My Life as a Computer Cockroach

by Bill Myers

  “This is crazy,” I mumbled for the hundredth time as we got off the bus and headed up the courthouse steps.

  “You worry too much,” Wall Street said as we entered the doors. “Just keep Ol’ Betsy there nice and handy in case we get into trouble.”

  I nodded as I pulled Ol’ Betsy a little closer under my arm.

  “Where are the snack machines?” Opera asked as we stepped into the lobby. (Hey, everybody’s got their priorities.)

  Up ahead was a guard sitting behind a security window. I leaned over to Wall Street and whispered, “He’ll never let us in.”

  “Just go past like you know what you’re doing.”

  “But . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” Wall Street said. “Ol’ Betsy hasn’t let us down yet. If Choco Chum says you’re the new police chief, then you’re the new police chief.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “And don’t forget Coach Kilroy. The poor guy is totally innocent.”

  “But . . . but . . . but . . .”

  So there I was, doing my motorboat imitation until the guard behind the window asked, “You kids want something?”

  He looked at me. My palms grew damp.

  He looked harder. My forehead grew wet.

  He looked even harder. Perspiration streamed down my face. Talk about police brutality. If I sweated any more they’d mistake me for an indoor fountain.

  Fortunately, Wall Street came to my rescue. “Police Chief McDoogle reporting for his first day of work,” she said in her deepest, most grown-up voice.

  The guard gave us a slight smile. “Right.”

  “I’m serious,” Wall Street said. “This is Chief McDoogle, I’m his secretary, and this here is the jail’s new cook.”

  The slight smile grew to a slight grin.

  “I’m not joking,” Wall Street insisted. “If you don’t believe us, just check the records.”

  “Why don’t you children run along now and play somewhere else.”

  “If you would just—”

  “Go on now, before I lose my patience.”

  Suddenly, with the world’s biggest scowl, Wall Street turned to me and said, “Chief McDoogle, I suggest you take down this man’s badge number and immediately put him on report.”

  The guard’s smile drooped slightly. Wall Street turned back to him. “The chief’s a merciful man. If you’ll just look at your records, I’m sure he’ll go easy on you.”

  With a heavy sigh the guard reached for the computer keyboard. “Look, kiddies,” he said as he began to type. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing, but—” Suddenly, he stopped. “That’s funny.”

  Wall Street and I exchanged glances.

  He looked up at me. “What’s the name again?”

  And always being the quick thinker that I am, I responded, “Uh . . . duh . . . hmm . . .”

  “McDoogle,” Wall Street said. (I told you she was the smart one.) “Wally McDoogle.”

  He stared at the screen, hit a few more keys, and shook his head in amazement.

  Wall Street and I fidgeted nervously.

  Finally, he spoke. “I don’t understand it, but . . . you’re right. It says right here, ‘Police Chief Wally McDoogle.’ Now when did that happen?”

  “It was sort of a last-minute appointment,” Wall Street said.

  “But you’re just kids.”

  Wall Street motioned toward the monitor. “Computers don’t lie.”

  He glanced back to the screen, hit a few more keys, and nodded. Then he looked back at me and asked, “You got any I.D.?”

  Since my last answer worked so well, I tried it again. “Uh . . . duh . . . hmm . . .”

  Once again, Wall Street came to my rescue. “I.D.?” she asked.

  “Yeah, you know, something to prove he’s”—he looked back at the screen—“Wally McDoogle. Maybe a passport, or a driver’s license, anything.”

  My mind raced a thousand miles an hour. The only problem was it raced a thousand miles an hour in circles, which is the same as racing nowhere at all. It seemed no matter how hard I tried, I just kept coming back to the same tried-and-true answer: “Uh . . . duh . . . hmm . . .”

  “Is that really necessary?” Wall Street asked.

  The guard nodded. “Just because he says he’s Wally McDoogle doesn’t mean he’s—”

  Suddenly, I had it. “My milk ticket!” I blurted out.

  Everyone just sort of stared at me. Well, everyone but Wall Street, who was already shaking her head in silent wonder at my stupidity.

  “No, I’m serious,” I said as I pulled the school cafeteria milk ticket out of my pocket. “It’s got my signature and everything.” I held the beat-up piece of paper to the glass for the guard. “See . . . right there, ‘Wally McDoogle.’”

  He carefully scrutinized it. “What are all those red drops on it?” he asked. “They look like blood.”

  “Oh”—I grinned—“that’s where I accidentally stabbed myself with a ballpoint pen.”

  “He’s never been good with pointy objects,” Wall Street explained.

  The guard could only stare at it. Then he stared at the computer screen. Then he stared at me. My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid he could hear it. Then, shaking his head, he reached for a button. The door buzzed, and we pushed it open. A moment later, all three of us were inside the city jailhouse.

  “The offices are on the third floor . . . Chief McDoogle. I’ll be calling up there to have someone meet you and straighten this out.”

  “Thank you,” I croaked. And then, wanting to sound more official, I added, “You can bet there’ll be a big promotion in this for you.”

  Before the guard could answer, Wall Street grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the elevator. “Don’t overdo it,” she whispered.

  “Overdo it?” I asked. “You just had us break into the city jail pretending to be public officials, and you tell me not to overdo it!”

  “Let’s hurry!” Opera said as he pushed the elevator button. (Having spotted no vending machines it was obvious he wanted to get to the third floor, to see if his luck was any better.)

  How had it happened? How, by using Ol’ Betsy to cheat just a little, had we gotten into such a jam? Unfortunately, I was already beginning to understand that cheating is a lot like lying. The Bible makes it pretty clear that there’s no such thing as a “little lie” (if you don’t believe me, check out My Life As Dinosaur Dental Floss). The same is true with a little cheating. Cheating is cheating. And, just like lying, it’s wrong in a major uh-oh, I-guess-I-won’t-be-trying-that-again kind of way.

  “Wall Street?” I croaked.

  “Yeah?”

  “Now what do we do?”

  “What we’ve always done,” she said as the elevator doors finally opened and we stepped inside. “What’s that?”

  She waited until the doors closed and we were trapped inside before giving her answer; one I could have lived another millennium without hearing: “We fake it.”

  Chapter 6

  Faking It

  Once we were outside the police chief’s office, his secretary stopped us. The good news was that the real police chief was at some fancy breakfast making some fancy New Year’s speech with a bunch of fancy people. The bad news was that Wall Street had actually managed to talk his secretary into not throwing us out.

  “Just look at your computer,” Wall Street kept saying. “Just look at your computer.”

  When the woman finally did look at the computer, she scowled hard at her screen. “It must be some sort of glitch,” she said. “There must be a bug in our system.”

  “Then check out the other systems,” Wall Street said. “Check the mayor’s system. Check the governor’s. Check every computer in the state! They’ll all say the same thing: Wally McDoogle is the new chief of police!”

  “Well, I’ll just do that, young lady,” the secretary said.

  And when she did, she was even more surprised. It was exactly
as Wall Street had predicted. Every single computer gave the same information: Wally McDoogle was the new police chief . . . Wall Street was his new secretary . . . and Opera was the new dietitian. Although she wasn’t happy about the situation, the secretary agreed to give us a spare office and let Opera go down to the kitchen— at least until she sorted things out. That was her plan.

  Unfortunately, ours would be a little different. While I sat back to survey my office, Wall Street left to start her detective work. A few minutes later she barged into my new office with a stack of papers just slightly taller than the World Trade Center. As she plopped them down on my desk, I asked, “What are these?”

  “They’re the forms you need to sign so Coach Kilroy can go free.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Of course you can. You’re the police chief, remember?”

  I shook my head. “Wall Street, we’ve got to stop this. We’ve got to tell them this is all a lie. We’ve got to tell them there’s some mixed-up microchip in my computer and that we—”

  “You’re going to tell Coach Kilroy that you’re the reason he got arrested?”

  “Well, uh . . .”

  “That you manufactured all that evidence against him?”

  “Uh . . . duh . . .” I was back to using my brilliant debating skills again.

  “That you’re the reason he’s in jail?”

  “Uh . . . duh . . . hmm . . .”

  “And then,” she continued, “when everything’s all cleared up, and you finally get out of prison for impersonating an officer, you’re going to go back to finish P.E. and face whatever torture Coach Kilroy has been planning for you all that time?”

  I looked at her.

  She looked at me.

  And then, taking my famous McDoogle stand for courage, I grabbed the pen and asked, “Where do I sign?” But I’d barely written my name on the paper when an alarm sounded.

  “What’s that?!” I shouted.

  “I don’t know!” Wall Street yelled.

  We raced out into the hallway to join the secretary. “What’s going on?” I cried.

  “The prisoners are rioting!” the secretary shouted.

  “Why?”

  “For lunch somebody cooked them a greasy potato chip casserole smothered in salt and topped with even greasier corn chips!”

  My suspicions rose.

  “That’s disgusting!” Wall Street shouted over the alarm.

  “Actually,” the secretary yelled, “it’s the two inches of Greas-o poured over each helping that really upset them.”

  My suspicions were confirmed. “Where exactly are the jail cells?” I yelled.

  “Behind those steel doors at the end of the hall!” the secretary shouted.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned and started down the hallway.

  “Wally,” Wall Street yelled. “Where are you headed?”

  “Enough is enough!” I shouted as I continued forward. “I’m not sure how, but I’m going to clear this up once and for all!”

  “Not by going in there, you’re not!”

  But I’d made up my mind. Maybe it was the hope of getting to talk to Coach Kilroy. Maybe it was explaining to the inmates the real problem. I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was time to start being honest.

  I arrived at the steel doors. To my right, a guard sat in a room with thick glass walls where he could see both our hallway to his left and the jail cells to the right. I gave him a nod, but he hesitated.

  I cleared my voice and shouted over the alarm, “As police chief, I’m ordering you to open this door.”

  He looked nervous.

  I tried again. “Mister, that is a direct order from your superior officer!” I wasn’t sure it would work, but it always did the trick in those army movies. I figured I’d give it a try. He threw a nervous look at the secretary, who reluctantly nodded. Finally, he reached down and pressed a button.

  The steel door clicked loudly and then swung open.

  “Wally!” Wall Street shouted. “Don’t go in there! Wally, that’s crazy!”

  Crazy?! I thought. Crazy is when you accidentally create a mixed-up microchip and start using it to cheat with your grades. Crazy is when you have to cover that cheating by having your coach arrested. Crazy is when the only way to free him is to pretend you’re the chief of police. If you want to talk crazy, then that’s crazy!

  I stepped through one doorway and then the other until I was finally in the hall where all the jail cells were. That’s when I realized Wall Street’s definition of crazy might be better than mine after all.

  The place had gone berserk. Prisoners were yelling and banging on the bars of their cells. Some were flinging Opera’s gourmet masterpiece in every possible direction including

  K-Splat

  mine. A kitchen worker had started a grease fire, and the place was filling up with more smoke than our house when it’s my little sister Carrie’s night to cook.

  But it wasn’t just the food that was making them so angry. Someone had also gotten hold of the overhead PA and was playing Pavarotti or Tortellini or one of those Italian opera guys. It was terrible. Almost as bad as Dad’s solos in the shower. And there was only one person to blame.

  “Opera!” I shouted as I stumbled through the smoke-filled hall. “Opera, if you can hear me, turn that stuff off ! Opera!”

  There was no answer . . . at least not from Opera. There was, however, another voice I recognized.

  “McDoogle! McDoogle, is that you?”

  I spun around to see a man with his face pressed against the bars. It might have been Coach, but I couldn’t be sure. I mean, without his sweats, his whistle, and his constant shouting at me, it was hard to tell, until he finally shouted:

  “McDoogle, you moron, what are you doing here?”

  Yup, that was him.

  “McDoogle!”

  “I’m here to get you out.”

  “What?”

  Without another word I turned back to the guard in the glass booth and shouted, “Unlock this man’s cell.”

  The guard looked confused and uncertain.

  “I said, unlock this man’s cell!”

  “McDoogle,” Coach yelled, “what are you doing?”

  I gave no answer. “Guard! As police chief, I am giving you a direct order. Unlock this cell, now!”

  With as much enthusiasm as someone getting a tetanus shot, the guard finally obeyed and hit the button. Immediately, Coach’s cell door unlocked. I pulled it open.

  “McDoogle, what are you—”

  “I’m rescuing you!” I shouted over all the noise. “Hurry!”

  Reluctantly, he stepped out of his cell to join me. We turned and headed back toward the guard, who pressed another button. The steel door swung open, Coach and I stepped through, and a moment later we entered the office hallway.

  “Wally!” Wall Street shouted. “Coach Kilroy!”

  But that was as far as our little reunion went. Because at that exact instant the real police chief stepped out of the elevator with Opera. He took a look at me, then he took a look at Coach Kilroy.

  “All right, McDoogle,” Coach half-whispered. “Tell me what we’re supposed to do now.”

  I sized up the situation and quickly put my McDoogle genius to work. I evaluated every possibility and every consideration until I finally had a plan.

  “Well?” Coach demanded.

  I opened my mouth and at the top of my lungs suggested the best idea I’d had all day:

  “RUN!!!!”

  Chapter 7

  11:59 and Counting . . .

  Since the real police chief was busy blocking the elevator, and since running seemed to be our only option (either that or suddenly admitting everything, which would be far too easy and end all of this pain, misery, and misadventure), we decided to head for the stairs. I took the lead (a definite mistake for all involved), Coach Kilroy followed, then Wall Street and Opera.

  I reached the door to the stairs, th
rew it open, and we started down them.

  “Wally!” Wall Street shouted from behind me.

  But I couldn’t be bothered. I was on a mission. I’d gotten us into this mess, and now it was up to me to get us out.

  “Wally!” she repeated.

  “Don’t worry!” I shouted over my shoulder. “I’ll get us down to the exit!”

  “Wally!!”

  “What!”

  “If we want to go downstairs, why are we heading up the stairs?”

  I came to a stop. (The only thing worse than my lack of coordination is my lack of direction.) “Sorry,” I said, starting to turn back, “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

  Suddenly, Coach Kilroy held out his hand and stopped me. “Then we’re doing the right thing?” I looked at Wall Street. She looked at me. I looked at Opera. He looked at me. Then in perfect three-part harmony we all turned to Coach and looked at him: “Huh?”

  He explained. “Every time McDoogle thinks, he gets into trouble. Right?”

  “Right.” We all nodded.

  “No offense,” he said, “but he ain’t the brightest bulb in the pack. Right?”

  “Right,” we agreed.

  “Or the most athletic,” Opera offered.

  “Or the best looking,” Wall Street agreed.

  “Or the most gracefu—”

  “All right, all right,” I said, “I get the point.” I looked at Coach and asked, “So what do you suggest we do?”

  He answered, “You’ve thought it over and want to go down, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then we better hurry and go up.”

  Of course. It made perfect sense. Without a word, I turned, and we continued running up the stairs—me doing what I do best: wearing myself out, coughing and gasping for breath, and Coach doing what he does best: “Come on, McDoogle! Move it! Move it! Move it!”

  And then, just when I was about to sprain a lung, we reached the door to the roof. I pushed against it with all my mightiness, which we’ve already established is pretty mightiless, but the door didn’t budge.

  “Come on, McDoogle, push!”

  I leaned back and slammed my body into it as hard as I could.

  K-Bamb

  The door still didn’t move.