Timmy Failure: The Cat Stole My Pants
Page 4
parts of the rental house.”
“Will you please keep your voice down?”
I whisper to Emilio. “My mother is sitting
right in front of you. And this journey is pain-
ful enough already.”
And it’s true.
For we are touring the island on the pain-
fully slow Tooty Toot Train.
And at the very moment Emilio and I
should be using our newfound wealth to climb
to the top of the lighthouse and find my would-
be assailant, we are being paraded through the
town at a paltry two miles per hour.
“Can’t this thing go any faster?” I yell to
the engineer. “I’m like a sitting duck back
here.”
“Timmy!” my mother says, glaring back at
me. “Enough.”
“And to our left,” says the train engineer,
“we have a museum dedicated to all the many
shipwreck treasures found off the coast of Key
West through the years, the most famous being
in 1985, when the wreck of a Spanish galleon
was found, yielding an estimated four hundred
million dollars in gold and silver.”
“Ooooh,” says Emilio. “That’s incredible.”
“It’s hardly incredible,” I tell Emilio. “It’s
boring. All history is boring.”
And as I say it, I think of my summer
school history class.
And how hard my polar bear must be
working at this very moment to complete my
book report.
Mercifully, the Tooty Toot Train finally
stops near a palm-tree-shrouded restaurant
with a large brick courtyard. Everyone gets
off.
“Good, it’s over,” I announce, hopping off.
“Now me and Emilio have to go.”
“Nope,” says Dave, guiding me toward the
restaurant. “You’re gonna come in here and
eat dinner with us.”
I turn to my mother. “Does he get to tell
me that?”
“Yes,” she says, always taking the wrong
side in these disputes.
“Well, that’s odd,” I tell her. “Because it
really feels like your boyfriend is impinging
on my personal freedoms.”
“Husband,” she says.
“So you allege,” I answer. “I think the
important point here is for us to give Dave
some personal boundaries. You know, like
how he doesn’t get to tell me what to do.”
My mother drags me through the court-
yard to one of the outdoor tables.
“You will sit down and you will eat,” she
says. “You’re embarrassing yourself in front
of Emilio.”
Emilio says nothing.
“I really should have fled to Cuba,” I mut-
ter. “I understand they have more personal
freedom there.”
“What did you just say?” asks my mother.
Anxiety-ridden, Emilio begins rearrang-
ing his silverware. “The salad fork should
always go on the outside of the dinner fork,”
he announces.
“Tell me what you just said,” my mother
says to me, her voice rising.
“And the dinner fork,” continues Emilio,
“always goes to the right of the plate.”
“Emilio,” says Dave. “Enough with the
forks.”
“Then may I please be excused to use the
restroom?” says Emilio. “I really need to wash
my hands.”
Dave nods.
“I need to use the restroom, too,” I add.
“After you tell your mother what you
said,” says Dave.
I stare at him.
“I didn’t say anything, Dave.”
The restaurant feels suddenly quiet.
“Now may I please use the restroom?” I
ask. “We were on that train forever.”
Dave stares at my mother. My mother says
nothing.
“Go,” says Dave.
So I walk through the courtyard to the
bathroom.
And when I get there, I see Emilio coming
out of the women’s room.
“The men’s room was occupied,” says
Emilio. “I didn’t think anyone would mind.”
But the men’s room is now free.
And so I go inside.
And see a wall of graffiti on the stall door.
Each etching more nonsensical than the last.
Until I spot one item in the center of the
door.
That is all too sensical.
“How dare he mock my nautical skills,” I tell
Emilio Empanada as he lies on his bed read-
ing The Donkey’s Kiss Is More Powerful Than
His Kick.
“It’s malicious,” says Emilio.
“And I look nothing like that,” I add.
“You don’t,” he answers.
“The important thing now is to not get
rattled,” I tell my unpaid intern. “Because
that’s what my nemesis wants.”
“Yes,” says Emilio. “I imagine that’s what
he or she wants. So what do we do next?”
“Well, if the stupid lighthouse hadn’t been
closed, we would have rushed there. But that
will have to wait until morning.”
“And until then?” asks Emilio.
“We keep the doors locked and our detec-
tive minds sharp,” I tell him. “Tomorrow is
the biggest day of our lives.”
“I’ll keep sharp by reading this romance
novel,” says Emilio. “The Donkey’s Kiss is
quite intellectually stimulating.”
“And I’ll keep sharp by adding a few chap-
ters to my bestseller,” I tell him. “The pub-
lic’s demand for these books appears to be
insatiable.”
Emilio says nothing.
In fact, I’ve already written a new scenario
inspired by the events of tonight. “It’s both
instructive and riveting.”
“Oh,” replies Emilio.
“You may once again read it without
charge,” I tell him. “Though tips would be
welcome.”
He puts his romance novel down and
reads.
“Couldn’t the man have just lied?” asks
Emilio Empanada.
“No,” I answer. “Not a man in a white
cap.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“Oh, my goodness,” I answer, rather
stunned. “I had no idea you were such a nov-
ice. Haven’t you ever seen a western? You
know, with good guys and bad guys?”
“I guess,” says Emilio.
“Then you know the good guy always
wears a white hat.”
“Oh,” he answers.
I turn off his bedside lamp.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“You’re not sharp,” I tell him. “You need
sleep. We can’t have you with this impaired
judgment tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he says. “Good night.”
“Good night, unpaid intern.”
We are up at dawn and on our way to the
lighthouse.
Menaced by more chickens.
“Look what you’ve done,” I tell Emilio
Empanada.
“What’s wrong with chi
ckens?”
“They could be spies.”
“I think they’re just chickens,” says
Emilio.
“Anything with two eyes and a mouth can
be a spy,” I explain to my unpaid intern.
“I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” I say, stop-
ping suddenly on the sidewalk. “Like why is
there a long line of people waiting for the light-
house at nine thirty in the morning?”
“I don’t think these people are going to
the lighthouse,” says Emilio. “I think they’re
going to that big house across the street.”
He points to a two-story house with lime-
green shutters.
“Whose house is that?”
“Some famous author.”
“Oh, goodness. I can think of nothing more
boring than talking to an author.”
“I think he’s dead,” replies Emilio.
“Well, now that could be interesting. Does
he say much?”
“No, he’s not there. He’s dead.”
“Well, then let’s hurry and get in line for
the lighthouse before they figure that out.”
So we walk up to the lighthouse.
But there is no line.
And no Lighthouse Larry.
“Who are you?” I ask the boy beating on
bongos.
“Billy,” he says. “Who are you?”
“We’re two guests who wish to enter your
lighthouse,” I answer. “We have the necessary
funds.”
“It’s not my lighthouse,” he says. “I’m just
sitting here till my dad gets back with our
conch fritters.”
“Larry,” I say.
“You know my dad?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I answer. “We are in
the midst of bitter, protracted litigation.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I was mauled by one of your
attack chickens.”
Billy laughs.
“That’s very callous of you, Billy. Please
just take our money so we can get on with
our business. I’m a detective and this is my
unpaid intern,” I say, pointing to Emilio.
“And we have no time for your mirth-filled
mockery.”
“Detective?” says Billy. “Like cops and
robbers? Can I play?”
Before I can react, I am struck in the face
by a thick jet of water.
“Oh, good God!” I cry, falling to the ground.
“It’s just a squirt gun,” says Bongo Billy.
“I’m dying,” I answer.
“You’re fine,” offers my unpaid intern.
“I regret that I have but one life to give
for my detective business,” I announce as I
breathe my last.
“You’re kind of weird,” says Bongo Billy,
banging once again on his bongos.
“Play Chopin’s Funeral March if you know
it,” I gasp. “It’s my final request. Though I’m
not sure it’s particularly suited for the bongo.”
“Here,” says Bongo Billy, handing me a
plump pink water balloon. “You can hit me
with this. Then we’ll be even.”
“Absurd,” I announce, miraculously cured
by an act of providence. “Then you will sue
me, as I am suing your father.”
I rise like Lazarus brought forth from the
grave.
“But I will accept your plump pink water
balloon in the spirit of compromise with which
it is offered.”
I cradle the balloon like it is a newborn
chicken.
And Emilio cradles a newborn chicken
like it is a newborn chicken.
And we storm our tower of destiny.
I race up the eighty-eight stairs of the spiral
staircase until I reach the top of the lighthouse.
And leaping out onto the observation deck, I
see everything on this frontier island of doom.
Like the blue sea and the cruise ships.
And the steeples and the palm trees.
And the white roofs and the people.
Each more suspicious than the last.
Like the man in the Speedo.
And the baby on the head.
And the chicken on the chickens.
And as I quickly scan the frond-shrouded
streets to find our rental house, I am confi-
dent that from here I will spot my nemesis.
Running. Crouching. Hiding.
Screaming.
There is someone screaming.
“TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMM-
MMY!”
I pop my head back inside the lighthouse.
“Emilio?”
“YES!” His voice echoes up from the
curved white walls. “I’ve been yelling forever.
I’m stuck!”
“Stuck how?”
“Halfway up the staircase. I can’t move.”
“What do you mean you can’t move? Are
your legs broken or something?”
“No, my legs aren’t broken. I just started
running up the stairs and then I looked down
and now I can’t move.”
“You’re scared? At the most pivotal
moment of our investigation, you’re scared?”
“Maybe,” he says, his voice echoing
through the lighthouse. “Okay, more than
maybe.”
“Well, just grab the railing and move up
here slowly. I’m on the trail of a killer!”
“I can’t!” he yells. “I’m with Edward
Higglebottom the Third.”
“Who the heck is that?”
“My baby chicken. I just named him. And
I need both my hands to hold him.”
“Who brings a baby chicken to a criminal
pursuit?” I cry out. “It’s very unprofessional!”
“I just found him walking around outside.
He was all by himself. No mother or father or
anything. Please, Timmy. I just need your help
going back down the stairs.”
“Emilio Empanada! I am in the most strate-
gically advantageous spot on this entire island
and I am holding a plump pink water balloon.
If I can just get two uninterrupted minutes, I
will find my nemesis and stun him with this
watery projectile.”
I hear nothing in reply, so I leap back
onto the observation deck and raise my plump
pink water balloon high overhead and search
for assassins.
And as I do, a rumbling echo rises back up
the lighthouse.
“TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMM-
MMY!”
“Oh, good gosh,” I mutter, “I give up.” I
lay the plump pink water balloon on the obser-
vation deck, then hop back inside and descend
the staircase.
And save Emilio Empanada from himself.
On the way back from the lighthouse, we are
once again escorted.
Though this time not by chickens.
“Is this your son?” asks the man who has
walked us home.
“Yes,” says my mother, poking her head
out the front door. “Is something wrong?”
“He pelted me with a water balloon from
the top of the Key West lighthouse.”
My mother looks at me.
“I placed the balloon on the observation
deck,” I explain. “It then rolled off and struck
Speedo Steve.”
“My name is Ron, not Steve,” says Speedo
Steve. “And I find it hard to believe it was an
accident.”
“And why is that?” asks my mother. “If I
may ask.”
“Because the whole way home, your son
was saying, ‘Ye got what ye deserve, ye Speedo-
wearing fiend.’”
“I deny that,” I tell my mother. “I do not
talk like a pirate.”
“He was talking like a pirate,” says Speedo
Steve.
“His memory of events is compromised,” I
tell my mother. “For by his own admission, he
was struck in the head by a water balloon. My
guess is that he is drifting in and out of con-
sciousness. He doesn’t even know his name.”
“My name is Ron,” says Speedo Steve.
“Timmy, did you hit this man with a water
balloon on purpose?” asks my mother.
“Preposterous,” I say, shaking my head.
She turns to Emilio.
“Emilio, did Timmy do it on purpose?”
“Avast!” I object. “You would take the
word of an unpaid intern over that of your
son?”
“Emilio, did he do it on purpose?” she
repeats.
“I wouldn’t know,” answers Emilio.
“Honest. I was stuck in the lighthouse, hold-
ing Edward Higglebottom the Third.”
“Who?” asks my confused mother.
He holds up his baby chicken.
“That settles it,” I tell my mother. “There
are no witnesses and thus it is the word of
your beloved son, Timmy, versus that of the
unseemly Speedo Steve.”
“Ron,” he says. “For the last time, Ron.”
“And before you believe a word that he
says,” I add, “consider how the man is dressed.
It is an affront to good taste and decency.”
“Okay, Timmy, that’s enough,” says my