Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy

by John Michael

  “Well? What’s the answer?” Barney asked.

  “I dunno Barn! I feel a fever coming on and my brain feels all foggy.”

  “You’ve probably picked up a virus from somewhere — remember when I was sick last month. My mum was going on about how I don’t get enough vitamin C and she was convinced that I had scurvy. It all started with the sneezing and the dizzy spells but then it got all nasty with the green phlegm, swollen tonsils, bloodshot eyes, yellow mucus –”

  “That’s exactly right Barney!”

  “What? About the scurvy?”

  “Huh? No!”

  “About the phlegm?”

  “About the virus.”

  “Yeah the virus... I know... that phlegm was like week-old porridge and –”

  “Never mind that now! I meant my virus! The virus that I have is making me sneeze and feel lousy but is also functioning like a computer virus and slowing down my brain power.”

  “You mean your magic has gone? You’re just the same old Howie that I used to know?”

  “I guess so.”

  “But how did this all happen?”

  “A biological virus behaves in a way similar to a computer virus, infecting the inner workings of its host. I’m sorry Barney.”

  “No! This can’t be happening. We’re so close! We can’t lose now. I can’t let this happen, I won’t let this happen and I can’t let this happen!”

  “The question one last time,” stressed Mr Ditherington. “Originally published in 1869, this book is over 1000 pages long and is considered by many critics to be the greatest novel ever written. The story focuses on the personal lives of a group of aristocratic families during the Napoleonic era. What is the title of this novel?”

  I was watching the principal’s lips move and I was hearing the words but they just weren’t registering.

  “Howie! Come on!” yelped Barney. “You can still do this!”

  “It’s no use Barney... I’m trying but my brain feels like wet cement.”

  “I’m afraid that I need your answer,” insisted Mr Ditherington.

  Time seemed to slow down. The audience were all still and silent, it was so quiet that you could hear the rustling of the leaves in the trees.

  I looked over at Barney. “I’ve got nothing... sorry.”

  “Well, that’s just not good enough! Aren’t you the Howard Sootfell who plucked a great science speech out of thin air, stood up to Mr Perriman and shot three baskets in a row, and who wrestled the alligators that tried to eat Matron Fulton?”

  “Hmm... I’m not so sure about that last one... but I guess you’re right, it’s just that I can’t –”

  “You need to snap out of it Howie! There’s no can’t in cannoli!” yelled Barney as he grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a vigorous shake, actually it was beyond a vigorous shake... I could feel my teeth rattle.

  I protested.

  Barney released me and I guess that the shaking must have had some effect because out of the numbing vacuum of my brain came two distinct images − one of soldiers on a battlefield shooting at each other with guns and cannons and the other of a white dove with a twig in its beak flying against the backdrop of a brilliant blue sky.

  “I’m afraid that I will need an answer now or you will have to forfeit the quiz,” warned the principal.

  What could these two images represent? I looked around trying to find some inspiration but was met with Savani’s smirking face. I could see it in her eyes, she could sense victory − it was seconds away. “Concentrate Howie!” I told myself. “Think! Think!” Was the novel’s title Fight or Flight? No, that couldn’t be it. What about Bullets and Birds? Nah, that didn’t sound right.

  “Hurry Howie!” yelled Barney.

  “Okay... okay,” I replied as I held my head with both hands in order to steady my thoughts.

  “Your answer now!” demanded Mr Ditherington.

  “War and Peace!” I blurted out without even thinking.

  “War and Peace is your final answer?”

  “Yes... I mean no... I mean yes.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “We’ll take it,” replied Barney as he shrugged his shoulders at me.

  “You’re right Barn,” I responded. “It’s not like we have a choice.”

  “Hmm... I see... well that is the correct answer!” declared the principal. “Congratulations!”

  The entire crowd erupted in cheers and embarrassingly enough, I heard my mum yell out “That s my boy!” Even groundskeeper Red seemed to have briefly lost his snarl − maybe he was passing gas, who knows? However, there was one individual who looked like she had just swallowed an entire toad, warts and all, and no prizes for guessing who! That’s right, it was Savani... her face was contorted with rage and anguish. She looked like someone who had severe stomach cramps but knew they were never going to make it to the toilet on time.

  “Well it’s level pegging folks, even stevens, coude-à-coude as they say in French. To be certain, there’s absolutely nothing in it... now the next question to the girls. Only the bold and the gallant shall prevail in these uncertain times of collywobbles and wobblybumps.”

  Principal Ditherington then spent the next few minutes shuffling through his list of questions as it appeared that he had got the sheets out of order. Just when it seemed that all hope was lost, he yelled out “Eureka, I found it!” and finally read the next question to Savani and Penelope.

  “I was born in 1845 and died in 1923. I worked as a physicist and mechanical engineer and was also a lecturer at university. I am best known for the discovery of rays which I named X-rays and for which I received the first Nobel Prize in Physics in 1901. Who am I?”

  Savani opened her mouth but no words came out. She then bit her lip and her eye started to twitch. Then there was a long pause. She was stumped. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Discovered X-rays?” Savani repeated to herself.

  “What’s the answer Howie?” Barney whispered.

  “I have no idea Barney... the tank is empty; the battery is dead and my brain is drained. And don’t shake me again! I think I’ve got a couple of loose teeth!”

  Penelope turned to Savani. “I believe the answer is Röntgen,” she suggested tentatively.

  “Oh please! If that was the answer don’t you think I would have already come up with it?”

  “It’s Wilhelm Röntgen,” repeated Penelope.

  “Is that your final answer?” enquired the principal.

  “No, it’s not!” responded Savani.

  “But... but... but...” protested Penelope.

  “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” scoffed Savani.

  “I need an answer,” insisted Mr Ditherington.

  “The answer is Sir William Crookes,” asserted Savani.

  “Sir William Crookes is your final response?”

  “Yes!” replied Savani emphatically while Penelope shrugged her shoulders.

  “Well, fate and fortune can coincide and bring discommodious disruptions... and, mind you,” stated the principal as he rubbed his chin, “...empty words are easy, like the wind but true answers are hard to find –”

  “The answer pleeaaase!” stated Savani through gritted teeth.

  “Yes... very well then, without further ado,” said Mr Ditherington as he gulped, “I’m afraid that Sir William Crookes is the wrong answer.”

  Gasps from the crowd echoed throughout the pavilion.

  “The correct answer was in fact Wilhelm Rontgen.”

  More gasps emanated from the crowd and Savani let out an exasperated shriek and stomped her feet like a petulant child, while Penelope did her best to pretend that she wasn’t annoyed.

  The principal took to the microphone again. “Well... close, but no cigar, si proche et pourtant si loin. If Howard and Barney get this next question correct, they will be the winners.”

  “Eeew Howard! You’ve got to stop doing that.”

  “Sowwy Bawney,” I repli
ed. Now my nose was clogged as well and I felt that I was going to go the way of the dodo. “Here’s a dissue.”

  “Why? I don’t need it... I’m not sick.”

  “Um... you’ve godt a bid of slobber in your hair fom my sneeze.”

  “I’m not a big fan of this sneezing of yours Howie,” stated Barney as he snatched the tissue out of my hand.

  “Doo bad sneezing iz not a suberbower... I would be invincible!”

  “Well, as my mum would say, too many too bads ruin the soup.”

  “Okay boys,” interrupted Mr Ditherington. “If you answer this question correctly − you will be the Great Quiz champions!”

  There was a round of applause from the crowd and, of course, my mum had to embarrass me with an “I love you Howie!” thrown out there for everyone to hear. Note to self − when Mum is old and wrinkly later in life, make sure that you put her into that crooked nursing home that was exposed by the Quockingpoll Flats Gazette.

  “Now, the question for the championship,” stated the principal in his most earnest voice. “I was born in 1935 and was a professional ice hockey centre who played 18 seasons in the National League for the Chattapootti Caribous and then the Pimpleton Penguins. I scored an average of 55 goals per season and was named as one of the '100 Greatest Hockey Players' in history. Who am I?”

  I thought about the question with all my might but my brain failed to respond. Instead of cogs whirring my brain was flat-lining. I turned to Barney and whimpered, “I’m sowwy... I’ve godt nothin’ ad all.”

  “Born in 1935?” repeated Barney. “18 seasons... an average of 55 goals!”

  “I dink that’s waz the bincibal said,” I replied.

  “Don’t you worry Howie,” declared Barney as he pushed me out of the way. “I’ve got this one!”

  “With 773 assists as well as 41 game winning goals,” continued Barney.

  “I’m afraid I’ll need a name,” demanded Mr Ditherington.

  “A total of 739 games played with 340 penalty minutes!”

  “An answer please!” insisted the principal.

  “Oh don’t you worry,” stated Barney. “Have I got an answer for you!”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Sammie Shimkus!”

  Mr Ditherington looked at his card and looked at Barney.

  “Well, Sammie Shimkus shimmied across the slates, slowly sliding sideways as he stretched across the sandy shoreline and stopped short,” replied the principal. Barney and I just looked at each other, perhaps the heat was getting to Mr Ditherington.

  “Huh?” queried Barney. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Well, that is what you would call an attempt at building suspense,” explained the principal. “With an added splash of sibilance. Now, what was your final answer my young man?”

  “Sammie Shimkus,” repeated Barney, looking rather irritated this time.

  “To be certain and to be certain once again – that is the right answer!” responded the principal with great enthusiasm. “Congratulations!”

  Wild cheers erupted from the audience and everybody was applauding, well everyone except for Savani who let out a frustrated shriek and stormed off the stage in a bout of fury. Penelope just stood there, her expression a mixture of bewilderment and embarrassment. She was in two minds about what she should do next, but finally decided that her partner needed attention. “I better go and see if Savani is alright,” she declared as she quickly followed her. As Penelope skipped down the stairs, she turned around. “By the way, congratulations! You both deserved to win.” She then smiled and continued on her way.

  I farewelled Penelope with a friendly wave but Barney was still caught up in his own world − it didn’t register with him that the Great Quiz was actually over. He kept on rattling off statistics. “Shimkus had his best season in 1959-60 as the top league scorer with 43 goals and 91 points and won the Golden Puck Award as the most valued player.”

  “Okay that’s enough now,” laughed the principal as he shook our hands. “You have won! Felicitations!”

  “We won?” queried Barney. “We won!” he yelled as it finally dawned on him as he high fived me... and missed my hand altogether and slapped my forehead instead.

  “Yes Bawney, we won! And id’s all danks do you!” I replied.

  Barney chuckled and then he started to blush. “Aw... well... you helped a bit as well Howie.”

  Mr Ditherington then took to the microphone for the closing speech. “What a fearsome battle of the minds! Of course, at a time like this, of great joy and celebration nothing would be more befitting than to present you with the Quockingpoll Great Quiz Trophy but, alas, as you know it’s gone. Gone like our childhood days of yore. En est déjà parti pour toujours. What I would do to have that trophy back? Our glorious trophy, our dazzling trophy, our fantabulous trophy...”

  As the principal continued with his speech, the word “trophy... trophy... trophy” started to echo in my ears like some monastic chant. Perhaps it was a side effect of the virus, some form of tinnitus or something — I had a blocked nose, ringing in my ears, my throat was sore, I was getting a headache, what was next to go? I was falling apart at the seams and was wondering if that ambulance stretcher, which had taken away the wrinkly old lady, could come back for me as well?

  I closed my weary eyes while the principal droned on and on. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled that we had won but what I really needed right now was some chicken soup, a hot water bottle and a cup of honey and lemon tea, preferably all brought to me in bed. Of course, there was only one person who was capable of delivering on that wish list − Mum of course! Sure, she constantly embarrasses me in public, dishes out discipline like Attila the Hun and forces me to clean my room but, let’s face it, who was your go-to-mum when you needed support, sustenance, guidance and comfort? I guess I would have to forgive her for shouting out “I love you” in front of everybody and I guess I won’t be sending her to that crooked nursing home after all.

  I opened my eyes and looked over to Mum who immediately gave me a loving smile and a big thumbs up. I was in the middle of responding with my own feeble attempt at an affectionate smile when, at that very moment, Groundskeeper Red walked in front of Mum and looked up at me. We locked eyes and time seemed to stop, there I was with adoration in my eyes and there was Red with a cockeyed squint. I wanted to turn my gaze away but I was overwhelmed with sick fascination and I couldn’t stop gawking at that horse-shoe imprint on his forehead. In the end, I guess Red had enough of this weird kid staring at him like he was the star attraction at the Ringling Brothers Circus. He responded to the unwanted attention with a brutish grunt and went back to picking up the discarded litter. Red got to one of those big-gulp milkshake containers which was lying empty on the grass and then proceeded to stomp on it like it was a poisonous snake about to attack him. The groundskeeper acting erratically was nothing new but, at that moment, I noticed how disproportionate his shoes were to the rest of his body − he looked like he was wearing big floppy clown shoes.

  The word “trophy... trophy... trophy” once again echoed in my ears, this time becoming louder and louder. Suddenly a hotchpotch of images flashed before my eyes.

  Shoes! Paint! Cheese! What did all of this mean? Suddenly I experienced a moment of perfect clarity − all the jigsaw puzzle pieces fell into place.

  The principal had started to recite another poem about unicorns when I grabbed the microphone off him.

  “Id was Groundskeeper Red − he stole the Great Quiz drophy!” I declared as I pointed my finger right at him. Red’s face went red and he looked like someone had just branded him with a red-hot poker. The crowd gasped in horror and parted around him as if it had been revealed on the loudspeakers that he had just soiled his pants.

  Red looked up at me with his squinty eyes and then around at the crowd. “He’s telling porky pies, I tells yer,” he grunted.

  “Whad aboud your shoes?” I demanded.

  “My shoes? Yer want
ma shoes?” queried Red. “Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute. I saws yer lookin’ at me before like yer were after somethin’.”

  “Mighty big shoes were needed to gick down the schgool entrance door in order do get do the drophy!”

  “I don’t know whats yer talkin’ bout... sounds like a whole lot of malarkey to me... seems like that boy must have been dropped on his noggin,” snickered Red.

  “Also, the foyer door was busted ub to make it loog like sub one had brogen into the schgool.”

  “Me thinks that yer barking up the wrong tree boy, like some mad dog that’s got them rabies.”

  “Bud on closer insbection, the door had been smashed from the inside and you hab keys to all the doors on the schgool grounds, don’d you Red?”

  “Now yer just graspin’ at straws yer cockamamie jackrabbit!”

  “Den dere’s the issue of the baint flakes!”

  “Paint flakes? What in tarnation are yer on about boy?”

  “The baint flakes which you had in your hair the day after the burglary. I noticed dem floating down when you sgratched your head as you were offering to gib us a good thwacking with dat rake.”

  “That there is codswallop! Me thinks that yer chimney’s clogged boy!”

  “Yes, yes,” stated the principal. “I remember that as well but I just thought that you had got a bad case of the dandruffs.”

  “Well Red, what aboud that beculiar smell on the day of the burglary?” I asked.

  “Smell? Well I’ll be fangdangled! Now yer goin’ on about me sanitations?”

  “Yes, that’s going a bit far there Howard,” interjected Mr Ditherington.

  “No I didn’t mean it dat way. Coming from the brincibal’s office, from where the drophy was stolen, there was a disdinct smell of rodden eggs with a slight hint of garlic.”

  “Hmm... yes,” nodded Mr Ditherington. “I do recall an unpleasant smell now that you mention it”

  “Well it ain’t me... I don’t eats no eggs or garlics for me lunch!” protested Red.

  “Dat may well be the case bud you were using a sulphur and phosphade based ferdiliser which you garried around in your hessian bag and were springling on the lawn the day before the burglary.”