My Life as Alien Monster Bait

by Bill Myers

  I remembered agreeing to something. But that was before the auditions. That was before last night’s phone call. Before I became—

  Suddenly, I saw one of Melissa Sue’s friends approach. You remember Melissa? Missy? From science class? Anyway, I stepped aside to let her friend pass, but she didn’t pass. She came right at me!

  Oh no, I thought, what have I screwed up this time?

  But instead of firing off some classy putdown, she smiled.

  SHE SMILED!

  I couldn’t believe my luck! SHE SMILED. Oh, I guess I already said that. But at ME, she SMILED at ME! Of course, she wasn’t Melissa Sue Avarice, but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

  Opera stared in disbelief.

  “Hi,” I finally managed to croak out.

  Melissa’s friend didn’t answer. She just handed me a note.

  “Thank you,” I sort of mumbled as I took it.

  She smiled again. Then she turned and sauntered down the hall as only rich and beautiful girls can saunter.

  I stood watching—my mouth hanging down to my knees.

  “Open it,” Opera demanded.

  I didn’t hear. I was too dazed.

  “Wally!”

  “Huh?” I sounded about as intelligent as a steamed clam.

  “Open it.”

  “Oh . . . yeah . . . sure . . .” I f inally regained consciousness and struggled to unfold the note. Opera was immediately over my shoulder reading it. All it said was:

  I’m sure the rest of the day followed somehow . . . but I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of it . . . until that night. That’s when we met the movie director . . . and Gertrude, his pet alien.

  All I heard was the crunch of gravel as our car rolled down the road toward the deserted warehouse. This was it. In just a few minutes I would meet the director. In just a few minutes I would know if I really had the part—I’d know if I was going to be food for the “Mutant Martian.”

  “You sure this is the place?” Dad asked as he peered through the windshield. He tried to sound stern and bored at the same time. That meant only one thing . . . he was excited. Really excited. (You’d have to know my dad to know that’s how he handles excitement. You’d also have to know that Mom had already spilled the beans by saying Dad had really bragged about me to his boss, the dreaded Mr. Feinstein.)

  “Not bragged,” Dad protested. “I just let him know that Wally here might be able to get him in to see some of the filming. Particularly the scenes with Laura Lottalips.”

  “Laura Lottalips is in the film?” I asked in surprise.

  “Oh, I thought I told you.” He pretended to yawn. “Yeah, Laura Lottalips, Bill Crimson, and who’s that new punk heartthrob all the girls are crazy over?”

  “Steel,” Mom jumped in, a little too quickly. “Chad Steel.”

  “Right,” Dad said, throwing her a look. “Chad Steel.”

  “Chad Steel’s in the film?” I cried. I couldn’t believe my ears. Chad Steel was like the coolest guy in the world. He had this incredible hair, and everybody loved him, girls and guys both. I mean, he was what every guy wanted to be . . . and what every girl wanted every guy to be.

  We pulled to a stop in front of the building. It was huge, and there were no windows—only an open door. And from that door, all sorts of eerie sparks and flashes could be seen. It was spooky—like maybe there was a real f lying saucer inside . . . like maybe a real Martian had swung by to audition for the part.

  “Must be welding something,” Dad noted.

  So much for the Martian.

  “Well,” Dad sighed, again pretending to be bored, “let’s see what these hotshots have in mind.”

  The three of us climbed out of the car and headed for the sparking and flashing light pouring from the door.

  The closer we got, the more we heard the yelling . . . lots and lots of yelling:

  “I’ve got deadlines! I’ve got schedules!” the voice shouted. This was followed by a bunch of swearing. “So you better blank, blank, you lousy blank-blank, before I blankety-blank your blank blank. We start in four days! Got it? Four (a bunch more blanks) days!”

  I threw a glance at Mom. She looked a little pale. Not me. I hear this sort of stuff every day. Of course, I never use it. That’s one of the ways I let people know I’m a Christian. It’s not a big deal, just kind of my way of saying I’m different and I’m gonna stay different and you’re not going to make me undifferent.

  Finally, we arrived at the door. Well, this is it, I thought as we stepped inside.

  The man doing all the blankety-blanking was standing and looking up at a giant . . . well, I can’t explain it. It was like a giant, three-story steam shovel with all sorts of cables and steel mesh and hydraulic thingies that were hissing and clicking.

  An operator stood on the floor in front of a giant control panel pushing levers and turning knobs. This made the thing toss what might have been its head and open and close what might have been its mouth. Other workers were scurrying around its feet (all three of them). They were stapling on a bunch of greenish rubber which suddenly made the feet look like they were alive.

  The yelling man spotted us. “There you are,” he said as he glanced at his watch. “You’re late.”

  “We thought we’d wait till the swearing slowed down,” Dad answered pointedly.

  All right! Two points, Dad.

  “Sorry,” the man said with a nod of apology to Mom and me. “We’re just under a lot of pressure here.” He turned from the hissing and clicking monster and headed for us. “I’m Bernard Elliott, director of this little disaster.” He shook Dad’s hand and then mine. His face suddenly had the same pasted-on smile as the lady at the audition. “And you must be Mr. Wally.”

  “Uh, McDoogle,” I said, somehow feeling I’d had this conversation before.

  But he didn’t hear. He was too busy keeping up the fakey smile. “So . . . rumor has it you’re quite a screamer.”

  “I guess.” I shrugged. I guess? What type of answer is that? Your entire future depends upon this one man’s decision, and the best you can come up with is, “I guess”?

  “I hope you like heights,” he chuckled as he looked back up to the monster’s mouth. The operator moved the mechanical Martian’s “jaws” back and forth as if it were chewing something.

  “Heights?” I asked, looking up at the massive mouth.

  The director smiled. “If you’re going to be bait for ol’ Gertrude here, our little alien from Mars, you better be able to stand heights.”

  I continued to stare at Gertrude’s mouth. “Sure,” I kinda half croaked.

  The director broke into a grin. “Welcome aboard, Son. You’ll be fine for my picture, just fine.”

  It happened so quickly I couldn’t tell for certain, but it sounded like I just got the part! Then suddenly ol’ Gertrude started to hiss and click even louder.

  The director spun around and shouted at the operator. “What’s going on?”

  The operator had no time to answer. The entire contraption was starting to shudder and rock. Desperately, the man shoved the levers and turned the knobs. Nothing worked. Instead, the mouth chewed faster and faster, and the neck started swaying back and forth.

  The assistants at the feet quickly scattered. “Look out! She’s going to blow again!”

  A hose broke in the creature’s neck. Compressed air hissed from it! Then another hose broke. And another. Suddenly, the entire monster began to vibrate. Then its head fell forward . . . as more hoses snapped and more air hissed.

  The hissing air was deafening, but nothing compared to the director’s shouting as he raced up to the operator and yelled right in his face. “Four days, Mister . . . Four blankety, blank blank days!”

  We scrambled behind a van for safety and poked our heads out to watch. So this was the monster from Mars. So this was what was supposed to eat me.

  Mom and Dad looked pretty skeptical. I knew it would take more than a little fast talking to convince them i
t would be okay, that everything would be safe. (Of course, I’d have to convince myself first.) But as far as the director was concerned, it sounded like I just got my first part in a movie.

  As Gertrude rocked and hissed and swayed, I just hoped it wouldn’t be my last.

  Chapter 4

  Death of

  a Dorkoid

  It didn’t take much talking to convince Dad to let me stay in the movie. (The guy was as excited about it as I was.) So we hung around and worked things out with the director. You know, the little details like money and the safety of my life—that sort of stuff.

  Then it was home to bed and sleep. Well, sort of sleep.

  I was scheduled to begin filming in two days! In a mere forty-eight hours I would be a star! Me and Chad Steel rubbing elbows! Hanging out. Swinging by and doing interviews with Oprah Winfrey and Jay Leno.

  Eventually, I did drop off to sleep. But my dreams were so weird that I was more tired when I woke up than when I went to bed.

  First there was Gertrude, the mechanical monster from Mars. As far as dreams about mechanical monsters go, she was pretty normal . . . well, except for the straw hat and tap shoes. She was doing a pretty good job of singing “Swanee River” . . . considering the breathtaking Melissa Sue Avarice was riding on top of her neck, waving a cowboy hat, and shouting “Yippie-I-O-Ki-Ay!”

  Hey, I warned you it was weird. Unfortunately, there was more . . .

  Dad’s boss, Mr. Feinstein, was standing on a fire-truck ladder shouting through a megaphone. “Action, Ms. Lottalips, I want action, action, action!” while superhunk Chad Steel danced a ballet on the hood of the truck with Mom and Burt and Brock. (I’d never seen my brothers in tights. I hope I never have to again.) All this was happening as Opera crawled around on Gertrude’s back with a magnifying glass shouting, “I found another flea, I found another flea!” And, to top it off, Wall Street had me bound in chains like a slave and was auctioning me off to the highest bidder. (When I awoke, they were up to twenty-nine-cents.)

  But that dream was nothing compared to the weirdness of the rest of my day.

  First there was . . .

  BREAKFAST WITH BROCK

  “Hey, Squirt—you want a ride to school?”

  “What?” I said, nearly choking on my Cheerios. Burt and Brock never gave me the time of day . . . unless it was to yell at me for using all the toilet paper and not replacing it, or for leaning against their precious cars or something important like that. It’s not that my brothers hated me. It’s just, well, since I didn’t like sports, they figured I really wasn’t part of the family, so why get too attached.

  He cleared his throat and repeated, “I said, do you want me to take you to school?”

  “Well . . . sure . . .” I cautiously answered. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch,” he shrugged. “Valerie, my new babe, wants to talk to you about breaking into the biz.”

  “Biz?” I asked.

  “Yeah, you know, show biz . . .”

  “Oh . . . sure, no sweat.” But it was a sweat. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  Then there were . . .

  DISCUSSIONS WITH DAD

  “Don’t forget to ask if Mr. Feinstein can visit the set!” He chugged down the rest of his coffee and picked up his briefcase. On his way to the door, he side-stepped my sister’s backpack and tripped over our disaster-prone cat, Collision.

  “No prob,” I called from the kitchen. “Maybe I can get Mr. Feinstein a love scene with Laura Lottalips.”

  “Don’t be smart. You know how important it is for me to make a good impression if I want to get that promotion.”

  I nodded. For years Dad had been trying to make a good impression and get that promotion. And for years Mr. Feinstein had been brain dead about what a great worker Dad was.

  Then there was . . .

  SOCIALIZING AT SCHOOL

  Besides the usual gawks and winks and nods . . . which I was getting pretty used to, there was Wall Street. She had hired some sort of photographer guy who started firing off all sorts of pictures of me.

  “Wally, meet Bruce.”

  I stuck out my hand. FLASH. He took a picture.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Wall Street. FLASH.

  “Thought we’d get some eight-by-tens of you—FLASH—so you can autograph them. FLASH, FLASH. Should get a couple bucks a piece off ’em if we’re lucky. FLASH, FLASH, FLASH. You don’t mind, do you?” FLASH.

  “No, of course not,” I said as I stumbled up the school steps, totally blinded by the f lashes.

  Even Reptile Man was cool—well, as cool as a person like him can be.

  “Wallace.” He caught me as I headed past his door. “Would it be, that is to say . . .” he pushed his glasses back up on his sweaty nose, “. . . about that mechanical monster they’re using in the movie . . . the creature who’s supposed to eat you . . .”

  I looked at him, watching his twitching lips and the rivers of perspiration trickling over his brow.

  “Do you suppose . . . that is to say . . .” he pushed his glasses up again, “. . . would it be possible for me to take a peek at it—for scientific purposes, you understand—to see how it operates?”

  I couldn’t believe it, even Reptile Man was asking for favors. I broke into a smile. “No sweat Repti . . . er, Mr. Reptenson, I’m sure I can get you in to see it.”

  The corners of his twitching lips turned into a thin, sweaty smile. “Thank you, Wallace.”

  Unfortunately, there was one person who hadn’t changed. And that brings us to the . . .

  OPERATIONS OF OPERA

  I mean, the guy still acted like we were best friends or something. Don’t get me wrong, I still felt for him. But he had to understand I was different now. It’s true, at one time I kinda liked being a Dorkoid (as if I had any choice). But things had changed. I had graduated. Now I was Wally McDoogle, superstar. I couldn’t hang out with just anybody.

  “Wally.” He came up beside me as I headed down the hall.

  “Now what?” I groaned so loud that I hoped he would get the message. No luck. He was just as friendly as ever.

  “Reptile Man said the flea idea was cool. We can start it any time.”

  “What flea idea?” I said, acting as if he were barely there. If I treated him like scum, maybe he’d get the idea.

  “Our science project, remember?”

  “Hey, Barker,” I shouted over to one of the Metalheads. “How’s it goin’, man?”

  “Awesome, little buddy, outstandingly awesome.”

  We traded high-fives as I continued down the hall.

  Opera stayed glued to my side. He held up his match box. “I think one of the females is already starting to lay eggs,” he proudly beamed.

  That was it. I had tried everything I knew to get through to him in a nice way, and he still wouldn’t take the hint. It was time to play hardball.

  “Listen, Opera.” I came to a stop and looked him squarely in the eyes. “Things have changed. I’ve got more important things on my mind. More important people to hang out with.”

  A look of hurt started filling his eyes. It killed me, but I had to go on. “We’re going to begin filming tomorrow, so I’d appreciate your not bothering me anymore.”

  He just stared. Then blinked. I really ached for him, but I pushed it aside. I had to. Otherwise I’d fall right back into Dorkoidism.

  I turned and headed down the hall.

  A couple of popular girls were just ahead. “Hey, Jill . . . Susie . . . wait up.” I joined them, and we all started joking and laughing. I threw a look over my shoulder. I couldn’t help myself. I guess I still felt a lot for the guy.

  He stood all alone. When he caught me looking, he suddenly brightened. “Don’t worry,” he shouted, “I understand.”

  It’s about time.

  “I’ll work on the project by myself till you’re done. Then we’ll get together . . . all right?”

  I looked away.

  “
Just like old times! Dorkoids forever!” He held up his fist and little finger in our secret sign. “Right, Wally?”

  My heart broke. I wanted to run back to him. But I couldn’t. I had to do this. I had to be free of him. No matter what my heart felt. No matter what that still, small voice inside me said. I turned and continued down the hall.

  Finally, that afternoon there was . . .

  MANEUVERS WITH MELISSA

  “Hi, Wally.”

  I spun around. There she was in all her splendor. As usual, she was surrounded by her crowd of “Melissa Sue Wannabes.” Two per side. They were all popping and snapping their gum in perfect unison.

  I knew it was my turn to say something, but at the moment nothing came to mind. At the moment, I wasn’t even sure if I had a mind— just a whole herd of butterf lies, all f luttering around my stomach at the same time.

  I opened my mouth, hoping something would come out. Something smart. Something cool. Something to make her stand up and take notice.

  “Hi,” I squeaked back. Well, so much for smart, cool, and taking notice.

  She gave me a pathetic smile. The kind you give wounded animals along the side of the road. “Listen,” she said, continuing to pop and snap her gum, “do you, like, think you’re gonna, like, get a chance to meet Chad Steel?”

  A chicken would have lied. He would have said anything to impress her. So, of course, I did my best Kentucky Fried imitation. “Of course, I know Chad.” Talk about being chicken. Any minute I figured I’d start clucking and laying eggs. I felt awful. I hated lying. But the way Melissa Sue’s eyes widened in excitement, I knew more was coming. Sure enough. I opened my mouth and out popped, “Oh, yeah, me and Chad, we’re like, buds.”

  “No way,” she practically squealed.

  “Oh, yeah. We go way back.”

  She grabbed my arm and sorta jumped up and down. I couldn’t believe it, Melissa Sue was touching me. What next? Meeting her parents? Getting engaged? Picking out houses? “Do you think, like, maybe you could get me a lock of his fabulous hair?” she gasped.

  “For you, Missy,” I heard myself say, “. . . anything.”

  And then the most incredible thing happened. Something so surprising, so wonderful that it almost made the lie worthwhile . . .