My Life as a Bigfoot Breath Mint

by Bill Myers

  Chapter 5

  Dad to the Rescue. . . Almost

  Of course I knew the building wasn’t really burning. It was just a movie set, an attraction people paid money to see. Oh, sure the flames were real, but they were fed by little gas nozzles. The building wasn’t really—

  “Wally, our car’s burning!”

  I spun around to look. One of those little gas nozzles must have ignited our little back end. No problem, except that little back end was connected to a little gas engine that was connected to a little gas tank that could easily—

  “Run!” I cried. “It’s going to blow!”

  Carrie didn’t have to be told twice. Neither did I. We leaped out of the car and headed for cover. We’d barely scampered behind some giant vents near the edge of the roof when suddenly

  K-WHOOOOSH!

  Our little car made a not-so-little explosion.

  We ducked as bits and pieces of burning car rained down around us. And then, to our amazement we heard . . . applause.

  Carrie and I glanced at each other then looked over the edge of our burning building. There, three stories below us, an audience stood applauding and nodding in approval.

  “What are they doing?” Carrie shouted.

  “They think we’re part of the show!” I yelled.

  I couldn’t believe it. Here we were, barely escaping an exploding car, surrounded by flames, about to become crispy critters, and everybody thought we were part of the show.

  Well, not quite everybody . . .

  Having seen everything from the Castle of Horrors line, Dad had raced toward the Flaming Inferno. He leaped over the handrail and started climbing the charred and smoldering building.

  “Hang on, kids, I’m coming.”

  “Oh no,” I groaned, “what’s he going to mess up now?”

  Of course the crowd only ooed and aahed. They thought the show was getting more suspenseful.

  “Be careful, Daddy!” Carrie screamed.

  Dad nodded and continued working his way up through the building. His face and clothes blackened, he ignored the flames flickering on all sides and just kept climbing. I was pretty impressed. For an old man, he was making good progress. So far he’d gotten about six and a half feet off the ground.

  “Any time Dad,” I muttered as the flames licked all around us. “Any time.”

  Suddenly there was a loud

  CREAK . . . CRASH!

  Part of the roof near us caved in and fell away.

  WHOOOOOOSHHHH . . .

  Even more flames leaped up and surrounded us.

  “Hurry, Daddy, hurry!”

  I watched in stunned amazement. The pain on Dad’s face made it pretty clear that his back had given out again. But he wouldn’t stop. The guy just kept on coming. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter a whole lot. He’d only climbed about fifteen feet when he made a major mistake.

  “No, not that one!” I shouted as he jumped toward a beam. “The top is burnt, it can’t hold your—”

  Suddenly it gave way. It slipped and tipped violently, throwing Dad to his knees. He slid all the way to its edge.

  “DADDY!” Carrie screamed.

  How embarrassing, I thought.

  Still, he managed to cling to the end.

  More applause.

  Now, all three of us were in danger. Dad about to plunge to the hard pavement below. Carrie and I about to become charcoal briquettes.

  And then, suddenly: “Hang on, you two!”

  We looked up. “Uncle Max!”

  With mountain gear, he had dropped down from the roller coaster supports to join us.

  “Here,” he shouted, “take these straps. Wrap them around your waists and buckle onto me.”

  We followed his instructions. After a few fumblings (what else is new?), I finally managed to buckle us in.

  “Okay,” he ordered, “hang on.”

  We nodded and clung to him as he pushed off.

  He effortlessly took us down the front of the burning building. In a matter of seconds all three of us had landed safely on the ground.

  There was plenty of clapping and cheering. And already we could hear little voices begging, “Let’s see this ride again, Mommy, let’s see it again!”

  Of course Uncle Max paid no attention. He had other things on his mind. He quickly spun around and started to climb back up to rescue Dad. I’m sure Max thought he was doing Dad a favor. But from the look of humiliation on Dad’s face, I figured he might have been happier to have just been left there to die.

  An hour later, we headed back to Uncle Max’s place. The park officials had decided to shut Fantasmo World down for the rest of the day.

  “So what exactly went wrong?” Burt asked.

  “Dunno,” Uncle Max said. “But somebody found a Slusho-Ice on top of the master computer.”

  The words Slusho-Ice and computer brought back some vivid memories. Hadn’t I had a Slusho-Ice? Hadn’t I been in the computer room? It was an absurd thought, so I pushed it from my mind. Besides, what could a little Slusho-Ice do?

  “Looks like it melted right into the computer,” Max continued. “It shorted out the whole system.”

  My stomach started doing little flip-flops.

  “Now, who would be stupid enough to leave something like that on a computer?” Brock asked.

  “Got me. But whoever it was has strange taste buds. The giant Slusho-Ice was part cherry, orange, and root beer.”

  My stomach had gone from flip-flops into major somersaults and tumbling. I was even thinking about entering it in the Olympics when I noticed that Dad hadn’t said a single word. He just sat silently beside me, staring out the car window.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  No answer.

  “Dad?”

  “Huh?” He coughed and pretended to clear his throat. “Yeah, uh,” he gave a sniff, “it’s just my stupid allergies acting up again.”

  But by the way he kept staring out the window, I knew it was more than allergies. He had major hurt feelings. And I knew why. The last little event at the Flaming Inferno had been pretty humiliating for him. In fact, the whole trip had been. Seems like every time he turned around, Uncle Max was doing things a thousand times better than he was.

  But it wasn’t Uncle Max’s fault. You couldn’t blame him for staying in California and making something out of himself. It wasn’t Uncle Max’s fault that he was everybody’s hero. And it definitely wasn’t Uncle Max’s fault that Dad was so . . . you, know . . . uncool.

  I hated thinking it, but it was the truth. Like it or not, Uncle Max was right. Dad was a loser.

  Once we got home, we put down another incredible dinner, courtesy of Uncle Max’s cook. Then, to help forget the day I scrambled up to my room, snapped on ol’ Betsy, and got back to my superhero story.

  When we last left Floss Man, he was about to leap out of the president’s window. He had to stop Harry the Haircube from releasing the toxic gas that’s adding corners to everything round.

  No one’s sure what made Harry such a corner freak. Some say it’s because his mother made him eat three square meals a day. Others say it’s because he was nearly run over by a bowling ball as a baby.

  Then there’s the theory that his school teacher made him drink OVALtine and eat little round crackers for every snack, every week, for a whole year. Whatever the reason, Harry hated curves in every shape and form.

  Anyway, Floss Man stands at the windowsill and takes a deep breath. With a harrowing heroic lunge, our heroic hero heroically leaps. (Translation: The guy jumps.)

  Faster and faster he falls, fluttering through the air. All the while he’s hoping against hope that through some very clever writing, the wind will pick up his little thread body and carry him to Haircube’s headquarters.

  Unfortunately, our writer is not that clever.

  Unfortunatelier, the little thread body is suddenly caught in the beak of a not-so-little robin.

  Unfortunateliest, Ms. Red Breast thinks she�
��s going to use him as part of her nest.

  “Put me down!” our hero shouts. “Put me down!”

  “Cheep, cheep,” Bird Brain chirps.

  “I said put me down!”

  “Cheep, cheep,” she repeats.

  Well, that about wraps up any chance for intelligent conversation. This poor feathered creature couldn’t pour water out of a pitcher with the instructions on the bottom.

  Desperately Floss Man looks for a way out. He glances to the ground below and sees that things are worse than he thought. Everything is growing corners. Cars are skidding and sliding on square wheels. Folks are choking on their breakfasts of Cheerios——make that Cheerisquares. And children are knocking themselves silly trying to twirl square hula hoops.

  Once again Floss Man shouts to the bird. “You don’t understand! Haircube is putting corners on everything.”

  “Cheep, cheep,” Ms. Red Breast says.

  “If you’re thinking of using me to build your nest, you’ve got some major worries ahead.”

  “Cheep, cheep?” she asks.

  “Why? I’ll tell you why. If you’re building a nest, you’re going to be laying eggs.”

  “Cheep, cheep.”

  “Any idea how much fun laying square eggs will be?”

  Immediately the robin changes her attitude, as well as her direction.

  “All right!” Floss Man shouts. “Take me to Haircube’s, on the double.”

  Faster than you can ask yourself how a bird can understand English, they are over Haircube’s hideout. Once an M & M’s factory, it is now reduced to making little candy cubes (those new blue ones are pretty tasty).

  “Take me to that smokestack over there, the one belching out all that toxic gas. Drop me into——”

  Before he can even finish his request, Bird Brain darts to the smokestack and drops Floss Man inside.

  CRASH! RATTLE...

  COUGH, COUGH, COUGH.

  He flutters to the bottom. But when Floss Man throws open the smokestack door and steps into the factory, he is met by the hideous sight of——

  “Hey, Wally!” Uncle Max shouted. “Shut that thing off. If you’re doing the show with me tomorrow, you’ll need your rest.”

  All right! The show. With all that had happened, I’d almost forgotten.

  If I had known what was in store for me, I’d wished I had.

  Chapter 6

  Breakfast Acrobatics

  Breakfast was interesting, to say the least.

  Actually it was interesting, to say the most too.

  First there were Burt and Brock, the human eating machines. Uncle Max hadn’t come downstairs yet, but yesterday he’d said they could eat as much as they could hold. Right now it looked like they were going for some sort of world’s record.

  “Would you BELCH pass that fifth plate of BURP French toast BELCH?” Burt asked.

  “If you’ll BURP pass that sixth platter of BELCH eggs BURP,” Brock answered.

  Then of course there was little Carrie, who went into fits every time a piece of food on her plate touched another piece.

  “The syrup’s touching my eggs! The syrup’s touching my eggs!”

  “I’m sorry, Sweetheart,” Mom said, “but there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Towel them off! Get the hair dryer!”

  Then of course there was Dad, still reading and studying our great aunt’s paperwork.

  “Herb,” Mom said while pouring him another cup of coffee. (Well, it was supposed to be coffee. But since it was the cook’s day off and since Uncle Max’s coffee maker was kind of new to Mom, it looked more like melted tar.) “You’ve been up all night working on that, why don’t you give it a rest?”

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’d love to,” he sighed, “but if I don’t do this, who will?”

  “She was Max’s aunt too. Why won’t he help?”

  “Since when has Max helped with anything?” Dad asked.

  “Uncle Max is busy,” I said, coming to his defense. “He doesn’t have time for little things like that.”

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Dad sighed as he returned to his paperwork. “Uncle Max doesn’t have time for anybody but Uncle Max.”

  The comment bugged me. I mean it was obvious Dad was just jealous. But before I could say anything, the French doors in the dining room exploded into a zillion pieces.

  Mom screamed.

  Burt and Brock belched.

  Carrie complained about the flying splinters of wood touching her bacon.

  And two men of the thug variety burst in.

  “Where is he?” Thug One shouted.

  “Now see here,” Dad said, rising to his feet. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t come bursting in here and—”

  That was as far as he got before Thug Two shoved a small revolver in his face. (It’s hard to talk with your mouth wrapped around the barrel of a small revolver.)

  “That ain’t him,” Thug One shouted. “Where is he? Where’s Max McDoogle?”

  But before any of us could turn informer, Uncle Max appeared in his robe on the balcony above us.

  “What’s all the noise down—uh, oh.” Without another word, he spun around and sprinted back down the hall.

  Now, the way I figured it, he was either going to jump into the shower to freshen up for our breakfast guests . . . or he was running for his life. And by the way the thugs started after him, I voted for the latter.

  In a flash, they dashed up the stairs and disappeared after him. In another flash, Max suddenly dropped from a window onto the lawn in front of the dining room. He headed inside to join us while hopping up and down trying to get his legs into his pants.

  “Who are those people?” Dad shouted.

  “The guys trying to collect on my gambling debts,” Uncle Max said as he continued to hop. “Say, are you going to eat this toast, Herb?”

  Dad shook his head. Uncle Max grabbed it, crammed it into his mouth, and hopped for the door.

  “Oh, Wally,” he said spinning around. “Rehearsal at 10:00 this morning. Don’t be late.”

  I nodded.

  He wrinkled his nose and glanced at his toast. “Herbie, you’ve got to cut down on the butter. Not very good for your health.”

  Suddenly the thugs appeared on the balcony.

  “After him!” they shouted as they started down the stairs.

  Speaking of health, Uncle Max decided now would be a good time to dash out the front door. Not, of course, without being the polite host and encouraging us all to “have a nice day.”

  An hour later I was upstairs getting ready for my world debut as a stunt man at Fantasmo World. There wasn’t much I could do except pack a hundred bandages (just in case my klutziness acted up) and throw in a pair of crutches. Then, of course, there was the call to 911 to put them on standby and a message to the nearest funeral home, just in case. (I like to be prepared.)

  I was putting the finishing touches on my last will and testament when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  It was Mom. “Hey, Wally.”

  “Hi.”

  Pause.

  “So you’re getting all ready to go to Fantasmo World and rehearse with Uncle Max.”

  “Yup.”

  Pause.

  “Should be fun,” she said.

  “Yup.”

  Another pause.

  Now you don’t have to be a brain surgeon to know that when Mom lets all those pauses slip in, she’s got something on her mind. You also don’t have to be a genius to figure out that she expects you to ask what it is. So, being the nongenius that I am, I did.

  “What’s up, Mom?”

  “Well . . . I know your father wouldn’t come up here and say this. That’s not his way, but . . .”

  Pause.

  I glanced at my watch. “Mom, it’s getting kinda late. Can we skip the pauses?”

  She nodded. “Do you remember when Dad said he wanted to show us where he grew
up?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, since we’re leaving tomorrow, this morning would be the last chance.”

  “But I’ve got rehearsal in half an hour, and then the show this afternoon.”

  “I know. And I’d hate for you to miss it. But—”

  I could see where she was going and tried to cut her off at the pass. “Mom, this is a chance of a lifetime.”

  “I know . . . it’s just . . . well, it would mean so much to your father. He’d love to show us around his old neighborhood and tell us stories of his childhood . . .”

  She let another pause slip in just for good measure, but I wasn’t falling for it. This time I let the silence hang.

  She gave a long, quiet sigh.

  Uh-oh, red alert, red alert. She’s going for the guilt. She’s going for the guilt.

  It took every ounce of my strength, but I was able to hold my ground and not say a word.

  Finally she rose from the bed. “I suppose you’re right, Sweetheart. It would be selfish to ask you to miss out on that show . . . after all . . .” another sigh. Uh-oh, here it comes . . . “What’s he ever done for you?”

  “Oh, Mom . . .”

  She flashed me a grin. “That was a little much, wasn’t it?”

  I grinned back. “I’ll say. Especially after what he’s put me through these last couple of days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s face it. Dad’s been nothing but an embarrassment this whole trip.”

  Mom hesitated, then crossed over and shut the door. She turned back to me. I could tell by the way her voice quivered that she was pretty upset. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.”

  Her tone surprised me, and I tried to explain. “Well, that’s all he is. I mean why couldn’t he be like Uncle Max—”

  “Wally.”

  But I was on a roll and couldn’t stop. “Why couldn’t he be Mr. Cool, with all the cars, the money, the superstar friends. I mean Uncle Max is practically a hero, and Dad’s just . . . well, he’s just . . .”

  “He’s just what, Wally?”

  “Well, you know.” I shrugged. “He’s kind of a loser.”

  Mom grabbed me by the arm and sat me down on the bed . . . hard. “Don’t you dare say that about your father!”