The McVentures of Me, Morgan McFactoid

by Mark S. Waxman

  “It’s no more. Didn’t work out as I had planned,” I said.

  “That happens sometimes. You start in one place and end up somewhere altogether different,” he said, looking at the picture of Buckholtz. “Sometimes better,” Poppy added. “You know, ‘different’ can be ‘better.’”

  “Yeah, maybe it’s better.”

  I grabbed my backpack, getting ready to go to school.

  “It’s okay, Sparky,” Poppy said. “Even though I could sleep in a little longer if I didn’t have to shave, shaving is part of my morning routine. It wakes me up. Refreshes me. Gives me a chance to look myself in the face—ten minutes to stare into the mirror and reflect. That’s time well spent.” Poppy always looked on the bright side. He struggled out of his reclining chair and wobbled into the kitchen. I followed him.

  “Poppy?”

  “What?”

  I hesitated, then asked, “What if you could grow hair again?”

  “You’re always thinking, aren’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to look younger? Get those jobs you want.”

  Poppy poured himself a cup of coffee (the most popular beverage in the world) and said, “Not having hair. I’ve gotten used to it. It’s who I am—a bald guy.”

  “But if you could be an un-bald guy, a guy with a full head of hair,” I said, “wouldn’t you like that more?”

  Chloe scurried through the kitchen, grabbing a banana on her way. “Hurry up. Dad’s already in the car,” she said before flying out the door.

  Poppy put his coffee cup down, rubbed his bald skull, and smiled. “Hair on my head? Humm. I’d have to spend time washing it, drying it, combing it, cutting it. I’d have to spend money on combs, shampoos, conditioners, haircuts. I don’t know, kid. At my age, hair seems more like a bother than a benefit.”

  I watched Poppy return to the living room. He sank into his chair and perused the job listings in the newspaper.

  As I was leaving the house, he called out, “Whoever turned Buckholtz into a grizzly bear was using his brain.”

  When our Jeep pulled up to school, we saw several television cameras, news journalists, and radio reporters gathered on the front steps. In the middle of the media mayhem was Buckholtz. His new unwanted hair had “evaporated” overnight. Jerry and Don were planted on either side of him like the lion statues at the New York Public Library. (At the time it opened in 1911, the library was the largest marble building ever constructed in the United States.)

  “What’s all this?” Dad asked.

  “Buckholtz is a celebrity,” Chloe said. “He ran around in a red gorilla suit yesterday.”

  “Yeah. Except it wasn’t a suit,” I murmured.

  Chloe and I got out of the Jeep, said good-bye to Dad, and ran up the stairs to the front doors, which were obstructed by reporters.

  “Mr. Buckholtz!” one of the journalists shouted out, “Do you have any idea how you suddenly grew all that hair?”

  “Nope,” Buckholtz answered, relishing the attention.

  Another reporter asked, “Do you have any idea how you suddenly lost all that hair?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you think it will happen again?” another reporter asked.

  “It better not,” Buckholtz said, spotting me in the crowd. “Or something really bad is going to happen!”

  He didn’t scare me. Because in my pocket was my vial. I had reloaded it the night before with Hair Today. I was armed and dangerous.

  Chloe fired a question of her own, “Mr. Buckholtz, do you think you’ll ever graduate?”

  Jerry and Don laughed until Buckholtz threw them a harsh look. The reporters tried to ask more questions, but the morning bell rang and the crowd slowly dispersed. Chloe ran ahead to class. I got as far as the lobby before Buckholtz stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

  “Hello, Hairy,” he said, with his cretin pals by his side.

  “Hi,” I mumbled.

  “Side effect from mononucleosis? Hair attacks? Fatal foot disease?” Buckholtz snarled. “I looked it up, my mom looked it up, my doctor looked it up. You made it up. And now, guess what? I’m going to beat you up!”

  Just before he could make a move toward me, Mr. Palimaro, the principal, breezed by and said, “Ten minutes. Get to class, boys.”

  Buckholtz waited for Mr. Palimaro to pass before saying, “After school. My fist, your face. Wanna bet which one will win, Hairy-boy?” Buckholtz laughed, then he and his two losers walked off.

  His fist would win against my face. No question. But still, it was time for me to stand up to him. I only hoped my noggin’ and my vial of Hair Today would be strong enough to put an end, once and for all, to this barbarian’s threats. I took a deep breath, then called out, “Yes!”

  Buckholtz whirled around, “What?”

  “Yes. I want to bet.”

  “Don’t waste my time.”

  “I bet your fist won’t beat my face,” I said, wishing my voice sounded a little tougher. Or lower.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Because there won’t be a fight.” I stated.

  “Are you a fortune teller now?”

  “Sorry. No fight.”

  I admit my pulse rate was climbing. I thought about some of my favorite factoids: Ninety percent of people have an innie belly button . . . there are 293 ways to make change for a dollar . . . the average life span of a major league baseball is seven pitches . . . a dime has 118 ridges around its edge. When I felt relaxed and ready, I said, “So, wanna bet?”

  Buckholtz slowly retraced his steps back to me. “You’d never bet,” he said.

  “Wanna bet I’d never bet?”

  “Okay. What’s your big bet, Hairy? A penny?

  “How does two thousand pennies sound? Twenty dollars that there won’t be a fight,” I said, praying that my plan would work.

  Jerry and Don gasped.

  Buckholtz continued. “You’re in for a rough day, Hairy. Not only are you going to lose a fight, you’re going to lose, let’s say thirty bucks.”

  Jerry and Don looked at each other, excited over how much Buckholtz had increased the wager.

  “Forty,” I countered.

  “Fifty!” Buckholtz shot back.

  Fifty dollars was a lot of money. I had never bet on anything before. This was getting out of hand. I felt myself crumbling. I didn’t have fifty dollars.

  “I knew you wouldn’t go through with it. Where would you get fifty dollars? I hear your old man doesn’t have a nickel!” Buckholtz shouted.

  They all laughed.

  My blood started to boil. Nobody makes fun of my dad!

  “Okay. Not fifty,” I said.

  “I knew you would fold. See you at your funeral, Hairy. Three o’clock sharp.” He turned to leave.

  I plunged my hands into my pockets. “Make it an even hundred,” I said.

  Buckholtz spun around. “One hundred dollars? Really, Hairy? You’re willing to lose that much that easily?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “I’m looking forward to winning a hundred dollars. From you.” I popped the stopper out of the vial in my pocket with my thumb and squeezed a large quantity of Hair Today into my right hand, “One hundred bucks, Holtz!”

  I removed my hand from my pocket and reached it out to Buckholtz to seal the deal, keeping my palm down so that he wouldn’t see the red goo smeared on the inside of my hand.

  THE AFTER-SCHOOL FIGHT THAT NEVER WAS

  Buckholtz glared at me while the Dopey Brothers stood behind him with their mouths wide open. “If we fight, I win one hundred dollars. If we don’t fight, you win one hundred dollars,” Buckholtz said. “That’s your measly bet?”

  “Unless you want to keep going higher, which I’d be happy to do.” For a moment my heart stopped. I stood with my hand outstretched, waiting for him to shake on the deal.

  Buckholtz turned to his friends. “You heard him, right?” His friends just nodded, impressed—as I was
—at the amount at stake. “There’s gonna be a fight. I’m gonna win the fight. I’m gonna win one hundred dollars!” Buckholtz said.

  “Who wouldn’t take that bet?” Don said to Jerry.

  “It’s a no-brainer,” Jerry said to Don.

  “Bring it on!” Buckholtz said, grabbing my hand as hard as he could. He knew his grip was hurting me. But, what he didn’t realize was that the force of his grasp was transferring my formula deep into the skin of both of our hands.

  “It’s a deal,” I said, feeling slightly faint.

  “Sucker,” Buckholtz sneered. He removed his hand from mine, turned, and strutted down the hall. His friends hustled behind, like ducklings. I furiously wiped the goop off my hand onto my jeans. Then I wondered if Hair Today would grow on denim.

  “Oh, one more thing,” I said, calling after him.

  Buckholtz and his clowns stopped and turned around.

  “If you ever threaten or bother me again—”

  “Yeah, Hairy? What’re you going to do?”

  “I’m going to do my voodoo on you. That’s what I’m going to do . . . do.”

  Buckholtz walked back to me, raised his massive arm and cocked his fat fist like he was going to slug me. I didn’t back up, I didn’t back down. For the first time, I didn’t run. I simply placed my hands in my pockets and smiled, waiting for the big surprise.

  “At one second after three o’clock, your face will look like a crushed watermelon, Hairy,” Buckholtz said with his fist still clenched in front of my face.

  “My name is Morgan. You’re hairy,” I said.

  At that glorious moment, red hair started flowing out between the knuckles in Buckholtz’s fist. He and his bonehead pals turned white. Hair kept spraying out of his palm. Buckholtz screamed and jumped around. He tried to shake the hair off, like his hand was on fire.

  “It’s happening again!” he squealed.

  “Can you say Morgan?” I asked him coolly.

  “What have you done to me, Hairy?” he shrieked.

  “This is just the beginning,” I said. “And my name is Morgan.”

  Buckholtz was horror-struck, his eyes fixed on the hair oozing from inside his hand. “You’re the one who did this to me yesterday!” he accused, watching the spaghetti-like hair crawl all over his fingers.

  “Unless you leave me and every other kid in this school alone,” I said to his terrified face, “I’ll turn you into a giant red fur ball again! And next time it will be permanent!”

  “No!” he pleaded.

  “Or I might shrink you to two inches tall.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Or make farts come out your ears.”

  “No!”

  “I can do anything I want to you. It’s my voodoo!”

  “Help me! Somebody help me!”

  “Still want to fight today?”

  Hair, lots and lots of hair, kept growing out of his hand. He had had enough. “Stop it! Stop it now!” Buckholtz screamed.

  “No name-calling, no threatening, no chasing, no betting, no fighting. Got it?” I said.

  “Yes!” he shrieked. “Yes! Yes!”

  I pulled my hands out of my pocket and pointed my hairy finger at Buckholtz and bellowed, “Now, WHAT’S MY NAME?”

  Buckholtz looked at my hairy hand and nearly passed out. “Where did you come from?” he whimpered, convinced that I was a mad mutant, some alien from outer space.

  “Boston. Home of America’s first subway. NOW SAY MY NAME!” I yelled.

  Buckholtz despised being humiliated in front of his buddies, but he slowly started to stammer, “Mor—Mor—Mor . . .”

  “Do you really want hair growing out your eye sockets?” I warned.

  “Mor—Morg—Morgan,” he sputtered.

  “ONCE MORE!”

  “Morgan,” he growled.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “MORGAN!” he blared.

  Goliath had been defeated. He was near tears.

  “Never call me ‘Hairy’ again. And never EVER say anything about my dad again! Do you understand?” I said.

  He nodded meekly.

  He deserved a knockout punch. “Swear!” I demanded.

  “I swear.”

  I let that sink in. Morgan McCracken had spoken. The enemy had surrendered. The war had been won. I walked briskly past Buckholtz down the hallway to my class. I’d never felt better.

  Steadying himself against the lockers was a reporter from the Carlsbad Courier. He had witnessed everything. And looked like he had seen a ghost.

  It was three o’clock. The final bell had rung. School was over. Outside the gym, Buckholtz, Don, and Jerry silently stepped aside as I sauntered past them. I noticed that the hair on Buckholtz’s hand was still there, but had stopped growing. The hair on my hand was gone. I documented my findings into the McCorder, “Message to me: The formula reacts differently on different people and on different body parts. Oh, and Hair Today doesn’t work on denim.”

  I wanted to tell Robin about Buckholtz—about my latest findings and my latest conquest—but she wasn’t talking to me. I wondered if anything could bring us back together.

  THE BALD AND THE BEAUTIFUL

  When I reached the end of our block, I saw about a hundred people standing in front of our house. I encountered a police barricade. “Sorry, son,” said Officer Hernandez, a stubby motorcycle cop. “I can’t let anyone else in.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Some kid in that house invented hair.”

  “Hey,” I said. “That’s my house. That kid is me!”

  Officer Hernandez looked me over and decided to lift the yellow caution ribbon, allowing me to duck under. I saw a long procession of men in the center of the street leading to my front door. The men had one thing in common: they were all bald.

  Clustered on our front yard were more news crews and reporters than had been at school that morning. As I got closer to my home, I saw my dad, my mom, Chloe, and Poppy on the front porch trying to answer questions from the press.

  “This is the first we’ve heard of this,” my dad said.

  A radio reporter shouted out, “Mrs. McCracken, do you have any idea how much your son’s invention will be worth?”

  “All we know is that Morgan loves to tinker,” Mom said.

  Another reporter yelled, “Chloe McCracken, do you—”

  “That’s spelled C-H-L—” Chloe said, before another reporter poked a microphone in Poppy’s face and asked, “Is your grandson going to test his formula on you?”

  Poppy pointed me out in the crowd and replied, “Ask him. He’s the man of the hour!”

  All the cameras swiveled toward me. The line of bald men began to hoot and holler. Suddenly, a group of journalists surrounded me. I was packed in so tightly that I couldn’t raise my hands to scratch my nose. (A woman’s nose can detect more scents than a man’s can.) A camera was shoved in my face and the female reporter asked, “Morgan, can you really cure all these men of baldness?” Before I could answer, there was a barrage of more questions from the other reporters: “Which cosmetic company has bought your invention?” “What will you do with all your money?” “Will you quit school?” “Will you buy your school?”

  “No comment! No comment!” I yelled. I had seen politicians say that on television. They were usually being led away in handcuffs at the time.

  I put my head down and wiggled through the throng to the front porch to stand with my family. I raised my hands above my head to quiet the crowd. They gradually grew still.

  By now, the column of bald men had grown, stretching clear down the block. They were of all ages and types. Some wore suits. Some wore shorts. Some had round heads, some had flat heads, and some had pinheads. They all had glossy, bare heads. I recognized Mayor Michelson. And Principal Palimaro. And Reverend Reilly. They were looking at me with hope in their eyes . . . and cash in their hands.

  I stood tall and addressed the assembly. “Stewardesses is the longest wo
rd you can type using only the left hand. With the right hand, it’s lollipop,” I said. Everyone stared back at me, in disbelief. “We’re sorry. We have nothing more to say at this time. We must ask for your patience and our privacy.” Celebrities always refer to themselves as “we.” “We thank you for coming,” we concluded.

  The news people groused and began to break up. “But, to the gentlemen in line . . . wait here,” I said. Then, I opened the front door to my home, turned to my family on the porch, and whispered the words, “We need help!”

  The First Rule of the McCracken Manor was that anyone at any time could call for a Family Summit. The Summits are for a member of the family to discuss a problem or make announcements that would affect all of us. And so, the moment we entered the house, I called for an emergency Family Summit.

  We sat in the living room. I quickly described how my hair discovery came about, how I was trying to invent a solution to shaving, how a lightning strike changed the chemical properties of my experiment, how Robin pointed out the hair follicles on Taxi, how I used the formula against Buckholtz, and how he would never bother me or any other student again.

  “If nothing else,” I said, “Hair Today solved my bully problem. The other goal I wanted to achieve,” I turned to my parents, “was to invent something that would be a big seller, so that you would never have to worry about money again.”

  My father stood up, walked around the room, and then spoke. “There are a lot of men outside asking for your help. Wanting your attention. Needing your formula. You shouldn’t keep them waiting.” He paced back and forth like a commander inspecting his troops. “Your mother works hard. She likes her job and earns a fair salary.” He gestured toward Poppy. “Grandpa wants to work again, and he will. He likes to work, whether it’s for money or not.”

  Dad stopped in front of me. “And I’m going to get a job again.” He took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I appreciate that you want to pitch in, Morgan, but I promise you, we’re going to be fine. All of us. No matter what. We’re McCrackens.” He looked deep into my eyes. “Do what you enjoy doing, but don’t do it for money. And certainly don’t do it for me.”

  Everything got quiet. After a moment, Mom said, “Your formula’s a great accomplishment, Morgan.”