A little giggle snuck out of me. “Way better.”
I let out a yawn and rose from the couch. Dad switched off the lights and grabbed a late-night snack from the kitchen. I locked the front door and closed the blinds. At the top of the stairs, a warm bed and a soft pillow were waiting for me. I breathed in the quiet.
“Night, Dad.”
“Night, sweetheart.”
Chapter 17
Giving Back
“Are you watching?” said the voice on my phone. The last time I heard that question I was asked to watch a televised police pursuit. Again, I was instructed to tune to a TV news channel. This time it was a live press conference from the White House.
The U.S. President stood at the pressroom podium, as reporters fired questions at him. The issues raised were all fairly typical: When are you going to fix the economy? What are you doing about climate change? Who was that woman we saw you with last night? There was nothing to suggest that we were in the midst of a national crisis. So, what was so urgent that I had to sit through this tiresome Q & A?
Though terribly bored, I’m glad I did, because what happened next was anything but dull. While the president responded to rumors of his misconduct, his hair suddenly turned . . . white!
It just popped on, like switching on a light bulb. It happened so fast that no one knew how to react. At first, gasps spread through the press corps, then giggles. Unable to see his own hair, the president thought he had unwittingly told a joke. “What?” he said. “What did I say?”
With that, the whole room erupted into laughter. “Is George Washington’s hairstyle coming back?” joked one reporter. But before the befuddled president could reply, the secret service whisked him out of the room.
News cameras panned over to capture the reporter’s expressions, but their smiles didn’t last long. One by one, their hair started turning white, too. Print journalists, TV newscasters, foreign correspondents. Pop, pop, pop! It was like watching popcorn bursting in a stove top popper. Those who were unaffected either poked fun at their colleagues, or hightailed it out of the room, fearing they would be the next victims.
For sure, it was a moment not to be missed. But, who was that calling to let me in on the joke?
“Who is this?” I asked my anonymous caller.
“In a minute. Turn to channel 7.”
At the New York Stock Exchange, investors celebrated the end of the trading day. A group of them happily rang the closing bell and applauded another round of excess earnings. Shrieks then rose from the trading floor as their hair turned snow-white.
I saw the same thing happen on other channels. C-SPAN showed congressmen with their hands on their bleached heads running from the Senate chambers. A basketball star’s dreadlocks turned white as a floor mop while shooting a 3-pointer. A reality cooking show suddenly went black when the hair of its judges turned frosty.
“This is awesome!” I told my caller. “But, who is this?”
“Don’t you recognize my voice? Maybe this will help: Yoooou Maaaake Meeee Smiiiile!”
Only one person had ever sung that tune to me. “Ravi! Where are you?”
“I probably shouldn’t say. I’m still considered an escaped criminal, and as we both know, phones can be bugged.”
“What’s with all the white-haired people? Are you doing it?”
“Thank Snipper Jim. Those drums he stole from me didn’t contain Guilt Remover. They were filled with peroxide, mixed with a special time-release agent of my own creation. Jim’s TV shoppers thought they could erase their guilt without anyone finding out. Well, now they’ve got some serious explaining to do.”
“Peroxide? Why would you do such a thing?”
“It was only a matter of time before my discovery fell into the wrong hands. So, I decided to conduct a little experiment. By turning their hair white, all the guilty people would be exposed. I expect you’ll hear a lot of apologies in the coming days. But the real test will be in how the rest of us respond. Many will want to ridicule them, but a lot of us won’t. You rarely see it these days, but I believe people have a hidden desire to forgive, if given half a chance to show it.”
“What about all that Guilt Remover? You must have had a thousand gallons of it in storage.”
“I destroyed it—and every drop I had left over. When I saw the trouble it was causing you, and the toll it was taking on everyone else, I decided it wasn’t worth hanging on to. And just as well, I say. It’s time people resolved their own hang-ups without some silly shampoo to do it for them.”
I was talking to a defeated man. He had devoted a lifetime to improving our quality of life, and for what? The very people he tried to help were the ones who brought him down. He had lost his home, his business, and all his possessions. But Ravi didn’t sound disappointed. He actually sounded happy.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
“You’ve done more than your share already,” said Ravi. “I think Alec would agree with me.”
“Isn’t Alec with you?”
“Didn’t you hear? He’s in Colorado Springs training with the U.S. Paralympic running team. He finally got his act together. He wrote off Duke’s Place once and for all. Those battlefield flashbacks are now little more than a nuisance.”
“So, you did find a cure for his PTSD.”
“Indeed I did, but it didn’t come out of a bottle.”
“Then, what cured him?”
“You did! He hid in the shadows until you shoved him out into the sunlight. You reminded him that while there is ugliness in the world, its beauty is worth living for. What he needed wasn’t a miracle solution, just someone to reintroduce him to life. You did that, Amy, and I’ll be forever grateful.”
Who would have thought? Out of the ashes of Ravi’s defeat would rise the victory he had so wished for. Alec, too, would rise to become a world champion, and revel in honoring his country in a positive way.
“Where does all this leave you,” I said, “especially with the police on your tail?”
“They won’t be after me for long,” said Ravi. “I fully expect to have all charges dropped, as soon as I give the District Attorney his guilt back. A drop or two of it in his lunchtime cocktail ought to do it. Meanwhile, I’m putting everything back the way it was. After all the years I’ve held on to my client’s guilt, I think it only fair I return it to them.”
“How many vials have you got left?”
“Only a few hundred or so,” he said, laughing. Then I heard police sirens in the background. “Looks like I’d better be on my way. We’ll meet again, someday, Amy Dawson.”
Then he hung up.
Well, I was feeling pretty special after all that. I had earned myself a good night’s sleep. I moved my new book from my bedspread to the end table. It was titled, And Then There Were None—another Agatha Christie classic. The story centers on a group of murderous socialites. Plagued by guilt, each one is found murdered under mysterious circumstances. Don’t you just love good fiction?
As I climbed into bed, Scraps jumped up and laid his head on my lap. He tilted his head back and I scratched behind his ears. It was a ritual that played out every night at bedtime. With his eyes half-closed in ecstasy, he looked at me as if asking, “Am I in heaven?”
Ravi promised me a lap dog and he certainly delivered. His anti-aggression shampoo had turned a savage beast into a gentle pet. Too bad the rest of the world couldn’t have benefited from Ravi’s genius.
But then, Ravi wasn’t like everyone else, and being accepted when you’re different doesn’t come easy. If only people could be more like me and my dog. We shared a mutual respect for each other’s uniqueness. Scraps showed me his by keeping my lap warm, and I showed mine by keeping his food dish full. No anger. No bitterness. No tears.
As my cozy mutt drifted off into Doggie Dreamland, my phone rang again. This time it was Hubert.
“Did you hear about Z Beanie Run?” he said. “He decided that with all the millions he earns from record sales, his con
certs should be free. I guess his guilt from ripping kids off was too much for him. Anyway, I’m going to his show tomorrow night.” A long pause. “Wanna come with me?”
The nerve! He was asking me out again, knowing full well how I felt about dating friends. There was only one thing left for me to say:
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do more.”
About the Author
Bruce Edwards was born in Marin County, California and raised on a tasty diet of jazz and Disney animation. He majored in Architecture in college, but switched to Music to join the burgeoning San Francisco music scene. As a composer and musician, he wrote rock tunes and radio jingles, and toured as a pop music artist between studio gigs. He tinkered with early computer animation which led to a career as a feature film character animator. His more unique vocational detours included a stint as a puppeteer and performing magic at Disneyland. As a writer, he wrote screenplays during his Hollywood years before finding an audience for his young-adult fiction. Mr. Edwards lives in Orange County, California.
The Age of Amy Books
Bonehead Bootcamp
#1 - Amy is unjustly sent to a boot camp for troubled teens.
“Truly a book about finding one’s real self.”
—All Books Review
The Thumper Amendment
#2 - A fantasy-adventure through the bizarre world of American politics.
“Readers will appreciate Amy’s sharp wit.”
—Booklist
Channel ‘63
#3 - Amy finds love in 1963 through a bewitched TV.
“A riotous young-adult adventure.”
—Foreword Reviews
Behind the Fun Zone
#4 - Amy takes on Silicon Valley when teens start disappearing.
“An unfailingly entertaining read from beginning to end.”
—Midwest Book Review
Theme Farm Collection
Books 1-3
Includes:
* Bonehead Bootcamp
* The Thumper Amendment
* Channel ‘63
The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers
Lambert Hill
P.O. Box 1478
Brea, CA 92822-1478
www.LambertHill.com
The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers
Copyright © 2016 by Bruce Edwards
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permissions: Lambert Hill, P.O. Box 1478, Brea, CA 92822. [email protected].
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ISBN: 9780692541159 (E-book)
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