Mr. Marty Loves a Party!

by Dan Gutman

  “Happy birthday,” Darth Vader said in a plain old regular guy’s voice. “Can I use your bathroom?”*

  Wow! Darth Vader wanted to use our bathroom. I was speechless.

  “It’s kind of an emergency,” he added.

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” I told him. “The bathroom is down the hall, to the right.”

  “Thanks,” he replied. “I might be in there for a while, if you know what I mean.”

  Darth Vader rushed down the hall to the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

  That was cool. In the Star Wars movies, Darth Vader never goes to the bathroom. In fact, nobody ever goes to the bathroom in the Star Wars movies. I guess they just hold it in. I don’t even know if they have bathrooms on spaceships.

  “Was that your friends at the door, sweetie?” called my mom.

  “No, it was Darth Vader,” I told her. “He’s in the bathroom. He told me it was an emergency.”

  “Gee, I hope he’s okay,” said my dad.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mini-Marty. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  After a few minutes, the doorbell rang again. It was my best friends Ryan, Michael, and Neil.

  “Happy birthday, dude!” shouted Ryan, who will eat anything, even stuff that isn’t food.

  “Happy birthday, dude!” shouted Michael, who never ties his shoes.

  “Happy birthday, dude!” shouted Neil, who we call the nude kid even though he wears clothes.

  Each of them handed me a present. I wanted to tear off the wrapping paper right away, but my mom told me to put the presents in the corner and we’d open them after the party was over. Bummer in the summer!

  A few minutes later, the doorbell rang again. It was Andrea and Emily. Ugh.

  “Happy birthday to you . . .” they sang. “Happy birthday to you . . .”

  Andrea and Emily had to sing the whole happy birthday song. They are so annoying. I told them they could go in the backyard.

  “What is Andrea doing here?” asked Neil.

  “I had to invite her,” I explained. “My parents made me.”

  “Ooooh,” Ryan said. “A.J. invited Andrea to his birthday party. They must be in LOVE!”

  “When are you going to get married?” asked Michael.

  If those guys weren’t my best friends, I would hate them.

  “Where’s Darth Vader?” asked Michael.

  “Yeah, I thought this was going to be a Star Wars party,” said Ryan.

  “He’s in the bathroom,” I told them. “I better go check on him. You guys can go in the backyard.”

  I went over to the bathroom door.

  “Are you okay in there, Mr. Vader?” I asked.

  “I’m . . . just a little, uh . . . blocked up,” he replied.

  I know what that means. Darth Vader was constipated. Grown-ups think the word “constipated” is disgusting, so they say “blocked up” instead. Nobody knows why.

  “You should use the Force,” I suggested.

  “Very funny,” Darth Vader replied. “Leave me alone.”

  The doorbell rang again. There were a bunch of people outside—Alexia, Mr. Klutz, my grandparents, my aunt and uncle, Mr. Cooper, and some of the other teachers from school. All of them brought presents. I’m glad I let my parents talk me into inviting so many people. The more people you invite to your party, the more presents you get.

  I led them all out to the backyard. Everyone stood around making chitchat. Chitchat is what you say when you don’t have anything to talk about. I hate making chitchat.

  Andrea started chitchatting with my grandmother, and it took about five seconds for her to convince Grandma that she was the sweetest little girl in the world. Ugh.

  The party was already boring. I went over to Mr. Marty, who was chitchatting with my dad.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked him. “Darth Vader is supposed to be teaching us how to use lightsabers, but he’s in the bathroom. Nobody has anything to do. They’re just standing around making chitchat.”

  “I’m sure Darth will be out any minute,” said Mini-Marty. “He’s a professional. Just relax, talk to your friends, and stop worrying so much. It’s your birthday!”

  “Darth Vader should have more bran in his diet,” said my mom, who thinks everybody should have more bran in their diet.

  “No, he needs more fiber,” said Mr. Klutz. “Fiber keeps you regular.”

  “And fruit,” added my dad. “You’ve got to eat a lot of fruit, so you won’t get blocked up.”

  Ugh. The grown-ups spent the next five minutes arguing about the best way to prevent constipation. It was a chitchat snoozefest.

  That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened.

  But I’m not going to tell you what it was.

  Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. But you have to read the next chapter. So nah-nah-nah boo-boo on you!

  Everybody was in the backyard. It was looking like my party was going to be the biggest disaster since the Titanic hit that iceberg. Everybody was standing around chitchatting. Darth Vader was still in the bathroom. There wasn’t anything to eat. The pizza guy wouldn’t be there for an hour.

  Suddenly, there was a knocking sound on our backyard gate.

  “Who could that be?” asked my mom. “All the guests have arrived.”

  “Maybe the pizza guy is here early,” said my dad.

  But it wasn’t the pizza guy. My mom and I opened the gate, and a guy was standing there. He had a painted white face, frizzy red hair, a red nose, giant shoes, and a silly costume with red polka dots all over it. He was carrying a big sack.

  It was a clown! Clowns are so creepy. I fell back in horror.

  “I’m Buffo the Clown,” the clown said. “You must be the birthday boy.”

  “We didn’t order a clown,” my mom told him.

  “Mr. Marty sent me an email,” Buffo the Clown replied. “It said to be here at eleven o’clock. It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “There must be some mistake,” my mom said.

  Mr. Marty came running over.

  “Buffo!” Mini-Marty said excitedly. “So good to see you. I’m so sorry. I must have emailed you by accident. But what a lucky mistake! I’m so glad you’re here. Darth Vader is supposed to be entertaining the kids, but he’s in the bathroom.”

  “This is perfect!” my mom said excitedly. “You saved the party, Buffo!”

  Suddenly, I wasn’t having a Star Wars party anymore. I was having a Buffo the Clown party.

  Oh, well. That had to be better than a bunch of people standing around making chitchat for hours.

  “Wait a minute,” said Buffo. “Am I gonna get paid for this gig?”

  “Of course,” replied Mini-Marty. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Then let the Buffo the Clown show begin!” announced Buffo.

  He ran into the middle of the backyard, honking a horn that was attached to his belt.

  “Hey, kids!” shouted Buffo. “Do you wanna hear a joke?”

  “Yeah!” we all shouted.

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” said Buffo.

  Entertainers are always saying they can’t hear you even after you just shouted at them. They must need hearing aids.

  “YEAH!” we all shouted louder.

  “What’s black and white and red all over?” asked Buffo.

  “A newspaper!” somebody shouted.

  “No!” said Buffo.

  “An embarrassed nun!” somebody shouted.

  “No!”

  “A sunburned zebra!” somebody shouted.

  “No!” said Buffo. “It’s a polar bear eating a penguin!”

  “Oh, snap!” said Ryan.

  Everybody laughed except Andrea, who said that the joke was violent and inappropriate for children.* I didn’t think Buffo’s joke was all that funny, but jokes always sound funnier when they’re told by a guy in a clown costume.

  Buffo the Clown told a few more bad jokes. Then he juggled balls, played the kazoo, sang some sil
ly songs, and made balloon animals for all of us. He was actually pretty entertaining, and he didn’t even murder anybody, as far as I know. Maybe I should rethink my opinion of clowns.

  “Hey, Buffo the Clown is cool,” said Ryan.

  “Great party, dude,” Alexia told me.

  While Buffo was making a giant balloon hat for Andrea, there was a knock on the gate.

  “That must be the pizza guy!” Neil shouted.

  “Yay!” yelled Michael. “I’m starved.”

  But it wasn’t the pizza guy.

  You’ll never believe who was standing there when I opened the gate.

  It was another clown!

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I’m Giggles the Clown,” said the clown. “Are you the birthday boy? I got an email from Mr. Marty telling me to come to this address. I got a little lost on the way over. Sorry I’m late.”

  “We already have a clown,” I told him.

  “What?!” shouted Giggles. “It’s not Buffo the Clown, is it?”

  “Actually, it is.”

  “I hate Buffo!” muttered Giggles. He marched into the middle of the backyard, looking really angry.

  “Buffo!” shouted Giggles.

  “Giggles!” shouted Buffo.

  “So . . . we meet again,” said Giggles.

  “We’re going to have a problem here,” Buffo announced. “There can’t be two clowns at the same party.”

  That must be the first rule of being a clown.

  “We didn’t invite any clowns,” said my dad.

  But Buffo and Giggles weren’t paying attention. They just glared at each other, like two wild animals in the jungle.

  “I told you to stay out of my territory, Giggles,” said Buffo. “This is my party, and this is the second time this month you tried to steal my gig.”

  “It’s my gig,” replied Giggles.

  “Mine!”

  “Mine!”

  They went on like that for a while. That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened. Giggles tried to punch Buffo, but he missed and fell on the ground. It was actually pretty funny. Everybody laughed. Then Giggles got up and squirted Buffo in the face with a fake flower.

  “Oh, I get it!” said my grandma. “They do a comedy clown act! How charming!”

  “It’s adorable!” said my mom.

  That’s what we all thought. But then Buffo took a swing at Giggles and socked him hard, right in the jaw. Giggles staggered backward, holding his mouth. Then he charged at Buffo and wrestled him to the ground.

  “Clown fight!” shouted Michael.

  Giggles and Buffo started rolling around on the grass, shouting and grabbing each other.

  “I don’t approve of this violence,” said Andrea.

  “What do you have against violins?” I asked her.

  “Not violins, Arlo! Violence!”

  All the grown-ups rushed over to break up the fight between the two clowns. That’s when the weirdest thing in the history of the world happened.

  There was another knock on the gate. I thought it was going to be the pizza guy, or maybe another clown. But it wasn’t the pizza guy or another clown. I opened the gate, and there were two truck drivers standing there.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” I asked. That’s how grown-ups say “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re here to deliver the giant inflatable bouncy castle,” one of the truck drivers said.

  I looked behind them. There was a truck parked in the driveway with one of those giant inflatable bouncy castles on it. It was already inflated.

  “HUH?” I said, which is also “HUH” backward. “We didn’t order a giant inflatable bouncy castle.”

  “Well, I got an email from Mr. Marty telling us to deliver a giant inflatable bouncy castle to this address,” the guy said.

  “There must be some mistake,” I said in my best talking-to-grown-ups voice.

  “Hey, that ain’t my problem, kid,” said the other truck driver. “We just make the deliveries. Where do you want it?”

  “Put it over there,” I said, pointing to the corner of the backyard.

  They carried in the giant inflatable bouncy castle. All the kids ran over and jumped on it.

  “Whee!” shouted Alexia. “Bouncy castles are cool!”

  The truck drivers left, and a few minutes later there was another knock on the gate. I ran over to open it. There was a guy pulling a big suitcase on wheels. He was wearing a backward baseball cap and sunglasses.

  “I’m DJ Jazzy Jim,” he told me. “I work for Musical Munchkins. Where should I set up my stuff?”

  “We didn’t hire a DJ,” I told him.

  “Why not?” he said. “You can’t have a party without music.”

  “Okay,” I told him. “You can set your stuff up in that corner over there.”

  A few minutes later, there was another knock on the gate. I opened it, and a lady with pigtails was doing jumping jacks.

  “Hi!” she said. “I’m Miss Tumbles from KinderGym. Is this the gymnastics party?”

  “It is now,” I told her. “Come on in.”

  When my dad saw DJ Jazzy Jim and Miss Tumbles come into the backyard, he marched over to Mr. Marty.

  “What’s going on?” my dad demanded. “We didn’t invite these people to the party.”

  “Uhhhhhh,” Mini-Marty said as Mr. Marty looked at his smartphone, “I seem to have made a little mistake. I think I may have emailed everyone on my client list by accident.”

  “WHAT?!” my dad shouted. “You made a little mistake? How much is this going to cost me?”

  “You said money was no object,” Mini-Marty replied.

  I looked over at the gate. There were a bunch of other people lined up there. Some of them were wearing costumes.

  “Who are you?” I asked them.

  “Is this the dance party?” said a lady wearing a tutu. “I’m Miss Donna, and I teach ballet, hip-hop, and tap dancing. I also give Zumba lessons.”

  I had no idea what Zumba was, but I let her in anyway.

  “Bonjour!” said some guy with a beret on his head. “I am here to teach the children how to speak French.”

  “Come on in,” I told him.

  Two guys were carrying a huge cardboard box that said GRAVITY IS FOR LOSERS on it.

  “We’re from Vertical Reality,” one of them said. “Where do you want us to put the trampoline?”

  “In that corner over there,” I told them.

  We were running out of corners for people to set up their stuff.

  The next person was a lady wearing a T-shirt that said ABRACADOODLE PAINT YOUR OWN POTTERY on it. “I’m here for the arty party,” she said. “Every child can be an artist!”

  “We’re here from the Fencing Academy,” said a man and a lady wearing weird masks on their faces.

  “We already have a fence,” I told them. “You’re standing right next to it.”

  “Not that kind of fencing,” the man said. “We teach children how to duel.”

  Then the two of them whipped out swords, jumped into a pose, and shouted “en garde!” Whatever that means. They started sword fighting. It was cool, so I let them in.

  The line of people at the gate was getting longer.* My dad ran over to see what was going on. He looked pretty upset.

  “Hello!” said a guy wearing a park ranger uniform. He had two big birds perched on his hands. “I’m Ranger Rick from the Wildlife Conservation Center, and these are birds of prey. I call them my party animals. Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “Get out of here!” my dad shouted at the guy. “We’ve got enough problems without birds flying around here.”

  “But they’re endangered,” the guy from the Wildlife Conservation Center said, making a puppy-dog face.

  “Okay, okay,” my dad grumbled, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. “Come on in.”

  They just kept coming, one after the other! There was a face painter, a bubb
le blower, a guy dressed like a ninja, a guy who looked like Frankenstein, two martial artists, and some lady named Mrs. Wizard who said she builds robots out of Legos. The backyard was jammed with all kinds of party entertainers. I let them all in. There was no stopping them.

  Suddenly, I remembered that Darth Vader was still in the bathroom. He had been there for about a million hundred hours. I was starting to get worried. I ran inside the house and went over to the bathroom door.

  “Is everything okay in there, Mr. Vader?” I asked. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Just leave me alone,” he shouted. “I’ll be out soon.”

  I went back to the party. Everybody seemed to be having a good time. People were painting their own pottery, jumping on the trampoline, and dancing to DJ Jazzy Jim’s music. My grandmother was learning how to Zumba, whatever that is.

  “You sure know how to throw a party, A.J.!” Ryan shouted over the music.

  “Yeah, but I’m starving,” hollered Neil. “When is the pizza guy going to show up?”

  “Good question,” I replied.

  At that point, I noticed some guy standing over by the gate.

  “That must be the pizza guy!” I shouted.

  “At last!” everybody yelled.

  Mr. Marty and my dad went to the gate.

  But it wasn’t the pizza guy. It was a guy wearing a top hat and a black cape.

  “Who are you?” my dad asked angrily.

  “It is I, the Amazing Tortolini!” the guy announced as he pulled out a deck of cards. “Pick a card, any card!”

  “Can you make all these people disappear?” muttered my dad. “You might as well come in. Everybody else is here.”

  Right behind the Amazing Tortolini was a guy dressed as a cowboy and holding a guitar.

  “Who are you?” my dad asked.

  “Ah am Drusty Rhodes, the Singin’ Cowpoke,” the guy said, really slowly.

  “Did you say Dusty or Rusty?” I asked.

  “It’s Drusty,” he replied. “Ah came to strum a few tunes for the young ’uns.” Then he started to sing . . .