Elrod McBugle on the Loose

by Jeff Strand

  "I can't find the jug," said Scoopy.

  "Keep looking," Andy told him.

  "I found an empty paint can, but blowing into it isn't doing anything."

  "So, anyway," Andy said to me, ignoring Scoopy, "we'll have you pretend to play guitar and do background vocals."

  "I really can't sing," I said. "How about I just make comments while you practice?"

  "No, we need you up on stage. You fit with our image as wild dogs. Everyone hates you."

  "Not everyone hates me."

  "Well, a lot of people do."

  I think he genuinely believed he was giving me a compliment.

  "How come you're willing to split the prize money five ways?" I asked.

  "Oh, we don't care about the money," said Colin. "We're doing this for the publicity. Maybe a music scout will be in the audience and offer us a contract."

  Andy and Warren nodded.

  "I see." I figured the only person interested in them would be a zookeeper, but I wisely kept that little comment to myself.

  "There's a bottle of aspirin over here," said Scoopy. "I can't get the lid off, but once I do it might work."

  "This will be fun," Andy assured me. "Everyone will love us. I promise."

  "How can you promise that?"

  "How? Just watch!" Andy played his guitar again, and Warren and Colin immediately joined in with their own instruments. "OH BABY, BABY, BABY, BABY, BABY, BABY!!! I WANT YOU TO BE MY BABY, BABY, BABY, BABY, BABY, BABY!!!"

  "Yeah, yeah!" sang Warren.

  "Yeah, yeah!" sang Colin.

  "YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH!!!" sang Andy. He strummed his guitar so hard that I thought his hand would break right through the wood. I got ready to run for cover in case he started smashing the guitar against the floor.

  "YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!" the three of them sang, ending with another cymbal crash from Colin.

  I applauded. "Wow. That's the only thing to say. Wow."

  "So, do you wanna be part of our band? Just for the talent show, I mean. Once we're on the road nobody will know you and you won't do us any good."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "Found it!" Scoopy emerged victoriously from behind the car parked in the garage, holding a blue jug. He blew into it a few times, then began moving his shoulders to the rockin' beat. "Oh, yeah, I can feel the music flowing! This is gonna be great!"

  "Okay, sure, we'll be part of it," I said. After all, what was a little disgrace and humiliation if it made Scoopy happy?

  "YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH!!!"

  I raised my hand, gesturing for Squirrel Rampage to stop. "Too many yeahs, Colin. It's only supposed to be five."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm positive." I held up the lyric sheet, which clearly showed five yeahs after the eight babys.

  "Oh, sorry about that."

  "No problem. Once again, from the top."

  "Hit it!" Andy shouted.

  Scoopy blew into his jug. After six beats, the rest of the band joined in. "I JUST CAN'T STOP LOVIN' YOU, BABY! YOU'RE THE ONE I WANT 'TIL THE END OF TIME, BABY! IT'S ABOUT TIME YOU TRIMMED THOSE SNOTTY HAIRS IN YOUR NOSE, BABY!"

  I had suggested that last line as a joke, but they liked it and added it to their song. Go figure.

  We practiced every day after school for the next week, and our musical abilities improved from "utterly pathetic" to "utterly pathetic but with the occasional moment that at least doesn't make your brain shrink."

  "We're ready!" said Andy, the day before the talent show. "Everyone go home, get a good night's sleep, and wake up tomorrow ready to rock!"

  Chapter Eleven Quiz

  1. Pick a song. Visit a library. Stand on a shelf. Sing the song. Loudly. How long did it take you to be thrown out of the library?

  2. Pick another song. Visit a fancy restaurant. Sing the song. Loudly. How long did it take for the head chef to come after you with a pair of crab claws?

  3. Pick a third song. Sing it in your head. Isn't that much better?

  Chapter Twelve

  I WENT HOME, GOT a good night's sleep, and woke up feeling like I'd swallowed a power drill. My throat was so sore I could barely speak. There was no way I'd be able to do background vocals with my voice in this condition.

  Good. I was saved.

  My mom called Scoopy and told him that I was staying home from school, and to go on without me. But he arrived ten minutes later, looking grumpy and tired.

  "I thought my mom called you," I said as he walked into my room.

  "She did. But we need you, Elrod. You and me are the only ones in the band with any talent."

  "Scoopy, I can't do it. My throat is killing me."

  "But I wanted everyone to see me play the jug." He looked really sad and pitiful. "I spent all last night practicing. I can play that jug like Shrieking Seth can play the ukulele."

  "Who's Shrieking Seth?"

  "This guy. He plays the ukulele really well."

  "You can do the talent show without me."

  "But it won't be any fun! You're my best friend."

  "Why do you consider me your best friend, anyway? I throw paper airplanes up your nose."

  "I know, but it shows that you like to be around me. Most people don't. Come to school today, please?"

  He gave me a look so filled with pleading that there was no way I could refuse. I realized that, as lousy as Squirrel Rampage sounded, it was something that was truly important to him. I have no idea in the world why, but it was. And I wasn't going to let Scoopy down.

  But I also resolved that in the near future Scoopy and I were going to work on making him a little less pathetic.

  BY LUNCH, MY throat was feeling better. Then somebody came up behind me and shouted "BOO!" causing me to let out a yelp that made it sore again. But by the end of the day, it was feeling better again.

  Classes for eighth period were cancelled, and everyone gathered in the auditorium. Those of us who were performing were supposed to wait in the backstage area, but as Scoopy and I headed back there Andy stopped us.

  "Bad news," he said. "We can't play."

  "What? Why not?"

  "The drums are still in my garage. I told my mom to bring them, but did she listen? Nooooooo. She's too busy picking up my stupid sister from daycare. So we can't do it. Sorry."

  "Sorry?" I was furious. "We gave up all our afternoons practicing with you guys! Why can't we play without drums?"

  "You can't have a rock band without drums."

  "Does anyone else have some drums that we can borrow?"

  "No, we already asked the band teacher. He said no because of that time in class when Colin was chewing on the cymbals. That's okay, we'll get our exposure some other time. Our vocals needed a bit of fine-tuning anyway."

  Scoopy held up his jug. "Then we'll just have to go on without you guys. Elrod will sing, and I'll play the jug."

  "Huh?" I said.

  "Well, good luck," said Andy. "If you want I could beat up some of your competition."

  "No, that's okay," I assured him. Scoopy walked toward the backstage area, and I hurried to follow him. "Are you sure you want to do this? I don't know any of the lyrics!"

  "Make some up! It's not like the original ones are any good."

  "My throat is still sore!"

  "That's good. Lots of rock singers sound like they have sore throats."

  Scoopy pushed through the curtain and we found a nice spot against the wall to stand. A couple girls were standing there, dressed in identical pink dresses, touching up each other's makeup. Mr. Clark smiled as he saw us enter.

  "Ah, Mr. McBugle, Mr. Casson! You're part of Squirrel Rampage, correct?"

  "Actually, we're all of Squirrel Rampage."

  "Really? I thought there were supposed to be five squirrels."

  "The other three couldn't make it."

  "Oh, well I'm sure you two will do fine."

  I looked around. Aside from the girls, there was nobody else in the backstage area. "How many acts are th
ere?"

  "Two. You and the Math Club Women. It was a fairly low turnout this year. If you want to add some extra verses to your song to make it longer, that might be nice."

  Scoopy grinned. "Wow! We can't come in worse than second!"

  "Oh, gee, that's wonderful," I muttered.

  Then I realized something. Scoopy was supposed to be the whiny one. If he was determined to have a good time, well, darn it, I was too. Scoopy could play that jug pretty well if you wanted my honest opinion, and the lyrics wouldn't be a big deal as long as I remembered the words "yeah" and "baby." We'd do fine.

  Mr. Clark went out on stage and made his opening comments, which included instructions that nothing was to be thrown on stage while we were performing, and that booing was a sign of bad manners. Then he introduced the Math Club Women, who went out and began singing something called "How I Love Prime Numbers."

  They sounded good. Really good. Their voices blended in perfect harmony. Compared to them, my singing was going to sound like a dying buffalo clearing its throat.

  But it would all be over in a few minutes.

  The Math Club Women finished their song and marched backstage to wild applause. "You're on," said Mr. Clark, motioning for us to walk on stage.

  Scoopy chose that particular moment to trip, and the jug slipped out of his fingers. It fell as if in slow motion, and I dove for it, trying to catch it before it shattered against the floor.

  The Math Club Women gasped.

  Mr. Clark gasped.

  Scoopy gasped.

  I caught it.

  "Please be more careful," said Mr. Clark. "Broken glass is nobody's friend."

  "Yes, sir," said Scoopy, taking the jug from me. As I got to my feet, Scoopy tripped once again. The jug fell out of his hand and shattered against the floor.

  "I couldn't help it!" he insisted. "My hands are all sweaty!"

  I stared at the broken pieces of the musical jug for a long moment. "I guess The Math Club Women win."

  "No!" said Scoopy. "We can still go on! I can...I can say ‘Aaaooogah' in the background while you sing."

  "How about you sing and I say ‘Aaaooogah?'"

  "No, that'll be stupid. C'mon, Elrod, let's do it!"

  He marched out on stage. I reluctantly followed him.

  "Hi, everyone," I said, as I looked out at the seemingly millions of people who could potentially throw sharp objects at us. "We're Squirrel Rampage, and this is a song called ‘Baby Bring Me Your Love, If It's Not Too Much Trouble.'" That wasn't the real name of the song, but at this point it didn't really matter. I pointed to Scoopy. "Hit it."

  "Aaaooogah," said Scoopy.

  I began to tap my feet against the floor to the beat. "Baby, baby, baby," I sang, snapping my fingers as well. "I need you, baby."

  "Aaaooogah," Scoopy repeated.

  "Oh yeah, be my baby. Oh yeah, be my baby." I tried to raise my voice, and with my sore throat my voice cracked, making me wince.

  I heard a bunch of kids laughing.

  Good! Let them laugh! If we couldn't be talented, we'd be funny!

  "BABY, BABY, BABY!" I screeched. The audience howled with laughter.

  "A-AAA-AAAOOO-OOO-OOOO-GAH!" shouted Scoopy.

  "Okay, stop this," said Mrs. Webster in a loud voice. She stood up from where she'd been sitting in the front row. "This is not what the annual talent show is all about! This is a mockery of talent! Both of you, sit down."

  I was in shock. She couldn't do that, could she? Who was she to tell us that we were terrible? She wasn't in charge of this talent show! She could give us all the disapproving glances she wanted, but the show must go on!

  And even though it meant that I could get in all kinds of trouble later, I made Mrs. Webster part of that show.

  "There she is!" I sang. "There she is! There's my baby! There's my baaaaaaaaaaay-beh comin' to see me!"

  The class exploded in laughter. Mrs. Webster turned a dark red color that can't have been healthy. Then she marched up the three stairs leading to the stage, I guess with the intention of dragging Scoopy and myself away by force.

  This was, I thought, very rude. It sounded like a whole bunch of students were getting plenty of enjoyment out of how awful we were, so where did she get off deciding to take it upon herself to stop us?

  I was mad.

  She walked toward us. "This is completely unacceptable," she said. "Absolutely appalling."

  "Aaaooogah!" said Scoopy.

  Then I made a decision. We all make many decisions that will affect the course of our lives. Some are small decisions, such as whether to put on a clean shirt or just turn the shirt with the mustard stains inside-out. Some are big decisions, such as whether or not to stick a fork in a toaster (don't). Then there are decisions like the one I made, decisions with the potential to change your life forever.

  I had already made the choice to get up on stage and sing badly. If I let Mrs. Webster take me away, this day would simply be remembered as the day Elrod McBugle ruined an already lousy song and was dragged off by a teacher. No glory there.

  True glory rested in making this moment one that nobody in school would ever forget, no matter what the personal cost.

  And so when Mrs. Webster started to reach for me, I threw my arms around her and kissed her on the lips.

  Saying that the other students had a strong reaction to this is sort of like saying "Sitting on a circular saw can ruin your pants."

  The auditorium exploded with shrieks of shock and laughter. Several students jumped to their feet, unable to believe what they'd just seen. I thought the walls were going to crumble from the intensity of their reaction.

  Mrs. Webster eyes were bugged out so far I thought they might drop onto the floor (and maybe roll into an open bottle of Slurpy Gulp). She stumbled backwards, gasping, and then fell off the stage, landing on the floor with a loud thump. The reactions of the other students grew even louder, and several teachers were waving their arms, trying to restore control.

  I glanced at Scoopy. His jaw was hanging open, and his knees buckled underneath him. He fainted, dropping face-first onto the stage.

  Mr. Clark rushed onto the stage and spoke into the microphone. "Please remain calm! Everyone be seated! Everything is under control here!"

  Nothing was under control.

  Especially after somebody pulled the fire alarm.

  Students stampeded for the exits, trampling over each other in an amazing display of bad fire drill technique. The air was filled with screams and laughter and sounds I'd never heard from human beings before.

  I moved to the edge of the stage and peered down at Mrs. Webster, who lay on her back, eyes wide open. "Stay away from me!" she shrieked. "Don't even look at me!"

  Fine with me. I hurried to Scoopy, who Mr. Clark had helped to a sitting position. "Where am I?" he asked. "What just happened?"

  "I kissed Mrs. Webster," I informed him.

  "Oh yeah, now I remember," said Scoopy, fainting again.

  Three minutes later everyone had fled the auditorium except me, Scoopy, and Mr. Clark. Mrs. Webster had been carried out by a couple teachers.

  "Uh, sorry about that," I said to Mr. Clark.

  "In all my years as an assistant principal, I have never seen anything like this," he said. "Never. What were you thinking?"

  "I don't know. I just wanted to beat The Math Club Women."

  "Elrod, I'm going to tell you something, and you need to keep it a secret, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "That was the funniest thing I've seen in my entire life." He leaned down. "And if you ever do anything like that again, I'll make sure you get expelled. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  After that, people started calling me Dr. Lips. They still do. And it was worth it.

  Chapter Twelve Quiz

  1. STUPID or SMART? Pulling a fire alarm when there is no fire.

  2. STUPID or SMART? Sticking a fork into a toaster.

  3. STUPID or SMART? Sitting on a ci
rcular saw.

  (As a public service announcement, I should mention that the answer to all three questions is STUPID. Do not try any of these. And while you're at it, don't swim less than an hour after you eat, don't cross your eyes because they might get stuck that way, and never, ever try and swallow your face. Got it?)

  Beware! Unlucky Chapter Thirteen!

  HEALTH CLASS WAS taught by Mrs. Goggins, a cheerful, short, and plump woman who really liked duckies and bunnies. Every article of clothing she wore contained either ducky pictures, bunny pictures, or both. Since she was the only teacher who used the classroom she had free reign to decorate as she pleased, and it was a ducky and bunny paradise. I can't even imagine what her house looked like. My guess is that you could take the most evil people in the world, such as Hitler (if he weren't dead), lock them in Mrs. Goggin's living room, and twenty minutes later they'd be reduced to trembling, foaming-at-the-mouth blobs, capable only of babbling the words "ducky" and "bunny."

  "Today we're going to learn responsibility," said Mrs. Goggins one fine day, picking a cardboard box off the floor and setting it on her desk. "Starting today and going until Friday, each of you is going to be given a stuffed animal from this box. It will be your responsibility to take care of it as if it were your own child. You will take it with you everywhere you go. Through this exercise you'll hopefully gain a bit of perspective on what it's like to be a parent."

  Susan Underall raised her hand. "My brother did this last year, and he said they used eggs."

  Mrs. Goggins nodded. "Yes, that's the way we used to do it. Eggs worked better because they're very fragile and you can't just set them anywhere you feel like. But none of you were here last year to witness the infamous Yolk War of February 17. The principal decided that from then on eggs were forbidden."

  I was glad I hadn't been here last year. Everyone would've blamed the Yolk War on me.

  "So, I'm going to pass the box around and each of you select your child for the week. And while we're waiting, be thinking about what you want to name it."