I also have a feeling they always will.
Chapter 6
MY AFTER-SCHOOL SPECIAL
The final bell rings at school, and I’m off like a shot.
I’m the first one out of the building every afternoon.
I zip down the sidewalk and head to my Uncle Frankie’s diner. I love spending time with Frankie.
He owns the oldest diner in the whole New York metropolitan area. It’s so old, I think when it opened, Burger King was still a prince.
Even the jukebox plays nothing but oldies, mostly doo-wop tunes from the 1950s and ’60s. Uncle Frankie isn’t just the owner; he’s also the head chef.
And, get this: He’s the former yo-yo champion of all of Brooklyn, a place famous for its yo-yos. Uncle Frankie is always doing yo-yo tricks, even when he’s working the grill. He can Hop the Fence, Walk the Dog, Loop the Loop, and go Around the World with one hand while flipping griddle cakes and two eggs over easy with the other.
“So how was school today, Jamie?” he asks once I’m parked in the kitchen.
“Not bad. I took out a bully today.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He was picking on this sixth grader, so I pulled a Chuck Norris and did what needed to be done.”
“You stood up for this other kid?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly stand.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I do.”
Uncle Frankie puts down his yo-yo and nods proudly. “You did good, Jamie.”
“Well, you know what Kevin James says in Mall Cop: If—”
Frankie holds up a hand. “No joke, kiddo. I’m proud of you. Seriously proud.”
“Thanks.” I’m sort of blushing when I say it.
Neither one of us says anything else for a while. The only sound in the kitchen is grease sputtering on the grill and some plates clanking behind us.
I don’t do so well with long, thoughtful pauses or total quiet. Gives me a little too much time to think about my situation and how absolutely alone I sometimes feel.
So I rev up my motor mouth.
“Oh, and this morning, on my way to school? I wiped out a whole bunch of zombies. Rolled over them, too. I may never get all the green slime out of my tire treads.”
“Is that so?” says Uncle Frankie, shaking his head and smiling. “Zombies?”
“Yep,” I say. “All in all, it was just your average, ho-hum kind of day.”
“So, Jamie—you ever think about writing down your wacky stories so you can tell them to people in a comedy club or something?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. Maybe. Not really.”
“You should. You crack me up, kiddo. You’d crack up other people, too. Trust me on this one. I know a little something about show business.”
“Because you were a yo-yo champion?”
“Exactly! I’ve been on the big stage, and it’s very cool.”
So, as they say—maybe in Iowa or Nebraska—the seed was planted.
Chapter 7
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME (IF THERE WERE, THE AUTHORITIES WOULD SHUT IT DOWN)
After a healthy after-school snack of French fries and ketchup (they’re both, technically, vegetables), it’s time to leave the diner and head for home, a little place I call “Smileyville.”
I moved to Long Beach when my mother’s sister (we’ll call her Aunt Smiley) adopted me. Yes, I wish my father’s brother, Uncle Frankie, had adopted me, but the judge sent me to Smileyville instead.
I’m not sure my mother’s sister was all that excited about adding me to her family. Have you ever seen one of those ADOPT A HIGHWAY signs on the interstate? I think that would’ve been her first choice.
The Smileys are the most clueless, absentminded people you’ll ever meet. They hardly notice I’m around—which basically works in my favor because I can sneak out pretty easily.
But the most important thing about my adoptive family is that I call them “the Smileys” because they never, ever smile.
You could bring home ice cream and cupcakes, and these people would still pout. You could pop open a crate full of adorable, tail-wagging puppies, and they wouldn’t even crack a grin.
In fact, they already have a dog. I call him “Ol’ Smiler.” Look up “hangdog expression” in the dictionary, and you’ll see his face.
There’s only one good thing about being adopted by a family that never, ever smiles: They’re the perfect test audience for my jokes. If I can make these people laugh, I’m pretty sure I can make anybody laugh.
Oh, there’s one tiny thing that makes living in Smileyville even worse.
Yep. It’s time for another curveball.
Chapter 8
WITH BROTHERS LIKE THIS, WHO NEEDS ENEMIES?
Meet my brand-new big brother.
And by big, I mean HUGE.
You are correct. It’s Stevie Kosgrov. The same bully who made my day by knocking me out of my wheelchair.
Officially, he is now my adoptive brother because Aunt Smiley is Stevie’s mom.
As you might imagine, living with my new adoptive brother is a lot less Brady Bunch and much more Harry Potter. Stevie Kosgrov is my very own somewhat demented Dudley Dursley—if Dudley had muscles and serious BO issues and knew how to jam people’s heads down toilets to give them a swirly.
Yes, Stevie Kosgrov makes my new home a living hell. Except for the heat.
My new bedroom is so cold, last night I saw a spider in the corner standing on one leg.
Sorry. Those are David Letterman jokes, and David Letterman is one of my idols.
Chapter 9
BRAINSTORMING!
Every night after dinner—which is usually something like tuna noodle casserole made with cream-of-wallpaper soup—I escape to the privacy of my bedroom.
Actually, it used to be the garage, which probably explains why it’s never what you might call warm or toasty.
“That’s where we keep all the crap with wheels,” Stevie said the day I moved in. “The lawn mower, the snowblower, and you!”
In fairness, Uncle Smiley cleaned the place out. He even put rugs over all the oil and antifreeze splotches on the floor.
The cold concrete floor.
On the plus side, I’m the only kid I know with a genuine Weedwacker hanging on his wall.
My bedroom is also where I keep my massive collection of joke books and notebooks. Whenever I have an idea for a comic sketch or bit, I roll in here, grab a notebook and a pen, and go to work.
For instance, last night the Smileys were watching that National Geographic movie March of the Penguins. It’s their kind of movie. Lots of ice, blizzards, gale-force winds, and those cute little penguins everywhere.
By the way, did you know that penguins mate for life? Then again, they all look the same, so how do they even know if their girlfriend is really their girlfriend?
See, this is what I do.
I brainstorm every silly angle I can think of on a subject, jot it all down (no judgments allowed during brainstorming), and then try to work it into a bit.
Maybe I could do a riff on this penguin stand-up comic I pretend I know. Poor guy, all he can tell are black-and-white jokes. “What’s black and white and black and white and black and white? A nun in a revolving door. Or me. In a revolving door. Or my mother. In a…”
I’m working away, thinking about what Uncle Frankie said, the seed he planted, when all of a sudden there’s this terrible banging on my bedroom door.
“Whatcha doin’ in there, Jamie?”
It’s Stevie Kosgrov, my adoptive brother.
My escape into my imaginary world is cut short by his very real pounding and howling.
I don’t feel so funny when Stevie’s knocking on my bedroom door. To be honest, I feel trapped.
Which, I guess, I kind of am.
Chapter 10
IT’S A SMALL BEACH, AFTER ALL
The next day, thank goodness, is Saturday. To once again quote the great Homer Simps
on: “Woo-hoo!”
Time to roll up the garage door, say good-bye to Smileyville, and breeze down to the Long Beach boardwalk, which is about a mile shorter than the long beach that Long Beach is named after—two and a quarter miles. Uncle Frankie tells me it was built back in 1914—with the help of elephants.
Yep. It’s already in one of my notebooks. A bit about elephants trying to figure out how to hold a hammer, since they don’t have any thumbs. Then I say, “No one really cared how long it took for the elephants to hammer in a nail. They worked for peanuts.” Okay. That one still needs a little tweaking. I’ll work on it.
What I like best about the beach and boardwalk is all the different kinds of people I see. Russian grandmas in head scarves. Hispanic families eating rainbow-colored snow cones. Hasidic men with curly side locks and big hats. Koreans and Chinese smiling in the sunshine. Italians with lots of back hair. Irish with lots of freckles every place the Italians have hair.
Maybe they should call this United Nations Beach.
Okay. I’m pulling out my notebook to jot this down. It could be a whole new bit for my act.
Sand, sun, and surf—the great equalizers. Proof that people everywhere can get along in peace and harmony, as long as none of them play their music too loud and everybody remembers to use sunblock.
On United Nations Beach, there are no borders. Just blankets.
And everybody looks basically the same in a bathing suit. Especially old guys in Speedos. They all look ridiculous.
But wait—this is bigger than every country in the world.
I see fat people, skinny people, workout freaks, hipsters, bankers (who else would wear a suit to the beach?). I see zombies playing Frisbee with penguins. Penguins wearing black-and-white bikinis.
What if life really were a beach?
What if the sun shone every day, and all you had to do all day was splash in the surf, boogie board, apply sunblock, and spear a couple of sand crabs for dinner?
Maybe this is the secret to world peace?
Make everybody everywhere move to the nearest beach.
There would be no more wars—just a few small action-figure skirmishes around sand castles.
Of course, I do have one absolutely horrible fear about the beach.
Turn the page… if you dare.
Chapter 11
SAND TRAPPED
My problem? My great fear? Think about it from my perspective.
The beach is made out of sand. My wheelchair only comes with two-wheel drive, and it sure isn’t a dune buggy. See where I’m going with this? Of course you do.
I wouldn’t be able to budge. I’d sink.
I’d be like Han, Leia, and Luke in Star Wars: Return of the Jedi. Stuck on the endless expanse of the Tatooine desert—waiting for some sand creature to come along and suck me down into its sand pit for dinner, or maybe just a snack.
To me, the beach is just a desert surrounded by water you can’t drink!
I’d be stranded in my wheelchair as it slowly sank deeper and deeper.
No water. No sunblock.
I… can’t… go… on…
Ack!
It’d be horrible.
Plus, I’d have sand in my socks. Probably my underpants, too.
Chapter 12
THERE’S NOTHING FINER THAN SATURDAY AT THE DINER
Next stop?
Up the boardwalk a couple of blocks to Frankie’s Good Eats by the Sea. My uncle’s diner is always packed on Saturdays, so sometimes I lend a hand, helping out behind the cash register.
The best part? I get to tell a joke to every single person I ring up.
“Here’s your change, Mrs. P.—and how about a little Rodney Dangerfield for dessert?”
The woman smiles. She’s a real sweetheart. “Okay.”
I tug at my collar, like Rodney would. “I tell you, I come from a stupid family. During the Civil War, my great-uncle fought for the West!”
Mrs. P. cracks up. The next guy steps up to my register and hands me his guest check. He’s one of my regulars, Mr. Emilito. Delivers newspapers house to house.
“What’ve you got for me, Jamie? Make me laugh.”
I make his change first. “Fifty-three cents and some classic George Carlin.”
“Excellent!”
“Can vegetarians eat animal crackers? Hey, how do they get the deer to cross at that yellow road sign? I put a dollar in a change machine. Nothing changed.”
He’s laughing so hard, he almost swallows his toothpick.
So I work in a little of my own material.
“If number two pencils are so popular, why are they still number two?”
Mr. Emilito is still cracking up. “Who does that one?” he asks. “Carlin?”
“Nope. That one’s mine.”
“Really? Awesome!”
And he tosses his fifty-three cents into the tip cup that Uncle Frankie keeps on the counter.
Wow. I think I just became a professional comedian.
“You know,” says Uncle Frankie, “you’ve got a gift, Jamie.”
“Really? Did it come with a gift receipt? Because I’ve had my eye on an iPod….”
“Jamie? Can you maybe be serious for two seconds?”
“I can try.”
“Good. I saw this in the paper. You should enter this comedy contest. Think about it. I’ve seen you with the customers, kiddo. And with Joey Gaynor and Jimmy Pierce,” says Uncle Frankie. “You’re hysterical. You could win. Seriously.”
I disagree. Seriously.
One, I don’t think I’m funny enough. Not even close.
Two, I’d definitely choke.
Because I’m a choker.
Seriously.
Chapter 13
FROM RUSSIA, WITH LOVE
Later at the diner, I ring up another regular, an old man named Mr. Burdzecki.
He’s Russian. So I dig deep and pull out some classic Yakov Smirnoff from all the way back in the 1980s. Like, another century.
“Did you see the ad in the paper this morning, Mr. Burdzecki? It said ‘Big Sale. Last Week.’ Last week? Why advertise? I already missed it. They’re just rubbing it in.”
He laughs. Like a happy bear.
So I keep going.
“Yakov Smirnoff says that in Russia, there were only two TV channels. Channel One was propaganda. Channel Two was a KGB officer telling you, ‘Turn back to Channel One.’ ”
Mr. Burdzecki is drying his eyes with a paper napkin. He’s a really nice man.
“You funny boy,” he says.
“I funny?”
“Da. You funny.”
Okay. If he says so.
I funny!
Chapter 14
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME (SERIOUSLY, THERE ISN’T)
Unfortunately, my day at the diner ends, and I have to head for home.
Well, it’s not really home. I guess I don’t really have a home anymore. Before I came to Long Beach I lived in a small town called Cornwall, where life was definitely good. Tall mountains. Deep blue lakes. Forests that went on forever.
I used to love to go exploring. I’d imagine stories, like I was Captain Jack Sparrow and the woods were my pirate hideout. Other times I’d be the Master Chief and tear through the forest, pretending it was filled with all the alien creatures from Halo.
I’d give anything to go back to the way things used to be. But I can’t. I guess none of us ever can, right?
So what happened to make me move to Long Beach? And live with the Smileys?
Nothing I really want to talk about. And I definitely don’t want to bore you with the details about how I ended up in this wheelchair.
Like I said, it’s not really worth it.
In fact, it’s a total buzzkill.
So, you know—’nuff said.
Chapter 15
HOME IS WHERE THE HEARTLESS BULLY IS
On the way home, I’m thinking about what Uncle Frankie said about that funny-kid contest. And I’m still in t
he same place: No way. I’d choke!
When I finally reach Smileyville, I notice that the family’s road-hogging, gas-guzzling, DVD-playing SUV is gone.
So are the Smileys.
So I reach into my backpack, fish around inside, and find the remote-control garage door opener.
I know. Most kids have a set of house keys. I have a Genie garage door opener from Home Depot.
It’s okay. I’m fine with it. Home sweet garage.
I aim the remote at the door and wait for the familiar click, whir, and grind of the slowly rising paneled door.
Only it doesn’t come.
So I aim and fire again. I also notice that since the sun went down about fifteen minutes earlier, the temperature has plunged, like, twenty degrees. My bedroom may be chilly, but at least it’s warmer than the driveway.
I thumb the remote a third time.
The garage door still doesn’t budge. So, like most guys, I keep pointing and clicking—thinking that if I stun the door opener with just enough infrared beams, it will magically remember how to work.
That’s when I hear laughter. Actually, it’s more like howling.
Stevie is in the living room, leering down at me like a lunatic. He looks like a big baboon who’s angry because the zookeepers won’t toss him any more bananas. He is also laughing like a hyena.
“What’s the matter, Jamie?” he shouts through the glass. “Somebody unplug your door opener?”
“Let me in, Stevie.”
I, Funny Page 2
