handing it to her.
She takes a large bite out of it, and with
lettuce and cheese falling from her mouth,
says this:
“Oh, I forgot to tell you the bad news.”
“Bad news?” I ask. “What bad news?”
“The script. Mostly blank.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your script. The pages didn’t have
words on them.”
“Molly Moskins, that script was a two-
hundred-fifty-page cinematic masterpiece.”
“Yeah, well, only two of the pages had
words on them,” she says, salsa dripping
from the corner of her mouth. “Something
about your birth and a bunch of flying
elephants. And then, nada. Hey, could I get a
burrito with this?”
“Molly Moskins, you obviously left some
of the script pages at the bar!”
She burps.
“Nope.”
“What do you mean, ‘nope’? How do you
know?”
“Because you numbered the pages. And
there they all were, pages one to two hundred
fifty.”
“But how can you possibly explain all
those blank pages?” I ask. “That makes no
sense.”
“That confused Corrina Corrina also. But
that’s the part I figured out.”
“Figured it out how?”
“Well, remember how you told every-
one you worked on the script all night? That
made you very sleepy. So at some point in
the early morning, you drifted off. And,
boom, your nose hit the delete key and wiped
out the last two hundred forty-eight pages.”
“Wiped them out?” I cry.
“Indeed,” she answers.
“You mean my schnozz caused all this?”
“Yep. In fact, the scientific name for it
is Fallasleep-schnozzo-deletus. It’s a known
malady.”
“Well, I must admit I have no medical
background. And I have had bubonic plague
lately.”
“Yes,” answers Molly. “One leads to the
other.”
She wipes her mouth across her forearm.
“Anyhoo, you didn’t notice what you had
done, and so you woke up in the morning
and just pressed print. Didn’t bother to go
through the printed pages. Didn’t bother to
save a copy on the computer.”
“The Russians,” I say. “They steal
everything.”
“Yeah, well, whatever your reason, the
work was—”
She pauses to swallow the last bite of her
food.
“Gone,” she says. “Just like that taco.”
“Molly Moskins, I should hold you upside
down and shake that last taco out of you.”
“Please don’t,” she says. “I’d hate to
catch your Fallasleep-schnozzo-deletus. And
besides, there’s Corrina Corrina’s building.”
From the earliest days of my agency, my
goal was to locate my headquarters on the
top floor of the highest building in town.
From high atop my perch, I would look
out through that blue-green glass and scan the
cityscape for wrongdoers and miscreants.
And I would know what it was like to be
the most successful detective in the world at
the height of his power.
And now I did.
“Your dad owns this building?” I ask
Corrina Corrina.
“I think he just rents the top three floors.
I’m not really sure. But when he has to meet
someone in the office on the ground floor, he
lets me come up here and play.”
“You don’t mean ‘play,’” I tell her. “You
mean do your detective work.”
“Right,” she says.
I take a seat at an empty desk.
“I told Timmy what happened,” says
Molly. “About finding the script and it being
blank and all.”
The leather seat reclines.
“Yeah, Timmy,” says Corrina Corrina.
“I’m afraid we’re really in trouble without a
script. And at such a late date, we don’t have
many options.”
I open a desk drawer and find pencils.
“So I was thinking,” says Corrina
Corrina. “Maybe we just go into Mr. Jenkins’s
office before school tomorrow and tell him
everything that happened. Just be honest.”
“Yeah,” adds Molly. “Maybe we can get
an extension or something. Or maybe he can
get Tom John John to compromise.”
“Which he probably won’t,” adds Corrina
Corrina.
“Timmy, you’re barely talking,” says
Molly.
I stare at Molly from behind the desk.
“Tell the polar bear to meet me in the
underground garage,” I announce. “We have a
script to write.”
“Kooky Kringle is frightening,” I tell my polar
bear. “He looks emotionally unstable.”
“Coming through,” says a man with a
tree overhead. “Could you just move a bit to
the side?”
And when I turn, he sees that it is me.
“Timmy!” says my dad. “What are you
doing at the Christmas-tree lot?”
“I’m studying the facial features of Kooky
Kringle. I suspect he’s a felon. Or perhaps
the victim of a nuclear disaster.”
“Yeah, well, maybe,” says my dad. “So
that’s why you came here?”
“Partly,” I answer. “But also because I
heard you write. Or used to.”
He laughs. “Who told you that?”
“Confidential,” I answer.
“Okay, well, yes. Years ago. Nothing
serious. I really wasn’t very good. Why?”
“Pardon me,” says a customer to my dad.
“Can we get a tree stand on that?”
“For sure,” answers my dad. “Give me one
second.”
My dad looks back toward me.
“Why do you want to know if I write?”
“Because we need to do a film script.
And it needs to be astoundingly great.
Perhaps genius.”
He laughs again. “Okay. I mean, I don’t
know if I ever tried doing a film script, but it
sounds fun. When do you want to do it?”
“We need to start tonight. Or we are
most likely doomed.”
“Well, I can’t do it tonight, Timmy. I
mean, we’re a little busy.”
We stare at each other, flanked on either
side by Christmas trees.
An older man pokes his head between
two of the trees.
“Tom, are you gonna put that stand on
that guy’s Christmas tree? He’s just standing
there by his car.”
“Yeah, I am,” my dad says. “Timmy, you’re
just gonna have to excuse me. I’m sorry. We’ll
do it. But another night, okay?”
I watch as my father jogs off toward the
customer.
As kids and their parents walk past me.
And I stand there.
Wishing I could slip between the trees
and disappear.
And then I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“I told him he could probably put on his
own Christmas-tree stand,” says my dad.
“And he wasn’t happy about it.”
He scratches the side of his face.
“Do you know if anyone in this town is
hiring?”
I smile at him.
“Thanks,” I say.
I hold out my hand to shake his.
“A handshake?” he asks. “A little formal.
How about a hug?”
“Too soon,” I tell him.
We shake hands.
And as we walk off the tree lot, I look
around to find my bear.
And find him still staring at the poster
bearing the image of Kooky Kringle.
Only he’s not staring at Kooky Kringle.
When Total and I get home, we head straight
for our headquarters, newly christened with
a holiday-themed name:
Inside the locked room, Total unrolls
the poster he has torn off the wall of Kooky
Kringle’s.
And points.
And I immediately understand.
“It’s your brother.”
He nods.
And after just a few hours of research
and a dozen faxes, we find him.
And he contacts us.
And as it turns out, Total is not the only
polar bear who has been waiting a long time
for this.
“That’s the problem with our chosen
profession,” I tell my polar bear. “We were
living incognito. Impossible to track.”
Total nods.
In his fax, his brother also explained that
after a brief career in modeling (hence, the
poster) and a stint as a writer for an outdoors
magazine, he went on to receive a degree in
climate science from the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology and was currently
living in a Queen Anne Victorian home in
Somerville, Massachusetts.
“Not bad for a polar bear,” I comment.
“Not as glamorous as your life, but still, it’s
something.”
But Total’s favorite part of the fax was
the last couple lines, which simply said:
“This
Somerville
place
could
be
exceedingly dangerous,” I warn him. “Maybe
you shouldn’t go.”
But I can see how he is staring at the
letter.
“Well, maybe you should just go for a
short visit,” I tell him. “And come right
back.”
But then he looks at me. And I know.
And I put my arm around him. And he
puts his arm around me.
Two partners in crime-fighting.
Both lost for so long.
Both ready to be whole.
“That scene is much too sad,” I tell my
father in the park as we work on our film
script together. “It has no joie de vivre.
That’s French for ‘ducks.’”
“Ducks?” he says. “What are you talking
about?”
“What are you talking about?” I answer.
And so it goes.
Arguing as only two professional writers
can do.
For hours.
Until suddenly interrupted by a park
dweller.
“Hiya, Timmy!” says Rollo.
“Rollo Tookus,” I answer, “can’t you
see that I’m currently being visited by the
screenwriting
muse?
There’s
greatness
flowing through my very fingers as we speak.”
“Oh,” he answers. “I just saw you sit-
ting here and thought you might want to play
Frisbee with us. I’m here with my dad.”
“And I’m here with mine,” I tell him.
Rollo stares.
“You’re Timmy’s dad?”
“I am,” he answers, shaking Rollo’s hand.
“And you’re not interrupting anything. We’re
just butting heads.”
“Wow,” says Rollo. “I never thought I’d
meet you. I’m Timmy’s best friend.”
“Yeah,” answers my dad. “Timmy talks a
lot about you.”
“I tell him you’re very smart,” I add. “But
also that you have an unnatural obsession
with grades.”
“It’s true,” Rollo tells my dad. “I want to
go to Stanfurd.”
Rollo points to his sweatshirt.
“If I go to Stanfurd, I can get a good job
and not have to sell oranges by the side of the
highway.”
“Well, that’s a good goal,” says my dad.
“Wish I’d gone to a good school like that.
When I was young, I was too busy having a
good time, if you know what I mean.”
We both just stare at him.
“Okay, time for me to go get a beer from
the car,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Failure,” says
Rollo.
“Nice to meet you, too,” says my dad.
Rollo turns back to me. “So you sure you
don’t want to play?”
“Can’t,” I tell him. “We have to get this
script finished.”
“The script!” exclaims Rollo. “I can’t
believe I didn’t tell you!”
“Tell me what?”
“At the last rehearsal, Tom John John
got frustrated with all of us not being able to
do ballet poses.”
“So?”
“So he started yelling and got out of his
chair and tried showing us all how to do
them.”
“And, boom, he broke his big toe!”
“So what does that mean?” I ask.
“I think it means he can’t come to
school for a few days.”
“It’s a sign from the gods!” I shout. “He
can’t interfere with my film!”
“That’s what I thought,” says Rollo.
“But then he announced he was going to just
direct the movie from home via Skype.”
“So he can interfere with my film!”
“No!” Rollo answers. “Because then his
father got transferred to Bulgaria!”
“It’s a sign from the gods!” I shout.
“Yeah, and he leaves immediately.”
“I shall escort him to the airport if need
be,” I declare. “Though someone should warn
the Bulgarians that he’s coming.”
“Yeah,” Rollo answers. “So write some
good stuff. I’m gonna go play with my dad.”
When my dad comes back, he has a beer
can in his hand. His sits on the picnic table
beside me and holds out the open can.
“Ever tasted beer?” he asks.
“No,” I answer. “I only drink whiskey.
Neat.”
And as we sit there, I watch Rollo
bouncing on his father’s shoulders, his
weight almost drilling his father into the soft
grass.
“We should challenge them to a father-
and-son race,” I tell my dad.
“Like a piggyback race?”
“Yes. And perhaps wager.”
My father gets up off the table and kneels
on the grass. “Here, hop on.”
&
nbsp; “Well, put your beer down first.”
“I can do both.”
“You’re violating a number of health and
safety standards.”
“Stop worrying so much. Hop on.”
So I get on his back. And we practice.
And because he is holding only one of
my legs, I start to slip off.
And he tries to catch me without spilling
his beer.
And this happens:
“You have broken my spleen, my skull,
and my aorta,” I mutter.
“Sorry,” he says. “I thought I could do
it.”
“The good news is that I’m already
implanted in the ground,” I answer. “Which
should save you a bundle on funeral
arrangements.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” he says.
“You’re a very imperfect father,” I tell
him.
“Yes,” he answers. “Mistakes were made.”
On the day of the film screening, I am
hounded by my many fans.
“Timmy, how long are you going to
take in there?” yells my mother through the
closed door. “It starts in a half hour!”
“Please, Mother. I may have to walk
down a red carpet. I need to look
professional.”
“Well, look professional faster,” she says.
“We’re gonna be late. And Dave would like
to check his e-mail before we go.”
So I have two minutes of peace.
Followed by a second interruption from Dave.
“You almost done, Timmy?”
“No, Dave.”
“All right, fine. I’ll just wait at the door.”
“Please don’t rush me, Dave.”
I hear him whistling outside the door.
“Looks like you got a new sign,” he says.
“What did this used to say?”
“WHEN,” I answer through the door.
“Before you put this up.”
“I just told you.”
“Told me what?”
“I did not say WHATT.”
Timmy Failure It’s the End When I Say It’s the End Page 9