“Oh, I wasn’t talking about your script,”
she answers. “I was talking about Tom John
John’s.”
After school on Monday, I march into the
city-library conference room like a detective
possessed.
And find nobody.
“They left,” says Flo, peering into the
room. “About ten minutes ago.”
“Well, why’d they leave?” I ask. “We’re
supposed to be having a film meeting here.”
“I think it was the kid with the scarf. He
thought the room was too confining. Said it
didn’t have the right, uh, joie de vivre.”
“What the heck is that?” I ask.
“You know, I’m not really sure myself,”
says Flo. “But I’d watch out for that kid. I
don’t think he likes you.”
“We’re mortal enemies,” I explain. “I
loathed him from the moment I saw him in
that pretentious little scarf. I mean, who
wears something like that?”
Flo stares at me.
“Enough chitchat,” I continue. “I need
intel, Flo. Where they went. How they got
there. What the danger level is.”
Flo looks from side to side to make sure
no one is listening.
“It’s very dangerous,” he whispers.
“I can handle it,” I tell him.
“Myrtle’s Garden of Flowers,” he says.
With Flo’s help, I locate my enemy’s secret
lair.
And it is indeed filled with flowers.
Each more dangerous than the last.
And inside, I spring upon the spineless
coconspirators.
“So, a rehearsal without the writer!” I
declare. “For shame.”
I am approached by the conspiracy’s
ringleader.
“Relax, friend,” says Tom John John.
“We are not friends,” I answer. “We are at
best awkward acquaintances.”
“Well, then, awkward acquaintance, we
just thought the rehearsal made a bit more
sense here,” he says. “Given that the film
has a rather significant greenhouse scene
where the characters’ faces are framed by
begonias and ducks.”
“I see,” I answer. “So a joie de vivre is a
duck.”
“Joie de vivre is not a duck,” says Rollo
Tookus, who is standing behind a table filled
with food. “It means ‘enjoyment of life’ in
French.”
I stare at Rollo.
“French? This isn’t a French film. And
what exactly are you doing here anyway?”
“It’s an official movie meeting. I have
to be here. For my grade. Want to try my
mom’s guacamole?”
I shake my head at Rollo. “You couldn’t
call and tell me about the new location?”
“I did call,” says Rollo, “but I got that
stupid computer sound again, and you told
me the Mr. Froggie line is only for clients.”
“Can we hurry up?” cries a muffled voice
from behind us. “I’m melting in this stupid
thing.”
I turn around and see something that is
best described as a cross between a polar bear
and a sewing machine accident.
“It’s me, Scutaro,” says the sewing
machine accident.
“What is that supposed to be?” I ask.
“A polar bear,” says Corrina Corrina, our
film’s producer. “It was all we could afford.”
“In the previews, we’ll use clips of actual
polar bears,” says Toody Tululu. “Provided
that’s ethical.”
“None of this is ethical!” I cry. “This whole
thing is unethical!”
“Bravo! Bravo!” says Tom John John, clap-
ping his hands slowly as he walks toward me.
“Very dramatic.”
I am tempted to pick him up and toss
him into a flock of joie de vivres.
He smiles and stands beside me.
“Perhaps the enfant terrible can explain
to all these eager souls what his vision for
the film actually is.”
I turn to Rollo. “Enfant terrible. Is that a
chicken or a duck?”
“I think that refers to you,” says Rollo, his
mouth crammed with guacamole.
“Fine,” I tell the entire cast and crew
assembled around me. “You want to hear my
vision? I’ll tell you.”
I pause for dramatic effect. And then
commence with a flourish.
“Our film will open in a hospital, where
our hero is born, a gift unto the world. It’s
compelling. Dramatic. And it will require
six hundred flying elephants.”
“No chance,” says Corrina Corrina.
“We don’t even have enough money for a
hamster.”
“WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT YOUR
PIEHOLE?” I yell in a professional way.
“You know diddly-doodly about cinema!”
“I guess I don’t know diddly-doodly about
cinema, either,” says our lighting director,
Nunzio Benedici. “Because I don’t get any of
it. Who is this hero you keep talking about?”
I look over at Nunzio and see that he is
passing time by shoving gravel up his nose.
“I’m the hero, Nunzio!” I answer. “Me!
Timmy Failure!”
Nunzio shoves more gravel up his nose.
“Now, listen,” I continue. “In act two of
the film, we follow our defiant hero through
his youth and watch as he slowly but
methodically creates the world’s largest
detective agency. A beacon of hope in an
otherwise grim world.”
“That must be why I fall in love with
him,” says Molly Moskins.
“No,” I interrupt. “There’ll be none of
that here. This film is gritty and raw.”
Molly sighs.
“And that is because I am consumed by
vengeance,” I add. “For my polar bear and I
are beset on all sides by enemies.”
“Can I be one of your enemies?” asks
Angel de Manzanas Naranjas, seated in the
corner beside a banana plant. “Because I’ve
never really liked you.”
“No,” I answer. “Because those roles
have already been cast. But the point is that I
attack them all, and in the process, I blow up
a train station and survive a tsunami and
throw forty men out of a tall building.”
The cast and crew are speechless.
“All in 3-D,” I add. “So make sure you put
that in the budget.”
“Nope,” says Corrina Corrina.
“And by the way,” adds Rollo, “if any of
you enjoyed my mother’s guacamole today,
I’d appreciate you filling out one of these
feedback forms. It can affect my grade.”
Tom John John rubs his chin. “Thank
you, Timmy, for that interesting concept.
But it’s not the film I’m making.”
“It is now,” I answer.
“Well, no, I’m the director. And I can
assure you that the film I am making is not
that. Min
e will be black-and-white. Moody.”
He holds out two pieces of paper.
“Read a couple pages yourself,” he says.
“Sad? Lonely? Pathetic?” I cry. “And I’m
begging for food?”
“Yes,” answers Tom John John. “But read
on. Things improve markedly.”
“What is happening here?” I shout.
“Well, there’s some wordplay involved. A
ragamuffin is a child in ragged clothes, while
a muffin is—”
“Who cares about muffins?” I reply.
“This is character assassination! A world-
class detective doesn’t kiss anyone’s shoes!”
“Okay, I am seriously gonna faint in this
thing,” interrupts Scutaro. “Can we discuss
muffins and shoes later?”
“Well, I, for one, love what I’ve seen of
Tom John’s script,” interjects Molly. “I think
it makes Timmy more likable. Particularly
later, when he falls in love with both Corrina
Corrina and me, but each of us decides we
don’t want to be with him.”
“Merci, Molly,” replies Tom John John
before turning to me. “And, Timmy, we may
be able to compromise on that bar after all.
Because at the end, we flash forward, and
there you are, elderly and heartbroken and
drinking milkshakes alone.”
But before I can argue further, I hear a
loud noise.
And see that it was caused by a polar
bear.
Not the fake one fainting.
But the real one knocking.
I rush outside to join him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
Total holds out a fax.
The fax includes a photo of his brother’s
prison mug shot.
And judging by the photo, the prison
truly is minimum security.
“He’s trying to escape right in the mid-
dle of his mug shot,” I comment. “He’s even
waving good-bye.”
Total nods.
“Your brother’s not wise,” I tell him.
“By now they’ve caught him and thrown him
back in the clink.”
I look at the last page of the fax and see
that it includes the address of the prison.
“If this is accurate, it looks like we know
right where your brother is,” I tell my polar
bear.
Who, when I look up, is already holding
his suitcase.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I caution him.
“Before you do anything, you need to write
to your brother first. He may not remember
you at all. So explain who you are. Your
whole history. Be as detailed as you can.”
Total takes a moment to write on the
back of the fax.
“Needs more detail,” I say to him. “Tell
him as much as you can.”
Total tries again.
“I don’t even know what that means,” I tell
him. “Are you calling him fat or you?”
Total nods.
“Okay, we can work on your letter later.
First we should plan your route to Greenland.
I think it’s an island, so the transportation
planning could get quite complex.”
Total writes on the back of another page.
“Swim?” I shout. “It’s thousands of miles.
You get tired just walking to the
refrigerator.”
Total nods again.
“Sounds like I’m gonna have to do all of
the planning myself,” I tell him. “We better
head to the office.”
I climb onto my polar bear’s back.
“But on the way there,” I say, leaning
closer to his ear, “I need to make one quick
stop.”
“I’m looking for my father,” I tell the man
wearing the fedora. “He works here.”
“What’s his name?” the man asks.
“Dad,” I answer proudly.
“That’s Tom’s son,” says the tattooed
bartender.
She turns toward me.
“Your dad’s in the office. You might want
to wait a minute, though. I think he’s talking
to somebody.”
I look behind me at the closed office
door.
“I hope for the sake of whomever he’s
talking to that they listen to him,” I tell the
bartender. “My father is a trained assassin.”
The bartender nods. “Can I get you
something to drink while you wait?” she asks.
“Maybe a Coke?”
“Whiskey, neat,” I say, because it is what
detectives say.
“Okay,” the bartender answers. “One
Coke.”
“Hey, while you’re back there, can I get a
piece of paper and a pen?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “If I can find one.”
She hands me a pen and a napkin.
“That’ll have to do, I’m afraid. And here’s
your Coke.”
“Hey,” I add, “do you serve polar bears?”
“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “We
don’t even serve chicken wings.”
I begin writing on the napkin, but it is a
difficult surface to write on.
“Make sure you give that pen back to
her when you’re done,” says the man in the
fedora, staring straight ahead. “It don’t belong
on the bar.”
I write my note and hand her back her
pen. “Thanks,” I tell her. “Give my best to
Frederick Crocus if you see him.”
I hop off the barstool and stick the napkin
on the bulletin board.
As I walk back to my barstool, I see
my dad walk out of the office with an older
woman who looks angry.
The woman marches out the back door of
the bar.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as he
approaches me.
“I came to get my script back. My film is
under assault.”
“Tim, that woman I was with was Ms.
Dundledorf, the owner.”
“What was she bugging you about?” I ask.
“You,” he answers. “You, Tim. More
people here were complaining about a kid
being in the bar. We’re lucky she didn’t see
you just now.”
I motion for him to follow me to the pool
table, where I grab a pool cue from the rack.
“What are you doing?” he asks as I hand
him a second pool cue.
“This place is obviously teeming with
traitors and turncoats,” I tell him between
gritted teeth. “We may have to fight our way
out.”
“Tim, this isn’t some joke,” says my dad.
“It’s anything but a joke,” I answer. “It’s
a crime-fighting partnership. I had intended
to delay its implementation until after my
film, but sometimes life just kicks you in the
plans.”
I climb onto the pool table and lift the
stick high overhead to prepare for a brawl,
and BOOM.
The lights go out.
Though not my lights.
The light over the pool table.
“You shattered the light!” yells my dad.
“ENOUGH! DOWN! RIGHT NOW!”
I get off the pool table, now speckled with
glass.
“You never LISTEN!” he shouts. Everyone
at the bar stares, including the man in the
fedora.
“NEVER!” repeats my dad.
“Partners don’t yell at partners,” I
mumble.
“WHAT?” replies my dad. “WHAT did you
just say?”
“We’re crime-fighting partners,” I tell him
softly. “We’re not supposed to yell at each
other.”
“OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE!” he barks. “I’M
NOT A CRIME-FIGHTING ANYTHING!”
And as he shouts, he notices all the bar
patrons looking at us. So he gets down on
his knees and grabs my shoulder and lowers
his voice.
“Tim,” he says, “I’m just a guy who works
in a bar, okay? I’m just trying to make it. That’s
it. That’s who I am. Me. That’s me.”
I stare at him for a moment.
“How would I have ever known who you
were?” I ask. “I barely know you.”
He doesn’t reply.
“So I guessed,” I add. “Or maybe hoped.
Though detectives rarely hope.”
I lay the cue stick down on the table.
“Anyhow,” I continue, “I knew when you
yelled that I was wrong.”
“Tim, I’m your father. And—”
“Timmy,” I answer. “People call me
Timmy.”
“Timmy, I’m your father. And I care about
you. And I don’t want you to think—”
I put both my hands over his mouth.
Which feels odd. Because I have never
touched his face before.
But it results in a comfortable silence.
Which I then break.
“Please just give me my script.”
When I exit the bar, my polar bear is not
Timmy Failure It’s the End When I Say It’s the End Page 5