Cartboy and the Time Capsule

by L. A. Campbell

  I couldn’t believe my luck because we have a Dunkin’ Donuts three blocks away, and what could be more local than that?

  Sadly, that wasn’t the point. Local means eating vegetables and stuff that are grown near you so you don’t waste gas getting them to the store.

  Before I even had a chance to make myself a final “H.R.” burger (a quarter-pound bacon cheeseburger with two chocolate-glazed doughnuts in place of the buns), everything in our house changed.

  All meat was replaced with tofu. Eggs were gone. And “cheese” became some sort of rice product that only tasted like cheese if you held your nose when you ate it.

  “Why stop at local when you can go vegan!” said my mom, who started wearing hemp sweatshirts and shoes made out of hay.

  “Mom, we can’t go vegan,” I said. “If the lack of meat and dairy doesn’t kill us, the withdrawal symptoms will.”

  “You’ll get used to it. And one day, you’ll thank me.”

  Believe it or not, this whole vegan thing hit my dad even harder than me. He was raised on a farm in Poland and grew up on kielbasa (a kind of hot dog), bratwurst (a kind of hot dog), and hot dogs. I’m pretty sure they grind up meat and put it in baby bottles over there.

  Mmm . . . pork chops . . .

  My mom’s new rule of “no meat ever” quickly started to make my dad depressed. I’d never seen a man so down in the dumps. The truth was, I was having a tough time too.

  Last week, on the way back from Grampa Janson’s house, we pulled over at the Rawhide Steakhouse on Route 17 just to breathe in the fumes from the grill. We even hung out in the parking lot of a Burger Barn hoping to sniff some airborne molecules of flame-broiled beef.

  Things were rough, but slowly my dad and I made progress. We learned some good tricks. Like, if you put a whole bottle of ketchup on a tofu burger, it’s not half bad. Or, with enough soy milk, you can choke down a gluten-free doughnut.

  All this healthy eating meant my dad and I finally had something in common. The other day, when my mom asked the two of us to watch the twins while she went shopping with Aunt Trudy, we sat up straight as arrows.

  “You bet!” said my dad.

  Right away, I could tell what my dad was thinking. ’Cause I was thinking the exact same thing.

  When it comes to babysitting, my dad and I are both pretty horrible at it. We usually catch one of the girls falling off the coffee table or pulling a quarter out of her mouth. Stuff that never happens when my mom is around. And forget dressing them to go outside. It takes us about three hours to get ready for a five-minute walk in the park.

  But the second my mom pulled out of the driveway, you never saw two people get a pair of toddlers in a double stroller faster. Three minutes. We headed into town at about seventy miles an hour, a seriously fuel-wasting speed for my dad.

  “Mr. Rifkind! Hal! Haven’t seen either of you in a while,” said the butcher, Mr. Hahn.

  My dad, being my dad, quickly scanned the meat to see what was on sale. He wasn’t about to actually pay real money for something, even though he wanted it bad. He offered to repair Mr. Hahn’s cold-cut slicer in exchange for two steaks, four pork chops, and a pound of bacon. Mr. Hahn agreed, and started to wrap up the meat.

  “Make it fast,” said my dad. “And remember, you never saw us.”

  While a confused Mr. Hahn put the meat in brown paper, my dad and I pressed our noses against the glass butcher case, eyeing the chops and sausages like a couple of jailbirds looking at freedom.

  By the time we made it to the sidewalk, my dad was wondering if we could actually eat the steaks raw. “They call it steak tartare in the fancy restaurants,” he said, wrapping his hands around a bloody rib eye and raising it to his lips.

  I was like, “Dad, that can’t be good for you. . . .” But by the time we got to the car, I too had not just licked, but gnawed off a corner of the steak.

  The minute we got home, we fired up the barbecue. It didn’t even cross our minds that it was January in Pennsylvania and the temperature was way below freezing. There was enough food for a soccer team and we were going to grill it. Our meatfest included no girly utensils, no wussy plates. Just our hands, mouths, and incisors.

  About halfway through our carnivore-athon, just as I was giving my dad a high five, my mom called to say she was on her way home. It gave us just enough time to cover the evidence. We used rubber gloves and bleach, just like they do on my dad’s favorite show, Law & Order.

  We scraped the last bit of gristle off the barbecue just in time to see my mom get out of the car lugging her reusable tote bags filled with stuff from the green market.

  She walked in the backyard and immediately started sniffing the air. “Something’s not right. What’s going on here?”

  “Just cleaning up,” my dad said, licking a chunk of beef off his tooth. “We made cumin-rubbed tofu.”

  “On the barbecue? It’s twelve degrees outside!”

  “But, Mom, grilled tofu is the best. So flavorful,” I added casually as I removed the pink rubber gloves.

  “Interesting that you two cleaned the grill so thoroughly . . .”

  “When it comes to barbecues, you can’t be too neat,” I said. “Keeps the raccoons away.”

  My mom glared at the rubber gloves and the bleach bottle near the bottom of the grill. “In the kitchen. Now, Hal.”

  I ditched the gloves and followed her to the kitchen. My heart was beating fast. I had a feeling this was not going to be pretty, especially when she pulled out a dining chair next to Perrie and made me sit down.

  “Cumin-rubbed tofu? You expect me to believe that, Hal?”

  Perrie pulled a bacon strip out of her dress and waved it around like a flag.

  “Okay, maybe we seasoned it with a little pork.”

  “I knew it!”

  “But it was hardly anything. Really, Mom. One little piece of bacon,” I said.

  Perrie held up her fingers. “Twee!”

  “Okay, three. But we were desperate. I thought Dad was going to start eating the leather chair in the living room.”

  Makes a good soup if you’re hungry enough.

  “Dad cooking meat, I can understand,” said my mom. “He was raised eating pigs’ knuckles for breakfast. But you. You should know better. You of all people should be following the rules of this house. And to think I’ve been telling your dad to give you your own room, even though Mr. Tupkin said your history grade is barely a D!”

  I yanked the bacon out of Perrie’s hand and threw it in the trash. “Mom, it’ll never happen again.”

  She stormed out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with Perrie, who started digging around in the trash for the bacon.

  “I promise I’ll bring up my grade,” I shouted at the kitchen door. But she was off to unload her beans and brown rice from the car.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what Mom would have done if she knew the whole truth. That besides the bacon, there were steaks and pork chops too. If she did know the truth, she would have grounded me on the spot and I probably wouldn’t get my own room until I was eighteen.

  I know this sounds crazy, but I swear sometimes I catch the twins looking at me as if they know exactly what Dad and I did. They say babies are a lot smarter than they look, and just because they can’t talk that much doesn’t mean they don’t understand. Sometimes my dad and I get a little creeped out when the girls stare at us. Like they would tell Mom the whole story if they could.

  In the meantime, I figure it can’t hurt to play it safe. When we’re at the grocery store, I make it a point to hold up a giant leg of lamb for the twins, point at it, and say, “tofu.”

  The Things People Eat

  Clothing

  Dear Future Being Whose Name I Don’t Know:

  A few days ago when I was getting dressed for school, my mom walked into my room and put a crumpled bag on my bed.

  “Here, Hal, I got you some new clothes.”

  That’s what my mom always says when she gives me
a bag of hand-me-downs, which are about all I wear.

  “Thanks, Mom. When you say new, do you mean new, like you went to the mall and bought me something that fits? Or new, as in they once belonged to Garth, he wore them to shreds, and now they’re mine.”

  “Oh, Hal. What’s the difference?”

  Arnie refuses to wear Garth’s hand-me-downs, but my mom gladly takes them. Once again, because it’s “green.”

  If you ever saw a pair of Garth’s jeans on me, you’d give me an award for helping save Planet Earth. They are about three sizes too big, and the cut is called husky. I could fit a sack of potatoes between me and a pair of slim-cut jeans, so you can imagine what it takes to get Garth’s pants to stay above my knees.

  Ropes, suspenders, glue guns, you name it, I’ve tried it.

  Sasquatch: one of the few creatures on Earth who is bigger than Garth.

  “Mom, no one loves old Planet Earth more than me. But, what do you say, just this once, we get me some new pants that cover my underwear in gym class.”

  “Hal Rifkind. You know as well as I do that brand-new clothing is a needless frivolity. Look at me, I’m wearing Aunt Trudy’s garden shoes.”

  She held up an orange clog and a small chunk of manure fell to the kitchen floor.

  My mom started to walk away, and I glanced down at the bag of clothes on the table. A gnarly brown soda stain on Garth’s T-shirt seemed to stare right back at me. I could swear the stain had a face with two beady little eyes and growling lips, just like Garth. Before I knew what was happening, my mouth suddenly flew open.

  “Mom. I need to look good at the middle school dance on Friday.”

  What possessed me to say that? I have no plans to go to the middle school dance. Ever. Sure, back in November I mentioned I was thinking of taking Cindy Shano, but I never actually meant it.

  My mom stopped in her tracks. A shriek flew out of her mouth that sounded like half car alarm, half eight-year-old girl.

  “Oh my God! You’re really going to the middle school dance! Cindy said yes! She is sooo cute in the doggie video! Are you going to kiss her? I have to chaperone. I’ll bring a camera. Oh, I need to get that on film!”

  My mom ran off, probably to call Arnie’s mom, Cindy’s mom, and every other mom in town. I just stood there in the middle of the kitchen, in the deep grave I’d just dug for myself.

  I had no idea what to do. The dance was on Friday, just days away! How did February get here so fast? All I knew was I had to go to school and Cindy Shano would be there for sure.

  The next day, I walked up to my locker pulling my squeaky cart, my clothes hanging off me like some sort of denim parachute. I didn’t even unpack my books. Instead, I just opened my locker and stared at the deep mess inside.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Arnie’s locker is next to mine, and he was just about the last person I wanted to see.

  “What’s happening, Hal?”

  I tried to ignore Arnie, mainly because I caught him talking to Ryan Horner again yesterday. This time, they were outside the cafeteria. The second they saw me, they split up.

  But once Arnie saw the expression on my face, he wouldn’t leave me alone.

  “I can tell something’s wrong, Hal.”

  I must have been desperate because I ended up telling Arnie everything that happened. That I told my mom I was going to the dance because I wanted new clothes. That she thought I already asked Cindy Shano, but that really I hadn’t.

  “Well, you have to ask Cindy to the dance now,” said Arnie. “I’m sure your mom has talked to her mom. It’s probably a done deal.”

  “I wouldn’t say done—”

  “Heather and I will pick up you and Cindy on the way. Trust me, this is going to be good.”

  “It’s not going to be good. Because it’s not going to happen. . . .”

  But Arnie wasn’t listening. And when I turned around, I could see why. Cindy Shano was standing at the end of the hallway.

  “There she is now, Hal.” Arnie gave me a nudge. “Go ahead. Ask her. Hurry, the bell’s going to ring.”

  My talk with Arnie would have to wait. Between my mom, Arnie, and the size forty-two pants bunching up at my ankles, I knew I would have to ask Cindy right away.

  I stood up fast, but my giant jeans got wedged in the cart and I couldn’t get them free. “Garth’s pants, I mean my pants, I mean the pants I’m wearing are stuck on the cart.”

  “Just go!”

  I tore my pants free, and squeaked down the hallway toward Cindy.

  Squeak.

  “Hey, Cindy.”

  Squeak.

  “What do you want, Cartboy?”

  “Nice to see you too. I wanted to . . .”

  Squeak.

  “. . . ask you a question.”

  Cindy looked at me and curled her face up as if she was smelling something bad, which, given the yellow armpit stains on Garth’s T-shirt, she probably was.

  I tried to see past the purple braces and the snarl. I tried to forget about the way she and her friends laugh at me in history class. Surely there was a kind person in there somewhere.

  “Do you want to . . . go . . . to . . . the . . . ahh . . .”

  She sucked a small gob of spit out of her braces. “Do I want to what?”

  “Do you want to go . . . to . . . the . . . ahh . . . the, ahh . . . history. Do you want to tutor me in history class?”

  Not only had I completely chickened out, and not only would I not be getting any new clothes, I had also just possibly made myself have to study history with Cindy Shano.

  “Two conditions,” she said. “One, you pay me. Two, you supply the food. I like taffy, beef jerky, and Milk Duds. Half an hour, your house. Once.”

  I wonder if Cindy has the same number of teeth as George Washington.

  That afternoon, when she showed up at my house, the truth was, I was kind of relieved. Yes, this tutoring thing would be torture. Yes, I wished I was playing RavenCave. But if I studied with Cindy, I might actually pass history.

  The second Cindy and I walked through the kitchen door, my mom ran up to us. “Helloooo, Cindy. Sooo nice to see you! Well, why don’t I leave you two alone. . . .”

  I felt my face turn bright red. “Where should we start, Cindy?” I asked. “Valley Forge? The Boston Tea Party?”

  But instead of cracking a book, all Cindy did was send about a million texts. Her fingers were moving so fast I could barely see them. All the while she was texting, she kept muttering to herself.

  “Jerk! I can’t believe it. She did not! With him? He was supposed to ask me!”

  Before I knew it, Cindy was crying and I had to give her like, fifteen tissues just to stop the waterworks. I could only make out about one of every six words, but she seemed to be saying something about having no date, looking like a fool, never going alone . . .

  Suddenly Cindy put down her phone and looked up at me. “Hal, I really can’t stand to be within three feet of you, I think you are really dumb, and I’d rather wade through elephant diarrhea than be seen with you, but . . . will you go to the dance with me?”

  “Well, when you put it like that, Cindy . . .”

  “I’ve been humiliated by Scott Baer. He was supposed to ask me, but he asked Darby Hoenicker, that little twerp, and now I have no one. Please. I’ll give you free tutoring. You can have the Milk Duds.”

  She looked up at me with big watery eyes, her top lip caught on her braces.

  “You don’t have to worry about the tutoring, Cindy. And you can keep the Milk Duds. I’ll take you.”

  Cindy looked relieved and a little bit scared. I was pretty scared too, especially because Friday, the day of the dance, came up pretty quick.

  Right after school, my mom took me to the mall for new clothes. I discovered a special little world that I never knew existed. It’s called the three-mirror dressing room. You get to try stuff on to see if it looks good from a million different angles. I got a bunch of things,
like new sneakers, a new pair of jeans, and a special shirt. Lots of kids said they were getting dressed up, so I figured I better too.

  The tuxedo T-shirt: fools ’em every time.

  That night, Arnie and I picked up Heather and Cindy and walked over to school, with our moms following us the whole way. Even though the walk was just two miles, it felt like a thousand. I kept trying to think of something to say to Cindy. At one point, I asked her if her dog sang anything besides “Happy Birthday,” but she just glared at me and kept quiet.

  When we got to the dance, I had no plans to hang out with Cindy Shano or do dancing of any kind. But then something came over me. I’m not sure what it was. Maybe the clothes from the mall. Maybe the feeling of wearing underpants that I was the first to own. I felt like a new man.

  The song “Boom Boom Pow” (a big hit a couple of years ago) came on, and I found myself grabbing Cindy’s arm and pulling her onto the dance floor. I started break-dancing and doing the robot and spinning on my back like a top. I finally got off the floor when the booing got too loud, but I didn’t care—my clothes didn’t fall off, they didn’t smell, and they didn’t even have any stains on them.

  That is, until my mom asked me to hold her full glass of punch while she took about four hundred pictures of Cindy and me. Cindy reached for my hand, and I spilled the whole cup of punch, nailing my pants, shirt, and shoes. I think even my socks turned pink.

  My mom’s photo albums from the dance.

  The truth was, I had a lot more fun at the dance than I ever imagined. I figured I should thank Arnie for pushing me to go, for getting me to ask Cindy Shano in the hallway that day. I had been so busy suspecting Arnie of going behind my back with Ryan, I forgot to appreciate that he looks out for me.

  I checked all around the dance and didn’t see Arnie anywhere. Suddenly, Garth walked over and gave me a kind of evil grin. “You lookin’ for Arnie, Cartboy? Try behind the bleachers.”

  I thought Garth was playing a trick on me, but since I didn’t see Arnie anywhere else, I walked past the bleachers. That’s when I saw the four legs.