That was Nathaniel Inkblotter. I could hear the goose talking.
“I am not a bandit. I am a magic goose.”
“Eeek! Evil spirits! Oh, no! Nooooo!” Nathaniel Inkblotter wailed.
“I am not evil,” the goose said. “I am an ordinary magic goose, and I do not want your electric waffle iron.”
“I am going into this closet,” I heard Nathaniel Inkblotter say. “And I am not coming out until you are gone. Depart, evil goose! I defy your dreadful powers!”
I heard a door slam.
“Mr. Inkblotter,” the goose said. “Please come out. My friend and I just want to ask your advice.”
“You have a fiend with you?” Nathaniel Inkblotter said from inside the closet. “I want you to know that I have in this closet a special fiend-bashing tennis racquet. If I whap you with this, you evil creature, it will all be over for you and your fiend, too, so avaunt, get it?”
avaunt ah-vawnt: away, hence, get lost!
The goose appeared at the door of the trailer.
“Seymour, maybe you could come in here and talk to Mr. Inkblotter. I think he dislikes me.”
I went inside the trailer. I made my way to the closet door and knocked.
“Mr. Inkblotter?”
“Go away, monster!” Nathaniel Inkblotter said.
“I am not a monster. I am a boy. I have a magic goose with me. We are sorry to wake you up like this. I read your book, Seymour and the Magic Pudding.”
“You read my book?”
“Yes. It is my favorite book,” I said.
“Oh. Really?” Nathaniel Inkblotter opened the closet door a tiny bit. “It’s your favorite book?”
“I must have read it fifteen times.”
He opened the door a little more.
“And you and that goose aren’t monsters?”
“No we are not,” I said. “Just a boy and a magic goose.”
Nathaniel Inkblotter stepped out of the closet. He was wearing pink pajamas and carrying the tennis racquet.
“You promise?”
“Word of honor,” I said.
“You like my book, do you?”
“I just love it,” I said.
Nathaniel Inkblotter put the tennis racquet into the closet.
“So, what can I do for you?” he asked.
9. Home Again
N athaniel Inkblotter and the goose decided to go looking for Magic Goose Land together. When he got over being terrified, Nathaniel Inkblotter was very happy to meet a magic goose. He also liked that my name was Seymour, like the boy in his book. We sat in the little kitchen of his trailer and had grape juice in glasses with cartoons on them.
“When will we start looking for Magic Goose Land?” the goose asked.
“We will leave at once,” Nathaniel Ink-blotter said. “We will go in my car, we will pull the trailer with us, and we will find Magic Goose Land if it takes until next October!”
We had one more glass of grape juice, and Nathaniel Inkblotter gave me an autographed copy of his new book, Seymour and the Talking Electric Waffle Iron. Then they drove me home.
When we got to my house, the goose came with me to the kitchen door. Nathaniel Inkblotter waited in the car.
“I will be going now,” the goose said. “Good-bye.”
“Will you come back?”
“Maybe,” said the goose. “Maybe not. Here. You can have this.”
The goose gave me something.
“What is this?”
“A present.”
It was a green plastic pickle.
“Blow it,” said the goose.
I blew it. It made a sound like the wind whistling through the goose’s wings.
“It’s a whistle!” I said.
“Yep.”
“Is it magic?” I asked.
“Well, you got it from a magic goose.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m going,” said the goose. “Thanks for the cornflakes soup.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for the goose-back ride and the pickle whistle. I hope you and Nathaniel Inkblotter find Magic Goose Land.”
“Good-bye, kid.”
“Good-bye, goose.”
I went into the house. I washed the dishes we had used when we made cornflakes soup. I went back to my room. I looked at the pickle whistle.
A magic goose gave me this, I thought.
Nathaniel Inkblotter might write a story, I thought. He might call it Seymour, the Magic Goose, and the Green Plastic Pickle Whistle.
Then I went to sleep.
FAT MEN FROM SPACE
TO S. KILNISAN
(the biggest baby ever born in Budapest)
Without question, this is my most famous work. Is this because it is the best? Nah. I mean, it is nice, it is not bad, you will enjoy it, but I have written better things. And yet . . . everyone knows this one.
It has sold thousands of copies in various forms. In some communities, people dress up as fat space pirates and hold parades in honor of this story. The fat spaceman outfit is the fourth most popular Halloween costume year after year. Many babies are named after characters in the story. I have received unnerving photographs from young adults who have had tattoos based on the book (which I beg those reading these remarks not to consider doing). A major motion picture studio has bought film rights to this story for a very large sum and is negotiating with famous actors to appear in the picture.
To what do I attribute the enormous popularity of the story? I think it is the charm and adorableness, also the fashionable attire and evident personal sweetness of the spacemen. I modeled the characters after myself.
William went to the dentist. It wasn’t so bad—just a filling. The dentist said it wouldn’t hurt a bit, and it was almost true. William went home feeling a little bit numb. There was a funny sour taste in his mouth that made him think of electricity. When he sucked in his breath, the tooth with the new filling felt cold. He was able to eat his supper without any trouble, and after watching television with his mother and father, he went to bed.
One of the things William liked to do in bed, and wasn’t allowed to, was listen to the radio. William thought that if he had a little radio, with an earphone, he could listen in bed without bothering anybody. He mentioned this to his parents, and found out that not bothering anybody wasn’t the point. “I don’t want you listening to the radio when you should be sleeping,” his mother said. Sometimes William would turn on the radio on the table near his bed, very softly, and try to listen. Usually, his mother would hear it, and tell him to turn it off.
This particular night, after William had been to the dentist, he was lying in bed listening to the radio. He was listening to a talk show. A man who said he had taken a ride in a flying saucer was telling how the people from outer space were crazy about potato pancakes, and had come to Earth in search of millions of them, which they planned to freeze and take back to their own galaxy. It was a good show, and William was enjoying it. He was ready to drift off to sleep, when he realized that he had never turned the radio on. He checked this. He clicked on the radio next to his bed. It was tuned to a music station. He could still hear the man talking about the flying saucers, over the music. “Are you playing the radio?” his mother shouted from down the hall.
William turned off the radio. The flying-saucer man was still talking. “Can you hear the radio now?” he asked.
“No. Don’t turn it on again,” his mother said.
His mother could not hear the man talking about the flying saucers. Where was it coming from? William lay very quietly, trying to figure out where the radio program was coming from. It seemed to be coming from inside his head. “Maybe I’m imagining the whole thing,” he thought. “Maybe I’m going crazy.” It seemed like an ordinary radio program—there wasn’t anything crazy about it. He had heard the same talk show before. The announcer was telling people to buy the same bottled spring water, and canned hams, and pianos that always sponsored the program. It was a
real radio program going on inside William’s head. It worried him. He rubbed the tip of his tongue against the new filling. The volume dropped very low. Wait a second! He did it again. The volume dropped. He pressed his tongue against the tooth. No radio program at all! It was the tooth! The one with the new filling was receiving radio programs! William clenched his teeth. The volume got louder.
“I told you to turn that off!” his mother shouted.
William got up. He went quietly out into the backyard. He clenched his teeth. The radio got louder. He clenched them harder. It got louder still. Keeping his teeth clenched, he pulled his lips back in a big grin. It got so loud that it made an echo. He could hear windows opening, and people shouting, “Turn that thing down!”
“. . . AND THEN THE CAPTAIN OF THE SPACECRAFT ASKED ME IF I KNEW WHERE THERE WERE A LOT OF POTATO PANCAKES,” the radio tooth said. William jumped up and down. This was wonderful. He didn’t know how it worked, but it was wonderful. He had a built-in radio.
William scurried back to bed before anyone could call the cops. He had waked up the whole neighborhood. He was barely able to lie still, he was so excited about his built-in radio. He decided it would be the most fun if he didn’t tell anybody about it for a while. Finally, he got tired of planning ways to use his radio tooth, and bored listening to the man talking about flying saucers and potato pancakes. He put his tongue over his tooth and went to sleep.
At breakfast, when William put a spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth, the spoon touched the tooth and changed the station. It had been playing news, but it changed to rock and roll. William took the spoon out—news. He put the spoon back—rock and roll. He tried a fork—news and country and western music at the same time. He put a butter knife into his mouth—classical music.
“William, will you stop playing with the silverware,” his father said, “and I think someone left a radio playing upstairs.” William put his tongue over his tooth. It wasn’t easy to finish breakfast and keep the radio from playing.
At school, William resisted the temptation to use his radio tooth to show off. There were a lot of kids standing around in the schoolyard, waiting for the bell to ring. William stayed by himself, chewing on the wire binding of his spiral notebook. Depending on where he bit into the wire, he could get different stations.
Mr. Wendel was William’s teacher. He didn’t stand for any nonsense, and because he was hard to fool, the kids tried to trick him all the time. Nobody ever succeeded. Kids were always planning to put glue on his chair, or substitute fake chalk made of soap. When these things were tried, Mr. Wendel always spotted the glue or the fake chalk, and turned the joke around by asking one of the kids to sit in his chair or write on the blackboard. Usually, he picked the kid who had thought of the trick in the first place.
Lots of kids in Mr. Wendel’s class had sent away at one time or another for a book on how to throw your voice. The book came with a little device to hold in your mouth, that was supposed to make it easy to throw your voice. The kids who didn’t actually swallow the little voice-throwers had them taken away by Mr. Wendel. It was hard to fool Mr. Wendel.
Other kids had read a book on mind power, and tried to hypnotize Mr. Wendel by staring at him and repeating silently, “Mr. Wendel, you are my slave. . . . My will is stronger.” Mr. Wendel’s will was stronger—and the kids who had tried to hypnotize him wound up with a new seat near the front of the room, and a note to their parents suggesting an eye examination.
In the classroom, William clenched his teeth. “. . . and then you add the graham crackers to the heated chicken fat. Add paprika, salt, and pepper . . .” It was a cooking program. All the kids giggled and looked around to see where the noise was coming from. William looked around too. Mr. Wendel didn’t say anything. “Garnish with banana slices in their skin. This festive dish will serve four . . .” Mr. Wendel walked up and down the aisles, trying to locate the sound. As Mr. Wendel got closer, William unclenched his teeth little by little, so that the sound of the radio got softer. As Mr. Wendel got farther away, he clenched his teeth gradually, so that the sound got louder. He was trying to control the volume so that it seemed to remain constant to Mr. Wendel, wherever he was. Mr. Wendel stopped. William put his tongue over his tooth.
“Melvyn, give me the radio,” Mr. Wendel said. He had picked on Melvyn Schwartz—the wrong kid! Nobody knew that he had picked wrong, except William, and Melvyn Schwartz. Mr. Wendel had never picked wrong before. Melvyn was delighted.
“Aw, geez, Mr. Wendel, it isn’t fair. You always pick on me,” Melvyn said. He was just warming up. “I demand my constitutional rights. You have no reason to accuse me. I demand a trial by a jury of my peers.”
“You are peerless, Melvyn,” Mr. Wendel said. “Give me the radio.”
“I protest,” Melvyn said, rising from his desk. “You are persecuting me because of my past misfortunes.” Melvyn was the one who had put glue on Mr. Wendel’s chair. “I want a lawyer!”
“You will have the best defense that money can buy,” Mr. Wendel said. “After that—Devil’s Island. Give me the radio.”
“I have no radio,” Melvyn said, trying to look shifty-eyed and guilty. The class was enjoying this. It was obvious to them that Melvyn was having a lot of fun.
“Melvyn, open your desk,” Mr. Wendel said.
“I demand to see your search warrant,” Melvyn said.
“Our principal, Mr. Feeney, will be glad to listen to your complaint about illegal search,” Mr. Wendel said. “Now, open your desk.”
“Storm trooper,” Melvyn said, and opened his desk. It was empty, except for Melvyn’s history book. “Didn’t I tell you?” Melvyn made a sweeping gesture to the class, which burst into loud applause.
William clenched his teeth, just a little. The radio played faintly.
“Melvyn, empty your pockets,” Mr. Wendel said. Melvyn emptied his pockets and turned them inside out. No radio. He smiled broadly at Mr. Wendel.
“Melvyn, I apologize for having suspected you,” Mr. Wendel said.
“I’ll never trust anyone in authority again,” Melvyn said.
William was clenching as hard as he could to get the volume high enough to be heard over the applause and laughter. Melvyn was taking bows from his seat.
“All right, who’s got the radio?” Mr. Wendel asked. A mistake—Mr. Wendel was stumped, and he had shown it. The celebration got louder and louder. “I’m going to step outside the room for a minute, and when I come back, I want everybody to be quiet and I want the radio to have stopped playing,” Mr. Wendel said. A miserable trick—it sometimes worked for old lady teachers—the class would think they were crying in the hall, and lay off out of sympathy. It didn’t work for Mr. Wendel.
When he came back, an announcer was saying, “In Chicago a kangaroo is still loose in the streets . . .”
Mr. Wendel was beaten. He fell back on another old tactic. “You are all suspended. You will leave school at once, and not come back until tomorrow with a note from your parents.”
The idea of a day off from school as a punishment didn’t fool anyone. The kids all said “Aww, fooey,” and “it isn’t fair,” as they were expected to, but in their hearts they were thanking the kid with the radio, whoever it was.
A group punishment was easy to explain at home. Every kid’s parents would automatically assume that some other kid, and not their little darling, had caused the disturbance.
On the way home with the other kids, William kept his tongue over his tooth and said nothing. Later, he planned to claim credit for the great thing he had done, but for now he was going to enjoy his tooth in secret.
It never occurred to William’s mother to ask if William had been one of the kids who misbehaved and got the whole class sent home. She went to the market, leaving William alone with his tooth. He was getting curious about it. Had the dentist put a little radio inside his tooth? Why would he do such a thing?
The dentist was a pretty nice guy. Maybe if William called him up an
d asked him . . . William looked up the dentist in his mother’s little leather telephone book. Dr. Horwitz. He dialed the number. Dr. Horwitz answered. “This is William Pedwee,” William said. “Can you tell me something about the tooth you filled for me yesterday?”
“I’ll tell you if I can,” Dr. Horwitz said.
“What I’d like to know is, why is my tooth receiving radio programs?”
“Your tooth is receiving radio programs? No kidding?” Dr. Horwitz sounded interested.
“Yes, it is,” William said. “Did you put a little radio in my tooth?”
“I may have,” Dr. Horwitz said, “but it wasn’t on purpose. Sometimes when we put a metal filling in a tooth, it reacts with a different kind of metal in another filling. It makes an electric current. It is just possible that a filling could have the properties of a radio receiver, or an old-fashioned crystal set. This isn’t a joke, is it, William?”
William told Dr. Horwitz that he was not joking. He gritted his teeth, and Dr. Horwitz heard, “Tonight at the civic wrestling arena . . . the Human Ape versus Doctor Death! Be sure to see this great match.”
“Was that the tooth?” Dr. Horwitz asked.
“That was it,” William said.
“Well, well,” Dr. Horwitz said, “I’ve heard of this happening—once in a million fillings—but it has never happened to me. Tell you what—come right over, and we’ll put a coating over that filling, and get rid of those radio programs for you.”
“Get rid of them?” William shouted. “Are you kidding? I like my tooth!”
“Oh, you like it, do you?” said Dr. Horwitz. “You just wanted some information. Well, enjoy your tooth, William. If you ever get tired of it, come see me, and we’ll fix it up.”
William thanked Dr. Horwitz and said good-by.
He was happier than ever about his radio tooth. One in a million, it was. William felt that he was a special person to have such a special tooth.
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