiloh is imminent! I just got a call from mile marker 108! Fire up the barbecue!”

  Let me tell you, the dude was amped. He unpacked the groceries and flew around the house, tidying as he went—moving a plant one inch to the left, rearranging knickknacks on a shelf, that kind of thing. At one point he lifted the glass out of my hand, took a chug, and came up coughing.

  “Whew!” he said, wiping away a tear. “That is some strong kombucha!”

  “Isn’t it?” said Dad. “It’s got a zing!”

  “It’s the ginger!” said Evie.

  I already mentioned the legendary hotness of the Latham sisters. Well, Shiloh was no different. She was a year older than me, and I knew of her—I mean I’d watched her and her sisters from a distance—but I’d never really spent any time with her on account of the Lathams—all except Sam—had been homeschooled. She was dressed in a tie-dyed tank
top and jean shorts, and she had new LCD MotionNails® (YAY!)—they can be cheesy, but they sure looked good on Shiloh: sunflowers and stars dancing along the tips of her fingers.

  Sam was stoked to have her home, and stood her in front of us and gave us her life story. Her full name was Shiloh Marie Latham and she was a freshman biology major at the University of Nevada, Reno. Also—and against her parents’ explicit wishes—she’d recently started having FUN®. According to Sam, he and Shiloh were the black sheep of the family—Sam for obvious reasons, and Shiloh because she was the first of eight children not to attend BYU.

  “Word on the street is, she even drinks!” Sam said. “I’m just so very proud of her.”

  “And I almost failed Intro to Chemistry,” said Shiloh.

  “Well, I came out at a family reunion. Top that.”

  His sister gave a faint smile like, I could, believe me, but you don’t want me to.

  And yet despite their boasts, when you got down to it, Sam and Shiloh were pretty much wholesome to the core. You could just tell. The fact could not be concealed. Something to do with their sturdy Mormon heritage, I guess. All those years of selective breeding. Like Labrador retrievers.

  “I’m trying to convince her to come back here for school,” said Sam. “Shiloh had a little bit of a run-in with—”

  “It was completely unfair!” she interrupted. “I didn’t even have a sip! I was the designated driver!”

  “Apparently campus security disagreed, and now she’s on academic suspension.”

  “Academic probation.”

  He gave her a hug. “Sweetheart, either way I’m just so proud of you. I think it’s a sign. Come back home and live with me!”

  “I don’t know….” she said. “I’m still thinking about it….I moved to get away from the hicks.”

  “Slander!” said Sam. “Libel! Heresy! Isn’t that right, Evelyn? Is not that right there the very textbook definition of heresy?”

  “No,” she said.

  “And yet how can Shiloh stand here, before this town’s finest citizens, and compare them to hicks?”