by David Lubar
Leslie came home with a saxophone.
That's when I knew for sure. Look at all the evidence. Last month, my dad quit the law firm where he worked and took a new job at the power plant. He's gained a lot of weight, too — a whole lot of weight. All day long, he eats donuts and drinks beer. He doesn't help me with my homework anymore. Yesterday, he tried to choke me. Luckily, he got distracted by a commercial for fudge.
Mom changed her hair. She's got it piled up on top of her head. It's a funny color, too. My baby sister, Mandie, decided she wouldn't go anywhere without a pacifier.
There's no doubt about it. I'm sure now. My family is turning into the Simpsons.
When the thought first occurred to me, I'd laughed. We're real people. We aren't cartoons. So what if Humbert — I mean Dad — had a new job? And lots of moms change their hairstyle.
That was only the beginning. Next thing I know, I have two new aunts. I never had aunts before. Suddenly, these two strange women who look like Mom start dropping by. The worst part is that they both smoke. Pew.
Then Leslie started getting smarter and smarter. She's my younger sister. I've always been the smarter one. But for the last few weeks, it's seemed that she knows a lot more than I do. Now, she plays the saxophone. And she wants me to call her "Lisa."
She took the saxophone right up to her room. Even though she just got it today, she's already playing music. And not beginner stuff like "Three Blind Mice." She's playing jazz.
I don't want to be Bart. I want to be me — Bert Stinson. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe there's something I can do to stop it before the change is complete. That's why I'm trying to write down everything I can remember since the changes began.
Darn. I keep dropping my pencil. My fingers are so short and stubby. Wait a minute. Didn't I use to have five fingers on each hand? It's so hard to remember. Hey — why am I writing this? No idea. Weird stuff. I just read it and it makes no sense. Well, it's nothing to have a cow over. Think I'll grab my skateboard and head out.
Later, dude...
Laws and Sausages
My dad likes to say there are two things people should never see being made: laws and sausages. I guess that means it can get pretty ugly when people are making laws, like in Congress or at the school board. Dad took me to a school board meeting once, when they were fighting about whether to keep a certain book in the library. Let me tell you — it got pretty ugly. These parents who had never even read the book were shouting about how bad it was because it had a word in it that I hear on the school bus all the time. Heck, I've heard a lot of parents use that word, too.
But this isn't about laws. See, most of the time when Dad shares that quote, it's right before we eat sausages. That got me thinking. What do they put in those things? With a whole piece of meat like a steak or spare ribs, I know exactly what it was before it got sliced up and wrapped in plastic. Even with hamburger, you can sort of see that it started out as meat. But sausages? Who knows. I guess it doesn't matter. Whatever is in there, they taste good — that's for sure.
I didn't think I'd ever get a chance to find out. But then our class took a field trip to the Wexler Museum of Traditional Arts and Crafts. Yawn. Huge yawn. Arty-crafty yawn. When I got off the bus, I noticed that the Wexler Museum was right next door to Philo's Phantastic Sausages.
Bingo. Or maybe I should say, how phortunate.
I ducked out of the line when we went into the museum. That was easy to do because we were with Mr. Exmire and Ms. Grunbalther, and they were always flirting with each other. Which reminds me of a third thing nobody should ever see being made — Exmire and Grunbalther making meaningful glances at each other. Retch.
So while these two fine adults educators were leading my eager classmates into a hall filled with painted crockery, ceramic tea pots, and fascinating textiles, I ducked around the other side of the bus and slunk off toward Philo's Phantastic Sausages in search of wisdom and enlightenment.
Philo's was in an old two-story building made of red bricks. There weren't any windows. I walked around back and spotted a couple of those big metal doors where they load trucks. But they were shut. I found another door in front. I've learned that it's not hard to walk into any place if I pretend I belong there. I figured that if I ran into anyone, I'd just say, "Got a message for Dad," and keep walking.
Luck was with me. When I went in, there wasn't anybody up front. I guess there aren't a lot of people who'd stroll in and buy a ton of sausage, so they didn't need a receptionist. The area was pretty small, but there was a door at the back of the room. It led to a hallway that ended at a flight of stairs. I climbed up the stairs, pushed open the door at the top, and stepped onto a small metal walkway high above the factory floor.
Cold air washed over me and I shivered.
Below me, a half dozen workers dressed in white butcher's coats were unloading large bins with shovels and tossing the contents onto a conveyor belt.
What I saw made my stomach lurch like it wanted to leap out of my body. Who would have believed it? They were shoveling the worst stuff imaginable out of the bins. This was truly gross. The belt was loaded with broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus, and Brussels sprouts. Cabbages and lettuce rolled off the shovels, along with eggplants and artichokes.
"No way..." I whispered. This couldn't be the whole process. I knew there was more to sausages than a bunch of vegetables. I couldn't imagine any possible way that vegetables could be made to taste that good. The catwalk ran all the way around the room to a door on the opposite wall. I had to see where the conveyor went.
I stepped into the next room. The belt stopped just a few feet past the entrance. It delivered its load of vegetables into the wide-open mouth of a huge creature. The animal — if that's what it was — filled the length of the room. It was lying on the floor like a giant worm, with a gaping mouth at one end. From its sides drooped dozens of short legs that looked almost like flippers. It had no eyes.
It swallowed all that the conveyor belt could offer. The sound of its chewing was louder than the crash of waves during a tropical storm, and definitely as wet. I watched as the creature ate and swelled, until it's bloated body rose to just below the height of the catwalk, reaching a beam that ran across the room beneath my feet. A large, red switch jutted from below the center of the beam. I held my breath as the taught gray flesh pressed against the button.
A bell rang. I could barely hear it above the chomping. Dozens of workers, dressed in white butcher's coats, rushed into the room. Each one carried a long metal tube. One end of the tubes was pointed. Clear, floppy tendrils trailed from the other end. I realized the tendrils were sausage casings.
A second bell rang. All at once, like sailors harpooning a whale, the men thrust their tubes deep into the body of the creature. I suspect it might not even have noticed. It certainly didn't care enough to stop chewing. At each wound, something rushed out from within, filling the casings. In a moment, the men had harvested their sausages, and the creature had shrunk down to a size which, though still huge, was no longer swollen to the bursting point.
I'd seen enough. More than enough. My mind tried to chew what I'd just witnessed, but couldn't seem to swallow it. I went back to the stairs and raced out of the building. The class was just returning to the bus. As I blended in with the crowd and took my seat, I envied them their afternoon spent viewing arts and crafts that wouldn't haunt their dreams.
That night, my mother made sausages for dinner. I stared at my plate. There it lay, amidst the potatoes and onions and peppers — a large, meaty sausage, stuffed to bursting inside it's transparent wrapper. I closed my eyes and vowed that I would never eat it. A meaty aroma tickled my nose. In my mind, I saw the factory again, with that creature eating endlessly. I heard the sound of it chewing and saw the men thrusting their tubes into its swollen sides.
Chewing. Swallowing. Mindlessly chewing whatever it was fed.
Warmth flooded my mouth. I opened my eyes. To my horror, I saw a sausage on my fork. The
severed, open end dripped an amber-colored grease. In my mouth, I could taste the remains of the hunk I had mindlessly bitten, chewed, and swallowed.
"Another?" my mother asked.
"Yes, please," I said. I closed my eyes and took a large bite.
Nice Kitty
Seventh grade seems sort of old for Pet Day, but I have the greatest dog in the world, so I figured I'd bring him. Roy was fine being around other animals, even after we walked into my first-period math class and saw the tiger lying next to Mr. Stockton's desk. At first, I thought it was fake. Mr. Stockton is a bit of a joker. But then I noticed that the tiger's flanks were moving slowly with each breath. As I said, Roy was fine — but I could feel myself tense up a bit.
"She's safe," Mr. Stockton said. "She just had a big meal. Sheeba won't want to do anything except nap for a while."
"Okay..." I pulled back on the leash as Roy tried to get close enough to sniff the tiger.
"You're just a big kitty, aren't you?" Mr. Stockton said. He knelt down and ruffled the tiger's head. "Who's my sweet girl? Who's my little biddle kitty-iddle."
I led Roy over to my seat in the second row. I was the first one there, which meant I got to watch the rest of the class come in. It was pretty much a three-step process. Step one: walk in, all proud of your pet — whether it was a cat, a rat, or a salamander — and all ready to get attention. Step two: freeze, then stare in disbelief at Sheeba, possibly leaving your mouth open long enough for a bit of drool to form and dangle. Step three: chase your fleeing pet down the hall while groaning at the pain of having claws, teeth, beaks, or pincers break your flesh.
Eventually, we all got seated. Mr. Stockton started the lesson. Nobody paid much attention. Everyone stared at Sheeba. But, like he'd said, she seemed happy to nap. And I think there's some expression about letting sleeping tigers lie. If not, there should be. We hadn't gone more than ten minutes into the period when Duncan Imberson, who sat dead center in the front row, leaned forward and dangled his hamster cage in Sheeba's face.
"Want a snack?" he asked. "Yummmm. It's hamsterific."
"Stop that, Duncan," Mr. Stockton said.
I didn't think it was very funny. The hamster was terrified, and had nowhere to hide.
A minute or two later, Duncan dangled the hamster again. "Mmmmm. Crunchy and chewy," he said.
"Duncan, please stop doing that," Mr. Stockton said.
Of course, Duncan didn't stop. But after the fifth or six time he dangled his hamster, Mr. Stockton took away the cage and put it on his desk. "You can have your pet back at the end of the period," he said.
Duncan kept quiet for about five minutes. Then he grabbed Sylvia Baldwin's bird cage and tried to dangle that in front of Sheeba.
Sylvia snatched the cage away from him and moved to a different seat.
When the bell rang, Roy, who'd been lying patiently by the side of my desk, got up, looked at me, and panted. "Let's get you some water," I said. As I headed out of class, I saw Duncan walk to Mr. Stockton's desk and reach toward the hamster cage.
Mr. Stockton put his hand on the cage and said, "I think I changed my mind. Sheeba's probably hungry by now. Maybe we should give her a snack. Maybe that will teach you a lesson."
I was sort of interested in seeing how this turned out. But Roy was tugging at the leash, and I knew he was thirsty. Besides — Mr. Stockton was just bluffing. He was too much of a softie to ever sacrifice a hamster. So I headed down the hall to get Roy's water bowl from my locker.
The rest of the day was a lot of fun. Everyone had a great time, and Roy got tons of compliments, both for his behavior and his appearance. I guess seventh grade isn't too old for Pet Day.
The next day was pretty much back to normal. No pets. Well, there was one pet. Duncan's hamster. It was in its cage on a table at the back of Mr. Stockton's classroom. That was a relief, because I didn't think it would be fair to use the hamster for a snack, even if Sheeba was a pretty cool looking tiger. Speaking of Sheeba, there was no sign of her.
It was a couple days later that I realized there was no sign of Duncan, either. Not then. Not ever. So maybe Sheeba had gotten a snack after all.
Jeepers, Creepers, Where'd You Get That Beeper?
To tell the truth, I really didn't know exactly what a beeper was or how they worked until the day I found one. I'd seen them in old movies. They're called pagers now, and they do all sorts of fancy stuff. But back then, they were just called beepers, and most of them didn't do much at all. If someone had asked me how they worked, I wouldn't really have been able to give a good answer. It wasn't something I paid much attention to.
I wouldn't even have found it if it hadn't beeped when I walked by. At the time, I believed it was a coincidence. I was on my way home from school. I was late. Mr. Atkins had made me stay after to work on an essay. I'd already written it once, but he told me I didn't put enough effort into it and he wanted me to try again. So I got out later than the rest of the kids. I'll bet a couple hundred kids walked right past the beeper before I did. It was lying on the ground next to the sidewalk, just a block away from the school. But it blended into the dirt pretty well, so it wasn't surprising that nobody noticed it. As I said, I would have walked right by if it hadn't beeped.
But it did beep. I stopped when I heard the sound. I really didn't know what I was hearing, but it seemed familiar. I searched around, then finally found the beeper. It was a small box, about half the size of a deck of cards, and there was one of those little windows on one side like they have on calculators.
It stopped beeping as soon as I picked it up. There wasn't any message in the window.
I stood there for a minute, holding the beeper and wondering what to do with it. The right thing would be to try to find the owner. I had no idea how to do that. I thought about just putting it back where I'd found it. I actually started to bend down and place it back on the ground.
As I reached toward the spot where it had been, it beeped again. Just one short beep. I stood up checked the display window. There was still nothing showing.
I figured I'd bring it with me and ask my folks what to do after they came home from work. So I put the beeper in my shirt pocket and walked the rest of the way to our apartment.
My friend Max was waiting for me on the front steps. "I thought you'd never get here."
"Look what I found." I showed him the beeper.
"Cool," Max said.
It beeped again. This time there was a number in the window. "Let's call it," I said. "Maybe we can find out who this belongs to."
We went inside and I dialed the number. After four rings, I heard the click of an answering machine. "I can't come to the phone right now," the voice said. "Please leave a message when you hear the tone."
I hesitated, not knowing what to say. Finally, I hung up without saying anything.
"Well?" Max asked.
I told him about the message. The beeper beeped again. I dialed the new number. It was another answering machine. This time, the message said, "Need a new roof? You've called the right place. Leave your number and we'll get back to you."
I hung up again. "This is weird," I told Max. "I think the number is supposed to be someone who's just called the beeper. Right? But nobody is home at these places."
Max shrugged. The beeper beeped. I looked at the number. Why not, I thought. I dialed again. No surprise — another recording. "To leave a message for John, press one. To leave a message for Karen, press two."
I hung up. The beeper beeped. The next call told us, "Be back soon — leave a message if you want."
"I think it's broken," I said. "It's probably just putting up any number."
"Yeah," Max said. "Maybe it got wet."
The beeper beeped. I dialed almost before I realized what I was doing. Sure enough, another message, "Buried under a ton of work? We can help you with secretaries and other office personnel. Leave your number and we'll get back to you."
"Man, this doesn't make any sense," I said. "I've got
better things to do than to make all these calls. Maybe I should just put it back where I found it."
"Yeah," Max said. "Or you can toss it in the trash."
I looked at the can. And I thought about the messages. I wrote them down.
I can't come to the phone right now.
Need a new roof?
To leave a message for John, press one.
Be back soon — leave a message if you want.
Buried under a ton of work?
As I stared at them and saw the pattern, I felt my blood freeze in my body. My hand fell open and the beeper clattered to the floor.
"What's wrong?" Max asked.
"Look." I pointed to the messages with my pencil. "Read the first word of each one," I said.
Max took the sheet from me. "I need to be buried." He stood there for a moment. I guess it took that long for the meaning to sink in. Then he said, "Whoa," and dropped the paper.
I stepped back from the beeper.
"Too weird," Max said. "It has to be a coincidence."
"Has to," I said.
The beeper beeped.
I looked at the beeper. Then I looked at Max. Max looked at me. "Guess we have to find out," he said.
"We can't stop now." I picked up the beeper. The plastic felt oddly cold. I dialed, listened to the recording, and wrote down the first word.
There was no mistake. A message was forming. When it was done, the beeper stopped. I read the whole message aloud. "I need to be buried. Look under bridge on river. Thank you."
"Spooky," Max said.
"Yeah. Too spooky." This wasn't like a scary movie or a Halloween haunted house that you knew wasn't real. This was flat out creepy.
"Now what?" Max asked.
"I'm not looking for a body," I said.
