Timmy Failure It’s the End When I Say It’s the End

by Stephan Pastis

  I look up at him.

  “The point is that our business

  relationship goes back many years. And

  something like that deserves to be

  celebrated.”

  He puts his fuzzy arm around me.

  “I give you my word as the greatest

  detective in town—well, former detective,”

  I correct myself. “I will find your brother.”

  When we get home that Friday night,

  Total and I hunker down in WHATT and

  pursue the promising lead we have on his

  brother.

  And slowly the layers of his brother’s life

  are revealed.

  Each of them dripping with tartar sauce.

  “He keeps trying to rob the same Seafood

  Sammy’s in Churchill, Manitoba,” I explain.

  “All to get fish sticks.”

  Total shakes his head, then drools,

  caught halfway between disappointment and

  envy.

  “And when the people in the restau-

  rant see him coming, they lock the doors,”

  I tell my polar bear. “Then he just stands

  there knocking and looking pathetic until the

  police arrive.”

  Total and I peruse the bear’s rap sheet.

  “He’s been arrested thirty-one times,” I

  say as we look through the photos taken by

  the restaurant’s security camera.

  Photos of the time he tried to act fierce.

  Of the time he disguised himself as a

  unicorn.

  Of the time he ran into a pole.

  Total covers his eyes in shame.

  “It is ironic that your brother has chosen

  a life of crime and you have chosen a life of

  law enforcement. You are like the yin and

  yang of polar bears. Forever balancing the

  universe.”

  But my profundity is lost on him.

  And I can see that the story of his

  brother has made him sad.

  So I watch as he exits WHATT.

  And follow him through the townhouse.

  Where I see the story has not made him

  sad.

  But hungry.

  But the search for Total’s brother is only one

  of many tasks filling my leisure years.

  So on Saturday morning, I awake before

  everyone else to address another.

  “I didn’t even know this time of day

  existed,” I say to my father, who is surprised

  to see me.

  “Tim, it’s six in the morning. We’re not

  even open yet. What in the world are you

  doing here?”

  “You said we could do something this

  weekend. So we’re doing something.”

  My father unlocks the door.

  “I meant father-and-son things, Tim.”

  “I see,” I answer. “So what exactly are

  those?”

  “Come inside,” he says, shaking his head.

  “It’s too chilly out here.”

  I follow him inside.

  “Did you mention to your mother that

  you wanted to do something with me?” he

  asks.

  “I believe so.”

  “And she was okay with that?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  He glances back.

  “Listen,” he says. “When you go back

  home today, you tell her. I don’t want her

  coming down on me for this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walks around the bar, turning on one

  item after another: lights, neon signs, a slot

  machine, a jukebox. Slowly, the sleepy bar

  awakens.

  “And do me a favor,” he adds. “Don’t

  mention you came to a bar. Tell her we met at

  a park or something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He begins removing clean glasses from a

  small dishwasher and placing them in a rack

  overhead.

  “And, hey, not for nothing,” he says,

  “but one of the regulars mentioned to Ms.

  Dundledorf that I let a kid in here. So we

  need to be a little more careful.”

  “Who’s this Dundledorf?”

  “She owns the place. Not a friendly

  person.”

  “Well, no need to worry. It’s six in the

  morning. I doubt you’ll have any customers.”

  But when my father opens the back door,

  there are customers. And like ghosts, they

  float wordlessly to their seats.

  One of which I’m sitting in.

  “Hey, what’s this kid doing on my stool?”

  a man in a fedora asks.

  “Tim, go sit in one of the booths,” says my

  dad.

  I watch as the man in the fedora

  rearranges everything on the bar in front of

  him. Taking a saltshaker and moving it to a

  table. Grabbing a table placard and moving

  it to the bar. Picking up a discarded

  newspaper and handing it to my dad to throw

  out.

  “Fred’s a little obsessive,” says my dad as

  he walks past me to throw the newspaper in

  a recycle bin in the back. “Everything in its

  right place.”

  “And I thought school was filled with riff-

  raff,” I comment. “This place is a zoo.”

  “Tim, I’ll tell you what,” my dad says.

  “Why don’t I meet you somewhere tonight?

  After my shift.”

  “I can’t. Mom says we have to do some

  family thing. It’s quite frivolous. But I’ll be

  here tomorrow morning at the same time.”

  “Well—”

  “And take this,” I tell him, handing him

  the large stack of paper in my hand, “so we

  can talk about it tomorrow.”

  “What is it?”

  “The film I wrote for school,” I answer.

  “You’d be well advised to pay particular

  attention to the bar scene. It will take place

  here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told you about it last week.”

  “Are you crazy? I can’t have a bunch of

  kids in here. It’s bad enough I let you in.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll do it when the place is

  closed. And my school will repay you for the

  broken windows.”

  “What broken windows?” asks my dad.

  “The ones caused by the defenestration.”

  “The what?”

  “Defenestration. The act of throwing some-

  one out a window. It’s the best word in the

  dictionary.”

  “All right, enough,” he says. “No one’s

  getting thrown out of windows.”

  “Yes, they are. Customers,” I tell him.

  “Not yours, though. Stuntmen. Unless

  you want us to throw a customer out the

  window.”

  An older customer calls out for my dad.

  “Hey, you talking or bartending?”

  “Coming,” my dad tells him.

  “Okay,” my dad says to me, “you gotta

  go.”

  “Right. Be back tomorrow. Same time.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. It’s the best time. More covert.”

  “No, Tim.”

  “Coffee!” interrupts the old man. “Black!”

  “Here I come, here I come,” my dad calls

  out to him.

  “Tim,” my dad says, leaning down to

  talk to
me, “talk to your mother. Make sure

  seeing me is okay. And I’ll call her later and

  work something out. But you’re not filming

  anything in this bar.”

  The old man hops off his barstool and

  lands on his spindly legs.

  “Okay,” he says, marching toward us.

  “You want me to get the coffee myself? I’ll

  get it myself.”

  And I catch his eye.

  And he freezes like a toad before a Timmy

  train.

  “Oh, good God,” he says.

  “Old Man Crocus,” I mutter.

  “Is there no place in this world that’s safe

  from you?” he cries.

  “You two know each other?” asks my dad.

  “He was my teacher,” I explain.

  “He drove me out of the profession,”

  replies Crocus.

  “He was the best teacher I ever had,” I

  explain.

  “He caused me a nervous breakdown,”

  replies Crocus.

  “The profession wore him out,” I explain.

  “He crashed a car through my wall,”

  replies Crocus.

  “He took a well-earned retirement,” I

  explain.

  “I fled to Key West to escape him,” replies

  Crocus.

  I stop and stare at Crocus. “Wait. You

  were in Key West?”

  My dad leaves to get Crocus his coffee.

  “Yes, I was in Key West!” he barks. “And I

  was happy!”

  “Until,” he adds, raising a fist, “it all

  ended!”

  His fist falls like a coconut upon the bar.

  The man in the fedora looks our way.

  “Goodness,” I say to Crocus. “What

  happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” he says,

  removing his wire-rimmed glasses and

  rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was taking

  a stroll along the beach when I heard a shrill

  voice echoing out from on high.”

  “Oh, I know the feeling,” I answer. “The

  gods spoke to me just recently.”

  “No, no, no,” he says, his voice rising in

  tone. “This was no god. It was you, Timmy

  Failure, standing atop a lighthouse.”

  “Ah, yes,” I reply. “I was surveying my

  domain.”

  “No,” he says. “You were tracking me

  across the globe, like a demon on horseback.”

  “Oh my,” I respond. “I like that image.

  Perhaps I can use it in my movie.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t like it at all,” answers

  Crocus. “So I fled Key West. Moved back

  here to live with my brother. Figured I could

  at least hide from you in a bar. But no.

  Look. You.”

  “Yes,” I answer. “It feels like the gods have

  thrown us together for a reason. Perhaps you

  can play yourself in the film.”

  My dad hands Crocus his coffee. Crocus

  stares into the blackness.

  “What’s the matter?” asks my dad. “Not

  how you like it?”

  And leaving his coffee on the bar, Crocus

  drifts off toward the double doors.

  And stops.

  “No,” he grumbles through gritted teeth.

  “Nothing is how I like it.”

  And as he says it, the doors swing open.

  And we see an elf.

  “Hey,” says the elf. “Try getting kicked

  in the head by a reindeer.”

  But the elf is not the only unhappy person

  this holiday season.

  “Your father’s in town and you went and

  saw him without even telling me?” asks my

  mother as she drives the car.

  “I thought I told you,” I answer from the

  backseat.

  “I didn’t hear you tell her,” says Husband

  Dave, sitting in the passenger seat beside

  her.

  “Please, Husband Dave,” I reply. “No

  teaming up. It’s bad enough with just one of

  you.”

  “And how exactly did you even know he

  was in town?” continues my mother.

  “Because he certainly didn’t tell me.”

  “What do you mean how’d I know? I just

  found him.”

  “Where?” asks my mother, turning to

  look back at me.

  “Driver’s handbook says to keep your

  eyes on the road at all times,” I remind her.

  “Timmy, where did you find him?” she

  snaps.

  “In a park!” I shout.

  “Which park?!” she shouts back.

  “The Park Park!” I yell, as though it’s a

  proper name. “You know, the one with the

  grass.”

  My mother says nothing.

  The mood grows tense.

  And it is a mood at odds with the antlers

  on our heads.

  “And if you don’t mind,” I say, breaking

  the silence, “how about someone telling me

  why we’re all dressed like reindeer?”

  Husband Dave turns toward the back-

  seat.

  “We’re caning the Moskins family.”

  Molly Moskins smiles too much and smells

  like a tangerine. Plus she has mismatched

  pupils.

  She and I have had what I can only refer

  to as an off-again, on-again relationship.

  For I have partnered with her.

  And arrested her.

  As such, one can never be quite sure

  what side of the law she is on. For she is a kid-

  size chameleon, steeped in treachery.

  But for all her faults and felonies, I

  find the notion of caning her excessive.

  “We’re gonna hit Molly with a cane?” I

  ask Husband Dave.

  “Timmy, I told you all of this when we

  were at home,” says my mother as she stops

  the car in front of Molly’s house. “It’s called

  candy caning.”

  “How is it any better if we hit her with a

  candy cane?” I ask. “Is it that she’ll smell

  minty afterward?”

  “Nobody’s hitting anybody,” says my

  mother, turning off the engine. “When you

  candy cane a house, you sneak up to it at

  night with a bunch of candy canes and hang

  them everywhere.”

  “Oh, good God,” I utter. “This sounds

  like a tragedy in the making.”

  “Shhh, Timmy,” says Husband Dave. “It’s

  supposed to be a secret. You don’t want her

  to hear us.”

  The two of them get out of the car.

  Guarding my bean, I follow.

  “Mother, you do not sneak up on a sacred

  abode at night,” I whisper as we jog up the

  Moskinses’ front lawn. “As a former detective,

  I can tell you that this whole neighborhood is

  heavily armed.”

  “Here, take these,” she says, handing me

  a fistful of candy canes.

  “And let me tell you something,” I add.

  “When Mr. Moskins shoots us, he will be

  fully within his rights. Because we are now

  common trespassers.”

  As I issue cautionary proclamations, I

  spot Husband Dave foolishly approaching the

  front door and hanging a candy cane on the

  Moskinses’ doorknob.

  “Oh, gre
at,” I add. “Your husband

  has a death wish. And to think, he’ll die in

  reindeer antlers.”

  But neither of them is heeding my

  warnings.

  So I throw my candy canes and antlers to

  the ground and hide behind the large unlit

  Christmas tree in the center of the front

  yard.

  Low to the ground.

  Hands over head.

  Prepared for urban violence.

  But hoping to not be seen.

  And then the Christmas tree lights up

  like a Christmas tree.

  “Nobody shoot!” I yell. “Mistakes were

  made!”

  “Hey, put these back on,” says Molly

  Moskins, towering over me. “They’re

  adorable!”

  I survey the scene. Assess the threat

  level.

  “Tell me plainly,” I say to Molly Moskins

  as I rise to my feet, “have my mother and

  Dave been taken hostage?”

  “I don’t think so,” she says.

  “Well, if they have, I’d like to negotiate

  for the release of my mother. You can

  probably keep Dave.”

  “I think your mom and dad are just

  inside having eggnog with my parents,” she

  says, smiling broadly.

  “Dave is not my dad, Molly Moskins. I

  have a dad. A very prominent dad with a

  background I don’t wish to share. And he has

  generously volunteered his bar for a pivotal

  scene in our film.”

  “Oooh. Your dad owns a bar?”

  “I’ve said too much already,” I answer.

  “Suffice it to say that the scene will be

  made particularly engaging by the real-life

  grittiness of the setting.”

  “I see,” says Molly, biting her lip. “I

  wonder if that’s the place we kiss.”

  Sickened, I hold on to the Christmas tree

  for support.

  “Molly, I assure you there are no kissing

  scenes in my script. None. Zero. Nada.”