“Timmy, I’m just saying that now you
have a new sign.”
“WHY.”
“Because there used to be a different
one!”
“WHEN.”
Then there is only silence.
Followed by the sound of Dave banging
his head into the wall.
“Timmy, come out of there right now,”
barks my mother.
So I do.
And I look stupendous.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I believe this is the Hollywood look.”
“Well, it’s too late to change now,” she
says. “But you’re not taking that,” she says,
grabbing the pipe.
So with that small adjustment, we head
for Dave’s car.
Where she sits in the backseat with me.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “You
always sit in the front seat.”
“True, but I’ve never been famous
before,” she says. “And when the flashbulbs
go off, I want to be right there by your side.”
“I suppose that’s acceptable,” I answer.
“As you were there for the tough times.”
“I was,” she says. “I remember them
well.”
She puts her arm around me.
“And I was proud of you every step of the
way,” she says.
“Every step?” I ask.
“Okay,” she answers. “Sometimes you
made me want to pull my hair out and cry.”
I nod. “I can have that effect on people.”
She pulls me closer to her.
“You know,” I tell her, “I plan on
pursuing my Hollywood career with great
vigor. And there is a good chance I will need
a personal assistant. Would you be
interested?”
“How is the pay?” she asks.
“Not good,” I answer. “But the benefits
are tremendous. One of which is that you
get to spend time with a professional such as
me.”
She laughs and rests her forehead against
the side of my head.
And blows in my ear.
Something she sometimes does to make
me laugh.
“That is no way to treat a professional,” I
tell her.
So she stops.
“Do it again,” I say.
The film itself was a cinematic triumph.
Despite the limitations.
For as it turns out, Corrina Corrina’s
statements regarding the $900 budget were
accurate.
So Mr. Jenkins suggested we film the
entire thing in a classroom using wooden
cutouts for the sets.
And because so many of the actors I
wanted were unavailable, Mr. Jenkins
suggested we use wooden cutouts for the
characters as well, each of which was held
aloft by a student.
And each of which was designed by me.
With the exception of Molly Moskins,
who insisted on playing herself and wearing
her eclipse glasses.
But she was much too large for the set, so
she looked like King Kong terrorizing a small
town.
And she couldn’t see. So that created its
own problems.
And with the absence of Tom John John,
we were short a director. So Flo filled in, and
cleaned up quite nicely for the premiere.
And for the most part, the film contained
my entire story.
I say “for the most part” because the
film’s birth sequence had to be shortened to
just one pathetic shot of a flying elephant.
And there was no scene with my polar
bear chasing our principal off a cliff.
That was nixed by Flo.
Which wasn’t so bad, except for the fact
that he replaced it with a scene where the
two characters have a minor disagreement
over a milkshake.
But other than that, it faithfully
recounted my story, including my meteoric
rise to CEO of the world’s largest detective
agency, Failure, Inc.
An empire that contained a Timmy
blimp, a Timmy ship, and a Timmy fortress.
And, over Flo’s objection, I made sure
that each scene was separated by a blank
screen.
Onto which I flashed one word:
And through it all, Total and I
vanquished our enemies, culminating in the
film’s much-talked-about bar scene, which
was the only other scene where I had to
make a few small compromises.
Such as:
And:
Though, in the end, I still did fall out of a
tenth-story window. Which should have been
the end of Timmy.
Except for the fact that there was one
more small compromise.
And when the last scene ended, there was
this brief message:
To which I later added:
And a dedication:
And at the end of the credits, there was a
summary of each character’s life.
Like that of Molly Moskins:
And Corrina Corrina:
And Rollo Tookus:
And my own, which I tried to keep
modest:
And that left only one character’s ending.
When we get home after the film, I find
my polar bear on the front step of the
townhouse.
“You can’t leave three days before
Christmas!” I tell him. “My Christmas break
is just starting. And we haven’t even held
your retirement party!”
But he doesn’t answer.
And I can see by the way his paws are
wrapped around his tiny suitcase that my
protest is for nothing.
Because it’s time for my bear to go to his
brother.
And if he wants to get there in time to
spend the first of many Christmases with
him, he’s gonna have to leave now.
Because no train would take a dangerous
polar bear.
And no plane seat could fit him.
So to get there, he is going to have to
rely on the same network of Goodwill trucks
that the polar bears use to pick up our
discarded fax machines.
“At least wait here,” I tell him. “I have
something for you.”
So I run into the townhouse and return
with a handful of gifts.
“Consider this your official retirement
party,” I tell him, handing him a small box.
Which he opens.
To find a watch.
“I found your size,” I tell him, wrap-
ping it around his wrist. “And maybe with
enough practice, you can learn to tell time.”
He smells the watch, checking to make
sure it’s not edible.
“And I got you a Total Failure, Inc.,
tie,” I tell him. “That way you’ll always look
professional.”
“Plus, it’s a clip-on,” I tell him. “So you
can just attach it to your fur.”
“Oh, and I owe you a pension,” I tell
him. “One seal a month for the rest of your
life. But give me a few weeks on that. There
<
br /> aren’t as many seal distributors in Somerville
as I thought.”
He drools.
“Oh,” I tell him. “And I can’t let you go
without giving you a farewell speech. It’s
what all the professionals do.”
I take out my prepared speech.
“You might want to sit back down on the
porch,” I tell him. “It’s not long, but I think the
guest of honor always sits.”
He sits back down on the porch.
“‘Dearest Total,’” I begin. “‘You were a
brave and noble bear.’”
I hold out my hand.
“This is where we shake hands,” I tell
him.
He shakes my hand.
“‘You served my agency with honor and
distinction,’” I continue. “‘You were a fearless
warrior. And you were a tireless—’”
I am interrupted by the sound of squeaky
brakes.
It is the Goodwill truck, here to pick up
Total.
“He’s here already?” I ask my bear. “What
time was he supposed to come?”
Total looks at his watch. But he can’t tell
time.
The driver honks the horn.
“We’re in the middle of our retirement
ceremony!” I yell. “Can’t you even wait?”
But I already know from Total that he
cannot. The network of polar bear drivers
keeps an extremely tight schedule.
So I look at my bear. And he looks back
at me.
And for the first time in all the time I
have known him, I see a tear roll down his
furry cheek.
So I leap into his arms.
“Forget the speech!” I tell him. “Forget
the stupid speech! You were my best friend.
You were my best friend ever! And you
saved me. You saved me from everything
and everyone!”
The driver honks the horn again.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I plead with Total.
“Before you go, I got you one more thing.”
I hold out a scrapbook.
“It’s filled with pictures,” I tell him.
“Pictures of me and you.”
“Your brother has a lot of catching up
to do. And I want him to know you. I want
him to know everything about you.”
Total takes the scrapbook from me and
puts it in his suitcase.
And the truck driver honks again.
“You gotta go,” I tell him. “I know you
gotta go.”
He stands, suitcase in hand.
And then puts it back down.
And with both paws, he lifts me up.
“I love you,” I tell him. And he presses
the side of his furry cheek to mine.
And he puts me down.
And he is gone.
There’s not much to tell you about
Christmas.
Except that it was a sunny day.
And the first Christmas I had ever spent
with my dad.
Who even gave me a gift.
Though it was odd.
“A book on how to make mixed drinks?”
I ask. “You know I’m only nine, right?”
“It’s for when you’re older,” he says.
But it was the first Christmas gift he had
ever given me. So I put it above my bed.
And it was the first holiday season I had
ever spent with Husband Dave.
Now just Dave.
So I got him something.
“Have one week of exclusive access!” I
told him. “My office is all yours.”
I could see Dave wanted to ask me
questions, like how I had come up with the
idea.
But he didn’t.
And as for my mother, I got her a very
special gift.
“You take it out when I’m making your
head hurt,” I told her. “And it erases one
Timmy-induced headache.”
And, filled with apple pie, the three of us
spent the rest of a lazy Christmas afternoon
watching movies.
Until I heard an odd sound coming from
the office.
And knew it was the fax machine.
So I ran in there just in time to see a
piece of paper sliding out of the machine.
And knew immediately that it was from
my polar bear.
Who, with the help of his educated
brother, was now a much better writer.
More memoirs. More greatness.
Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7636-9004-5
Also available as an e-book
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Also available as an e-book
Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7636-7375-8
Paperback ISBN 978-0-7636-9106-6
Also available as an e-book
Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7636-8092-3
Also available as an e-book
www.candlewick.com
For more shenanigans, visit www.timmyfailure.com
Timmy Failure It’s the End When I Say It’s the End Page 10