Box of Shocks

by Chris McMahen

  “All right! Now you’ve had it!” I shout, taking off after her again. Once more she swerves and gallops off just as I’m about to grab her.

  “Listen here, Ms. Moo!” I shout. “You may think you’re pretty fast, but I have a third-place ribbon from track day when I was in grade four! You don’t stand a chance!” I run at her, pumping my legs as fast as I can. Just when I think I’ve got her, my foot slips on something. It isn’t a banana peel. It’s green and squishy and very stinky. My foot shoots out from under me, and I fall sideways, putting my hand down to try to stop my fall.

  My hand ends up sinking into another blob of green squishy stinky fresh cow poop.

  “YYYYUCK!” I scream, trying to wipe the cow poop off my hands on the grass. “Who wants to ride a stupid cow anyway!” I run from the field and crawl through the fence, catching my shirt on the barbwire.

  I swear I’ll never drink milk again! Or even a milkshake! Yes, that’s how mad I am! But the worst thing is that, for the very first time, my plan for a wild and crazy stunt hasn’t worked out—all because I tried to ride the fastest cow in the world.

  Over the next few days while Stuart and I are doing chores around the farm, I keep an eye out for other stunts to pull. After the disaster with the cow, I have to come up with something that doesn’t involve farm animals or any kind of manure.

  One afternoon while we’re weeding the vegetable garden, Uncle Ned says, “Mind you don’t touch that orange wire.” He points to a wire fence running around his beehives.

  “What is it?” I say.

  “It’s an electric fence to keep the bears out.”

  Right away, I know what my next stunt will be.

  The electric fence is way too close to the house for me to do my stunt during the day. Someone is bound to see me, so it can only be done at night.

  That night I wait until I can hear Aunt Jean, Uncle Ned and Stuart all snoring up a storm. Then I sneak downstairs and slip out the front door. There’s enough moonlight for me to see the path across the yard to the beehives.

  There it is. The electric fence.

  I’ve never touched one before, and I’ve never even seen anyone else touch one. But the thing is, I’ve never heard of anyone dying from touching an electric fence either, so touching one for a second shouldn’t be all that bad.

  I walk up to the wire, and right before touching it, I remember—I need something for my Box of Shocks! What could I bring back from this? A piece of the wire is out of the question. But what else is there? I can’t think of anything right now, so, like last time, I’ll go ahead with the stunt and hope that something comes to me.

  I take a closer look at the fence. It sure doesn’t look like much—just this skinny orange thing, but it must pack a wallop if it can keep a bear out of the beehives. Very slowly, I move my pointer finger toward the wire. I hesitate. Something is holding me back—probably the thought of a million volts shooting through my hand, up my arm and ending up who-knows-where. Maybe smoke will come out my ears. Maybe my hair will catch on fire.

  On the other hand, touching a wire wouldn’t be much of a stunt unless something happened to me. That’s the point of doing this. If Uncle Ned thinks it’s dangerous, what would my safety-freak Mom think? Plus, if my hair catches on fire, I can always cut a burnt chunk off and put it in my Box of Shocks!

  Okay, here goes! I say to myself. One…two…three!

  I jab my finger at the wire, but just before it makes contact, I pull back. I can’t make myself touch it.

  Okay. Enough of this. Stop being a chicken! I think. This time, you’ll do it! One…two…That instant, I hear a noise! It’s coming from behind me! I whirl around to see what it is. But as I spin around, I lose my balance. Waving my arms like a windmill, I try to stay upright, but it’s no use. Over I go, landing right on the electric fence with my rear end.

  The force of my fall pulls the fence to the ground, and there I sit, right on an orange electric fence wire with a gazillion volts of electricity running through it.

  But something is wrong. There’s no smoke coming out my ears, plus my hair isn’t on fire. It doesn’t feel like there’s a gazillion volts of electricity zapping through my body. I don’t feel anything at all.

  I reach down and grab the orange wire with my hand. Nothing. There’s no electricity running through it.

  “What in the world are you doing out here?” a voice says. It’s Uncle Ned.

  “I’m…ah…er…checking to make sure the electric fence is working,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “I woke up and remembered I forgot to plug it in,” he says. “If I were you, I’d get up off that wire before I plug it back it in. Otherwise…well, let’s just say it’s the sort of thing you’ll never do again.”

  I climb up off the ground and back away from the electric fence. “Thanks for warning me, Uncle Ned,” I say as I head back to the house.

  Two in a row! I can’t believe it! It’s like I’ve lost my knack for doing crazy stunts. First the cow, and now the electric fence. What’s going on here?

  But I don’t give up easily. I’m determined to have at least one souvenir from my time here at the farm. And after two failures, I’d better do something really spectacular. I mean REALLY spectacular. But what?

  I get my answer one hot day when Uncle Ned takes Stuart and me down to the river for a swim. Close to the beach is the Pegasus Valley Bridge. It’s an old bridge made from rough wooden beams held together by bolts and cables. The sides of the bridge stretch up in a pattern of crisscrossing beams, and it’s probably only about twenty feet up from the water. At each end of the bridge is a big sign with blood-red lettering: NO JUMPING FROM BRIDGE!

  When I see the bridge and the sign, I know exactly what my next stunt has to be.

  With Uncle Ned here, I can’t jump off the bridge this time. But it gives me a chance to look it over before I actually take the plunge.

  As it turns out, I’m not the first person to think of jumping off the bridge. The first day we’re there, three kids jump off the bridge. I watch closely as they walk out to the middle of the bridge and crawl onto an outside beam. They stand there looking down at the river, too scared to jump. Their friends call them wimped-out, chicken-livered saps and some way worse names my mom definitely wouldn’t approve of. But every one of those kids ends up jumping. No matter how scared they look, they all jump and make a big splash, disappearing under the water for a while before finally bobbing back up.

  I’m not bragging when I say that I’m a pretty good swimmer. Mom’s had me in swimming lessons since I was in diapers. Plus, I don’t mind heights. The only thing I don’t have is a group of friends shouting at me to jump. When I jump, all I’ll have is Stuart, who’s probably never called anyone a name in his life. Still, this is one crazy stunt I can actually pull off. There are no speedy cows or unplugged electric fences involved in this stunt—just a high bridge and a river.

  If my parents ever saw a kid jumping off a bridge, they’d probably call the police. If they saw me jumping off, I know exactly how they’d react. That’s why this will be the best stunt ever.

  Over the next couple of weeks, Stuart and I go swimming at the river a bunch of times. Unfortunately, either Aunt Jean or Uncle Ned comes along every time, so jumping from the bridge would be tough to pull off without my parents hearing about it.

  The day before I’m due to go home, Stuart and I finally get to bike down to the river by ourselves. It’s my last chance. This is the day I have to do it. It’s now or never.

  When we get to the river, I spend about an hour splashing around in the water and throwing sand at Stuart. When Stuart sits down on the sand to eat a cucumber sandwich and drink Aunt Jean’s homemade lemonade, I say, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Where are you going?” he says.

  I don’t say anything as I walk straight out to the middle of the bridge.

  When Stuart sees what I’m doing, he throws down his cucumber sandwich and ru
ns across the sand toward the bridge, shouting, “You’d better get off there before the police show up!”

  “The police don’t show up for stuff like this,” I shout back. From the main deck of the bridge, I crawl out and then slowly, carefully stand up, balancing on the outside beam.

  “But there’s a sign! An official-looking sign! ” Stuart shouts.

  “Don’t worry, Stuart,” I call back, trying to keep my balance. To steady myself, I grab a wire with one hand and curl my toes over the splintery beam.

  “Why would they put up a sign if they weren’t going to arrest you?” Stuart isn’t going to give up. He reminds me of Mom and Dad. I bet Mom wishes I was more like Stuart. I stop for a second and watch him try to scramble up the sandy bank, but he keeps slipping back down.

  “If the police show up, I don’t know you, Oliver! Do you understand?” Stuart’s finally reached the top of the bank, and he’s running toward the bridge in his baggy swim trunks and rubber beach shoes.

  “Yes, Stuart. I understand,” I shout back.

  So here I am, ready to do the most dangerous stunt ever. All I have to do is jump. Gravity will do all the work, and it’ll be over in a few seconds.

  Then I look down.

  I don’t like what I see.

  From way up here, the water looks dark and angry as it swirls past. It doesn’t look like a river—it looks like a gigantic serpent waiting to swallow me.

  Okay, so jumping from this bridge may not be as easy as it looks from the shore. I can’t jump right away anyhow. I have to figure out what I’ll bring back for my Box of Shocks. What can I take from this bridge?

  I pick at the old wooden beam for a minute, but a splinter of wood isn’t good enough. It has to be something bigger. Something better. My hand slides over one of the bolts that run through the beams. A bolt would be perfect! There must be a hundred or maybe a thousand of these bolts holding the bridge together, but the one my hand rests on is loose. By jiggling it a bit, I’m able to slide the bolt out of the beam. Then, just before the bolt is all the way out of the beam, I stop. What’ll happen if I pull this bolt all the way out of the beam? Will the bridge fall apart? Will it suddenly collapse into the river, taking me with it? That’s a chance I have to take.

  As I pull the bolt free of the wooden beam, I hold my breath. I don’t hear any creaking or cracking. The bridge isn’t shifting or swaying. Maybe this bridge will be fine without this bolt—my bolt. Yes, my bolt. This bolt is now mine. I clutch it tightly in one hand while I hang on to a wooden beam with the other. Now that I have my bolt, I have to jump. I’m ready.

  Or am I?

  Stuart sure isn’t any help.

  “If I were you, I’d come back down, Oliver! I mean it. The sign says…”

  “I know what the sign says, Stuart!” I yell.

  “Then why are you disobeying it?” Stuart yells back. “I don’t understand you. Why do you want to do something like this?”

  I ignore Stuart and look back down at the river. The water doesn’t look any closer. The longer I look, the higher I seem to be. This is way higher than I’ve ever been before. It’s way higher than the diving board I went off for those diving lessons Mom made me take at the pool. It’s even higher than the time I climbed the tree in Grayson’s backyard. And now I’m supposed to jump? I begin to wonder if this is such a great idea after all.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stuart standing on the riverbank, jumping up and down and waving his arms like his armpits are on fire. He’s shrieking, “Oliver! Look out! The police are coming!”

  I turn quickly and see an RCMP cruiser driving onto the bridge. As I spin around, I lose my grip on the beam. I try to grab something—anything—but gravity takes over.

  The next three seconds are the longest three seconds of my life.

  As I fall, I’m laid out flat. If I hit the water like this, it’ll be the belly flop that was heard around the world. How painful will that be?

  Then, just like they taught us in diving lessons, I quickly pull my knees up to my chest, tuck in my chin, and somersault in the air. When it feels like I’m the right way up, I straighten my body out.

  I hit the water feet first. Water shoots up my nose, my arms are thrown up above my head, and my swim trunks give me a giant wedgie.

  I don’t care. Thanks to my diving lessons, I didn’t do the world’s biggest belly flop.

  But now, I’m deep under the water with bubbles swirling around me. Maybe I should have done a belly flop. My feet haven’t touched bottom, and it’s dark. Really dark. I look up and see the wobbly glimmer of the sun through the water.

  I need air, so I’d better get to the surface, and fast, or else…

  I flail my arms and legs…kicking and thrashing… thrashing and kicking…the light getting brighter by the second…my chest feeling like it’s about to burst…kicking and thrashing…thrashing and kicking…until…my head breaks the surface! I gasp for air, panting and puffing and trying to keep my head above water.

  I swim toward the shore, thrashing my arms and legs, but by the time I reach the riverbank, I’ve been swept downriver and the bridge is out of sight. I flop onto some grass, with my arms over my head as I try to catch my breath. My body feels like a huge blob of Jell-O—except for my right hand, which is still tightly clenched. I slowly uncurl my fingers. There, in the palm of my hand, is the bolt.

  Six

  The bolt’s not going to leave my hand until it’s inside my Box of Shocks. Not even for a second.

  After hiking back through the bushes to the beach, I grab my flip-flops, jump on Stuart’s old bike and ride all the way back to the farm. I hold on to the handlebars with my left hand. My right hand is still clutching the bolt.

  Stuart follows on his new bike, yammering the whole way. “You sure were lucky the police didn’t stop when you jumped off the bridge, Oliver. Maybe they didn’t see you, or they were on a call to something more important like a bank robbery or something. Did you hear me, Oliver?”

  Stuart can babble on all he likes. All I can think about is my deadliest stunt yet, and how I’m going to be adding this amazing shock to my Box of Shocks.

  I consider putting the bolt in my left hand or in my pocket, but I don’t trust my left hand as much as my right, and there might be holes in my pocket. No, the bolt will stay in my right hand until it’s safely inside my Box of Shocks. That’s all there is to it.

  At supper that night, I’m still clutching the bolt when I sit down for supper with Uncle Ned, Aunt Jean and Stuart. This makes eating a little awkward, but I don’t care.

  “You know, it’s a lot easier to eat corn on the cob if you use both hands, Oliver,” Aunt Jean says.

  “It’s okay, Aunt Jean. I always find that corn tastes better if you eat it with one hand.”

  Aunt Jean’s eyebrows wag up and down. She and Mom are very different, but one thing they do share is pickiness about table manners.

  After supper it’s always my job to clear the table. Because I’m using just one hand, I have to make twice as many trips to the kitchen. Stuart rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. If he did squeal to his mom and dad about me jumping off the Pegasus Valley Bridge, Aunt Jean would blame him for letting me do such a dangerous thing in the first place. For his own good, Stuart knows the best thing is to keep his mouth shut.

  That night I wrap my right hand in Scotch tape so I won’t lose my grip on the bolt as I sleep. When I wake up the next morning, I can feel the bolt nestled in my hand. Before heading down to breakfast, I use nail clippers to cut the tape, open my fingers and stare at the bolt. Everything comes back to me—balancing on the old wooden beams of the bridge, trying to loosen the bolt from the beam, somersaulting in free fall and nearly drowning in the river. Nothing can happen to this once-in-a-lifetime bolt.

  Uncle Ned is going to drive me home. I jam my clothes into my duffel bag with my left hand and use my teeth to close the zipper. Luckily, I’m wearing flip-flops, so I don’t have any shoela
ces to tie.

  It’s a three-hour drive back to my house, and Stuart gets car sick, so he stays at the farm. Aunt Jean makes me ride in the back of the van because she doesn’t trust the air bags. I hop into the backseat, reach across and pull the door shut with my left hand. Aunt Jean and Stuart stand at the end of the driveway and wave as Uncle Ned and I pull away.

  As we drive along the highway, Uncle Ned blasts country and western music on the stereo. It’s too loud to talk over, but I don’t mind. I’m happy to sit in the backseat. Every once in a while I open up my hand, take another look at my amazing bolt and think about its honored place in my Box of Shocks.

  The drive home seems to take forever. My grip tightens on the bolt with every mile we get closer to home. By the time we’re halfway, my knuckles are white from squeezing so hard.

  “Can’t you drive a little faster, Uncle Ned?” I say. My knee is bouncing up and down like a jackhammer.

  “I always drive the speed limit,” Uncle Ned replies. “What’s your rush anyway?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I just want to see Mom and Dad.” I look out the window at the passing farms—the old barns, bales of hay scattered across the fields, cows, horses—stuff I’ve seen a million times before.

  I’ve also looked in my Box of Shocks about a million times, but that’s different. Every time I pull it out of my closet, my heart speeds up. When I sit on my bed and open the lid, the palms of my hands get all sweaty. I close my eyes, and when the lid swings open, I inhale the musty air. I open my eyes and see all of those stupendous shocks. I feel the chill of a cool Halloween night, the tickle of the tarantula on my arm, the tug of a vicious dog on my pant leg, and the taste of that greasy half-cooked burger. Every single memory is so amazing!

  We reach the edge of town; it won’t be long now before Uncle Ned pulls the van into our driveway. I know exactly what I’ll do. First things first, I’ll give my parents their usual hugs and tell them what a great time I had. I’ll thank Uncle Ned. Then, while my parents chat with him, I’ll run up to my room. I’ll slam the door and barricade it with a chair, then rip the wall panel off the back of my closet. There my Box of Shocks will be, tightly nestled in its perfect hiding place. I will gently lift it out so that everything inside will stay in its special position in the box. The Halloween candy is in the right-hand corner. The picture of Mr. Creepy fits perfectly across the middle. The piece of spike is next to that, and in the opposite corner is the burger wrapper folded in four.