by Bill Myers
The good news was that by 9:00 I was done. The bad news was that I still had a half-hour to kill before the drawing. To say I was excited about the lotto was an understatement. It was like my birthday, Christmas, and a day without being beaten up after school all wrapped into one. And with a lucky number like 333777, how could we miss?
Of course, I could have used that extra time to think about all the trouble my stroll through Greed Land had caused at the zoo, and how all that arguing over the ticket had ended up causing so much destruction to property and to me. But it’s kinda hard to think about the dangers of wanting money, when all you can do is think about getting that money. So, instead of dwelling on the errors of my ways, I whipped out Ol’ Betsy and went back to my story. Yes, sir, nothing makes time fly (and helps you avoid reality) like a little superhero writing.
When we last left B.B. Boy, everything was turning into dollar bills, thanks to the lowdown doings of that dastardly, dynamic, and dangerously destructive...(I think that about wraps it up for Ds, don’t you?) Dollar Dude.
Quicker than you can say, “Wait a minute” (I still don’t get how a person can be a superhero just because he has bad breath), B.B. Boy throws on his breathproof coat and races for the door.
Outside, it’s worse than he fears. Buildings are collapsing into mounds of twenty-dollar bills; light poles are dissolving into tens and fluttering away; and those strange-looking VW Beetles are turning into piles of fives. (Well, I guess every cloud has a silver lining.)
Quickly, he slips on his pair of Nifty-Spiffy Detecto Goggles (just $19.95 at superhero stores everywhere) and looks up into the sky. He lets out a gasp, which downs a flock of pigeons flying overhead. But the falling fowls offer few frustrations for our fearless fellow (and you thought the Ds were bad). Because overhead he has spotted...
(Insert more bad guy music.)
Dollar Dude’s satellite as it’s changing the sunlight into ugly Megabuck beams!
B.B. Boy lets out another gasp (which takes care of that family of squirrels in the nearby tree).
He spins around to the townspeople, but nobody seems to care. They’re all just grabbing as much money as possible. Everywhere, people are fighting and pushing and hollering. ”People! People!” our hero shouts while leaping atop a stack of bills so he can be heard.
“Augh...augh!” the people shout, while racing away from B.B. Boy’s breath so they can breathe.
But he continues, “Can’t you see that this is the work of that not so nice and neurotically nutsoid...
(Try to insert more bad guy music, even though all of the musician’s instruments have turned into bills.)
Dollar Dude! If we don’t stop him now, the entire world will turn into money!”
“All right!” the people shout.
“No, it’s not all right!” our hero cries. “If everything turns into money, what will you eat, what will you wear, where will you live?”
But no one listens. All anyone cares about is grabbing cash.
B.B. Boy has reasoned with them all he can. Now it’s time to do what he can do, which is why he decides to do what he does (or something like that). In one swift move, he leaps onto the back of a passing skateboard.
The skateboarder looks over his shoulder and cries, “’Sup, dude?”
B.B. Boy starts to answer, which unfortunately means having to breathe. As soon as his breath hits the skateboarder, the kid breaks into a coughing fit. The boy pushes harder and faster, hoping to somehow get away from our hero. Of course, he could have just leaped off the board, but that would require thinking, and B.B. Boy’s breath was already clouding his mind. (The fact that he’s a skateboarder probably means he has his mind in the clouds, anyway.)
Harder and harder the groggy, gagging guy pushes. Faster and faster the groggy, gagging guy goes. (Hey, those were easy, just wait a couple of paragraphs.) But going fast is not the same as going up. And up happens to be the direction of the satellite.
Suddenly, as luck would have it, a giant eagle swoops down. Realizing he better make his move before you (the reader) complain about all of these coincidences, our hero leaps from the back of the skateboard and onto the back of the bird.
But Ol’ Birdbrain isn’t crazy about the idea and, he, too, tries to get away. In desperation...(okay, here we go now; be careful not to sprain your tongue)...in desperation, the fantastically fine feathered fowl ferociously flaps his fabulously feathered flappers furiously. (Say that with a mouthful of birdseed!) Soon they are so high above the earth that there is not much air to breathe. This is fine with the eagle, since not much air means not much bad breath—— but it isn’t great with B.B. Boy, since not much breath means not much life.
Refusing to be distracted by such minor inconveniences, our hero reaches into his pocket and pulls out his Neato-Keen Oxygen Mask. (Sold at those same superhero stores, but with a $5.00 rebate. So, get them while supplies last.) He slips it over his face and looks up.
What luck! Just a few more miles overhead is the satellite.
Thanking his bird buddy for the lift, our hero leaps high into the air! However, since his only superhero power is bad breath (and nothing neat like being able to fly around or owning a cool bat cape or anything), he just
But, as even more luck would have it, the Space Shuttle just happens to be passing by. (Hey, it’s my superhero story. If you can do better, go ahead and write your own...but, uh, er, please make sure my name’s on it when you send it to the bookstores, just in case it’s a hit. Thanks.)
With another leap, our hero grabs onto the wing of the shuttle. (Fortunately, its heat tiles prevent his breath from doing too much structural damage.) In just a matter of seconds, they have reached the height of the satellite. With fond farewells and promises to write, B.B. Boy lets go of the shuttle and floats toward Dollar Dude’s dangerously dubious doohickey. That’s when he hears the chilling words:
“Thanks for falling into my little trap, B.B. Brat.”
Suddenly, our hero spots a pair of eyes peering over the top of the satellite...a pair of eyes connected to a face connected to a body connected to a pair of arms that are turning the satellite around until its beam points directly at B.B. Boy!
Great gobs of greenbacks! What will protect our hero from becoming a bunch of bucks? A heap of hundreds? A ton of twenties? (And, more important, if you send that superhero story to the bookstores, remember to spell my name right. It’s M-c-D-o-o—)
“Wally!” my little sister, Carrie, shouted. “Come on down, the drawing’s about to begin.”
“Be right there,” I shouted back.
I quickly saved the story and shut Ol’ Betsy down. Don’t get me wrong, writing the Bad Breath Boy adventure was fine, but it’s nothing compared to living my own. Unfortunately, if I had known what awaited me, I would have stayed up there writing for the rest of my life. Because writing a crazed, whacked-out adventure is a lot easier than living one.
* * * * *
I raced down the stairs as fast as I could. Well, actually, a little faster than I could . . . which meant I did the usual stumbling, falling, and bouncing down the steps. No biggie. Everyone in my family was used to it, which explains the extra padding Dad had installed at the bottom. That way when I landed . . .
K-WOOSH . . .
I seldom broke any of the real important body parts.
Everybody was down in the family room doing what they did best:
— Dad was looking over the bills and grumbling, “Who keeps turning the thermostat above 60?”
— Burt and Brock, my superjock brothers, were putting down another half-gallon of ice cream apiece and working on their multiplication tables (which is a little embarrassing for eleventh graders, but I did mention they were football players, right?).
— Carrie was flipping through a cookbook, preparing for next week’s dinner.
— Collision, our cat, was cowering in the corner in fear of next week’s dinner.
— And Mom, who looked up from folding
laundry, was asking me, “Oh, Wally, are you sure you don’t want to wear these Star Wars undershorts another year?”
Snickers filled the room.
“Mom!”
“But you look so cute parading around in your little Obi-Wan Kenobis.”
“MOM!”
“Oh, all right.”
“Shh, it’s on,” my older brother Burt said. (Or was it Brock? I can’t always keep them straight.)
I joined him in front of the TV as Dad cranked up the volume. (He may have been busy doing bills, but he was still King of the Remote.)
“You really don’t think you’re gonna win,” asked Brock, my other brother (or was it Burt?).
“Hey, he’s got just as much chance of winning as the next person,” Carrie said.
“Thank you,” I smiled.
“I mean, it’s not like he has to be smart or anything.”
My smile kinda wavered.
“Yeah,” Burt agreed, “or good-looking, or talented—”
“Or anything at all,” Brock jumped in.
“Exactly!” Carrie nodded, pleased that they now saw her point. (Ah, little sisters, so young, so innocent . . . so clueless.)
“Shh,” Burt said, “the first number’s comin’ up.”
Instead of people drawing tickets out of a box, they had a little machine that spit out numbered Ping-Ponglike balls. I watched in breathless anticipation as the first white ball rolled into place. It had the number 3 written on it!
“All right!” I shouted, practically jumping out of my skin. “That’s my first number!”
“Just luck,” Burt scoffed. “Never happen again. What’s the rest of your number?”
“It’s 333777,” I said. I glanced over at Mom and saw she wasn’t even paying attention. She just kept on folding the laundry. “Mom,” I cried, “don’t you care? I’m on my way to becoming a gazillionaire!”
“I hope not,” was all she said.
The second number came up: 3 again!
“Way to go, Wally!” Carrie cried.
I grinned and threw another look toward Mom. “What do you mean, you hope not?” I asked.
She glanced up. “I hope you don’t win.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ve seen too many lives ruined over greed, money, and gambling.”
The third number came up: another 3!
I couldn’t believe it! I was halfway there! It was like a dream! Mom could talk all she wanted, but money was money! And, if I actually won, who knew what cool and incredible things could happen.
“Wally,” my dad asked absently, “where’d you get that ticket?”
“Well, um,” I stammered. But before I could answer, the next number came up and . . .
It was a 7!
By now everyone in the room was watching. Mom included. Even Dad had managed to look up from scowling at the bills.
The next ball rolled into place . . . 7!
One more to go. By now we’d all quit breathing. Even Collision . . . though I suspect that might have had to do with Carrie giving him some of tonight’s leftovers. (I guess that’s enough cracks about her cooking isn’t it?)
Anyway, the ball rolled into place and came up . . . 7!
I couldn’t believe it. For a moment we all sat stunned as the winning number flashed on the screen:
333777
That was it! That was my number! I was a winner!
Suddenly, the room exploded. Everyone was jumping up and down . . . even Mom and Dad.
“2.1 gazillion dollars!” I shouted. “2.1 gazillion dollars! 2.1 gazillion dollars!”
“You’re superrich!” Carrie cried. “You’re superrich! You’re superrich!”
“You’re my favorite brother!” Burt and Brock yelled. “You’re my favorite brother! You’re my favorite brother!”
It was great—everyone shouting, slapping me on the back, pretending to actually like me. In fact, we were having so much fun I barely heard the phone. When I finally realized it was ringing, I raced to it and picked it up. “Hello?” I yelled.
“We won!” Wall Street shouted on the other end. “We won! We won! We won!”
“I know!” I shouted. “I know! I know! I know!”
“Just hang on to that ticket!” she cried. “Don’t let it out of your sight. I’ll be right over.”
“What ticket?” I shouted. “Opera has it. Let’s meet at his house!”
“No, you have it.”
“No, Opera has it.”
“Wally, you grabbed it out of Opera’s hand just before you crashed into the popcorn wagon and did your Master of Disaster thing.”
“No way, I—” Suddenly, I went cold. She was right. I did grab it. And I hung on to it through the whole ordeal . . . the crashing of carts, the riding on trains, the bouncing off of pine trees. I even remember holding on to it as I crashed into the monkey cage . . . where I lost consciousness.
“Wally?” Wall Street yelled. “Talk to me! Wally? Tell me you have the ticket! Wally?”
I tried to answer, but it’s hard to answer when you’ve forgotten to breathe.
“Wally! Where is it? Where’s the lotto ticket?”
Finally something came out of my mouth. I can’t be sure exactly what it was, but it sounded a little like: “The monkeys have it.”
Chapter 5
The Plan Sickens . . .
For the most part, things were okay. Other than winning 2.1 gazillion dollars, losing it, and having to find it all over again, things were perfectly normal.
Wall Street, Opera, and I had agreed to meet down at the Grease O’Burger Cafe. Their motto:
If You Gotta Chew to Make It Slide Down,
It Ain’t Greasy Enough.
It was just across the street from the zoo and would be a great place to decide what we would do next. There, over a steaming hot plate of salt-saturated grease (with a thread of potato slipped in so they could legally call them French fries), we could discuss our plan—a plan that involved:
1. Going back to the zoo.
2. Miraculously finding the lotto ticket.
3. Becoming filthy rich.
Now, I admit there were a few details to work out, especially with the second one, which is why we had to meet. But before the meeting, I had a couple of other problems to deal with first . . . like getting out of the house.
I didn’t have to worry about Mom and Dad, they were too busy calling every relative, every friend, and every friend of every relative to tell them the good news. No, my problem was a bit more complicated than that . . . like getting dressed.
Ever try putting on your clothes when you’re gonzo crazy about winning 2.1 gazillion dollars and losing it all in the same day? No? Then you really can’t laugh when I tell you I accidentally put my pants on backward. (Hey, it can happen to anybody. Well, almost anybody.)
What could not happen to anybody was putting my pants on backward and my shirt on upside down. (I thought it buttoned kinda funny, but didn’t notice anything until I tried to tuck it in and nearly suffocated myself.)
Not a pretty sight.
Then there were my brothers. On good days, they just ignore me. On the not so good ones, they turn me upside down and use my head as a toilet brush. But not tonight. Tonight I was king of the house. Of course, I didn’t bother telling them that I’d also lost the ticket (what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me). The point is that as soon as I stepped out of my room, they were all over me like fleas on a dog, ketchup over fries, maple syrup over fried pickles. (Okay sorry. I promised not to pick on Carrie’s cooking, didn’t I?)
“Excuse me, Wally, could I pick up your room?”
“Excuse me, Wally, could I zip up your coat?”
“Excuse me, Wally, could I floss your teeth?”
See what I mean? Oh, I knew they just wanted to be my buddy so they could get their greedy, not-so-little-hands on all of my money. Well, it wouldn’t work. I was smarter than that. Besides it was my money
, not theirs. Mine. Mine, mine, mine. (Well, it would be as soon as I found the ticket.) I didn’t know it then, but my greed was already getting majorly out of hand. (Unfortunately, it would get a lot more major before it got minor.)
When I finally headed out the door and down the sidewalk, I saw that my neighbors were no different. Like my brothers, they were also trying to butter me up. Everywhere I looked they were smiling, grinning, or nodding at me. I figured either my folks had called them up with the good news or they just naturally sensed my sudden superiority.
Yes, sir, as far as I could tell, being rich really did make you a greater person. It wasn’t until I glanced at my reflection in a window that I realized there might be another reason for all the attention . . . I was wearing my undershorts over my pants instead of under. (Hey, I told you I was nervous.)
Deciding this was no time to make a fashion statement, I dashed home and rearranged my wardrobe. After stopping by a mirror to make sure every arm, leg, and head was sticking out of the right opening, I headed back outside. I was grateful I’d made it through all those minitraumas. Now, I could focus on the maxitrauma coming up . . . the one where I’d have to face Opera and Wall Street.
* * * * *
I really didn’t want to keep them waiting. I mean, right now I wasn’t exactly high on their list of friends and the less I did to make them angry the better. Unfortunately, all the dressing delays did make me a little late. In fact, by the time I got there, Opera was already finishing off an order of fries. (Only a few remained floating in the inch-thick puddle of grease on his plate.)
“Glad you could make it,” Wall Street said, scowling hard at me.
“Burp,” Opera agreed.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, “I know you’re a little upset right now. But you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve got it all figured out.”