by Bill Myers
“Uh, yeah . . . ,” Opera said. “Sure.”
The two exchanged grins as Opera practically beamed over the attention . . . until Bruiser Boy grabbed the other bottle from him and growled, “Yeah, well, luck or no luck, being nice to him or that . . .” He turned to Opera. “What’s the name of that big-time loser friend of yours?”
“Which one?” Opera asked, “Wally or Wall Street?”
“Yeah, Wally McDorkoid—being nice to those morons gives us all a bad reputation.” He rinsed out his mouth and spat the water onto the ground, making a nice little puddle of spit mud.
I wasn’t too bugged hearing him make fun of me. After all, I worked long and hard for that reputation. But I was bothered when he gave Opera a push . . . so hard that my friend kinda stumbled and fell face-first into the fresh little puddle of spit mud. (I’d been giving Opera private coordination lessons for months, and it was almost encouraging to see them pay off. Almost.)
Of course, everyone busted a gut laughing. Everyone but me.
I was even more bugged when Opera tried to get up and Bruiser Boy stepped on his neck, pushing his face back down into the mud.
More laughter by them . . . more being bugged by me. In fact, I was so bugged that before I could stop myself I was racing out onto the field to try to help my friend. Now, normally this was your typical McDoogle suicide mission. You know the routine . . .
Wally runs onto field to save friend.
Wally makes total fool of himself.
Wally gets turned into football shoe goo.
Yes sir, it was your standard, everyday affair. However, this time, as you may recall, there was something a little different about me.
Opera had barely gotten to his knees when Bruiser Boy’s foot came at him again. That’s when I sort of stepped in the way and sort of yelled, “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size!” (See what I mean about a suicide mission?)
The good news was, everyone was laughing so hard, no one but Bruiser Boy heard me. The bad news was, instead of landing on Opera’s neck, his big foot caught me in the gut and sent me staggering halfway down the field. Unfortunately, this threw off his balance, causing him to slip and
K-Splat!
join Opera in the spit mud.
Lots more laughter (this time at him) and confusion (this time by him), as he looked around trying to figure out what had happened. It was only then that I realized I might be able to take advantage of this invisible business. So, as Jerry helped Opera to his feet, and as my buddy hobbled off the field, I strolled quietly up to Bruiser Boy and waited for them to start playing again.
During practice, it was Bruiser’s job to break through the line and tackle Jerry. But as luck would have it (along with some quick shoelace tying by yours truly), when the ball was snapped the big guy took one step forward and landed face-first on the ground—allowing Jerry to throw a perfect touchdown pass.
Lots of cheers and laughter.
The next play was even better. Everybody lined up, and, just before the ball was snapped, Bruiser Boy started giggling and swatting at his sides. (The fact that I was busy tickling him in the ribs might have had something to do with it.) It also had something to do with Jerry running past him for another touchdown.
On the next play a very baffled Bruiser Boy got to carry me piggyback a few yards before he finally stumbled and fell—allowing Jerry to throw another beautiful pass.
“What’s going on?!” Bruiser shouted, leaping to his feet, looking all around. “What’s happening?!”
By now everyone was rolling with laughter . . . everyone but Coach Kilroy. “What’s the matter with you?!” he shouted at Bruiser from the sidelines. “Tomorrow’s the biggest game of the season. Either get yourself into this practice or hit the showers!”
“Yes, Coach,” Bruiser Boy said.
“Looks like you’re having some bad luck,” Jerry teased.
“I’ll be all right,” Bruiser Boy growled. He got back on the line, once again preparing to charge and tackle Jerry.
But before they started the next play, Jerry called, “Hey, Opera, grab me a towel!”
Opera raced onto the field with a towel, and once again Jerry gave his hair a tousle. “Sounds to me like you just need some Opera luck,” he called to Bruiser.
By now the big guy was steaming. “I’ll be okay,” he grumbled.
“Hey, Jer,” his tall and gangly receiver said, “let me have some of that luck.”
“Help yourself.” Jerry grinned.
Taking his cue, Opera lowered his head, letting the receiver rub it.
“Me, too,” Jerry’s halfback said, trotting over and giving Opera a rub.
Opera obliged.
“Thanks, pal.” He slapped Opera on the shoulder, and Opera grinned back, obviously in waterboy heaven.
“Are you gonna play ball or what?” Bruiser yelled.
“Sure you don’t want a shot?” Jerry teased, motioning to Opera.
“Let’s play,” Bruiser growled.
Jerry shrugged. “Just trying to help.”
Opera ran off the field as they prepared for the next play. “Ready,” Jerry called to his right. Then turning to his left he shouted, “Set!”
Everyone took his position on the line . . . including yours truly. I wasn’t sure what to do next . . . though the string Bruiser Boy used to tie up his pants looked awfully inviting. I reached over to it but didn’t have time to finish the job before Jerry yelled:
“Hike!”
The ball was snapped to Jerry, and he faded back to make another pass. Bruiser Boy broke past me and raced toward him. I watched in horror as the big guy headed straight for him. I had to do something. Somehow I had to stop him. With no other solution in mind, I raced for Bruiser as fast as I could and lunged at him, trying to tackle him.
But, of course, me tackling Bruiser Boy is like a mosquito attacking a semitruck’s windshield at sixty-five miles per hour. Still I managed to get my arms around the big guy’s legs . . . until he slipped out. That was the bad news. The good news was, when he slipped out of my arms, he also slipped out of his pants!
That’s right, they dropped to around his knees and
K-Oaafff!
Bruiser Boy fell face-first into, you guessed it, the spit mud . . . allowing Jerry to fire off another perfect touchdown pass.
After everyone was done laughing and slapping Jerry on the back (and after Coach had yanked Bruiser off the field and sent him to the showers), all the players started calling for Opera—so they could rub his head and have some of Jerry’s luck for themselves.
It was a beautiful sight. And the rest of that afternoon I was more than a little busy—helping all those who had rubbed Opera’s head to look great, and all those who wouldn’t to look bad. In fact, in less than an hour I had turned my best friend around from being the team’s joke . . . to being their prized mascot. It was a great feeling to help like that. Suddenly, being invisible wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was pretty good.
Well, except for the two strangers in dark suits watching from the stands. The two strangers who constantly spoke into the microphones hidden in their coat sleeves. The two strangers who would very, very soon be turning the good times into bad ones.
Chapter 4
So Far, So Not-So-Good
I gotta tell you, except for not being able to
gurgle, gurgle, gurgle . ..
eat, I was really getting into this invisible kid stuff. Imagine doing anything you wanted without getting busted. And it didn’t have to stop with helping Opera. Oh, sure, it was fun turning him into the team’s good luck charm. But did it have to stop there? Couldn’t I continue the team’s “good luck” by “helping them out” during tomorrow’s big game? And what about Wall Street’s haunted house? Who knew how much fun that could be, let alone how much money we could make?
Of course, somewhere in the back of my brain I still knew it was a little like cheating (all right, it was a lot like cheating). But didn’t Wal
l Street have a point? Was cheating really that bad? I mean, as long as you didn’t get caught?
“Hey, Wally . . . ,” Wall Street whispered to me as we headed down the street on our way home. She motioned toward the Cineplex we were passing. “Check it out. Attack of the Killer Bunny Slippers is still playing.”
“Cool,” I said.
“Burp!” Opera agreed.
Now, don’t let the title fool you. Attack of the Killer Bunny Slippers is the scariest horror film of all time. So bad that everyone in our school wanted to see it. But since it was rated R (as in gRuesome) it was definitely out of our league.
“Why don’t you go in and check it out?” Wall Street asked.
“Me?” I croaked. “I’m not old enough. They’ll stop me at the door.”
“Not if they can’t see you.”
I turned to her. She was getting that grin on her face again . . . the one she had just before we turned on the OOPS, the one that made me more nervous than a turkey on Thanksgiving, a candy cane on Christmas, a chocolate bunny on—well, you get the picture.
I did my best to stall, using my famous and proven “Uhh . . .” routine.
“Go ahead, nobody will know.”
“Uhh . . . uhh . . .”
“Maybe you’ll get some ideas to use for our haunted house.”
“Uhh . . . uhh . . . uhh . . .”
So much for my vocabulary skills. Fortunately, Opera came to my rescue. Good ol’ Opera, a friend to the end, dependable, trustworthy:
“Yeah, Wally, belch, don’t be such a chicken.” (See what I mean?)
My mind spun, my gears turned, my stomach
gurgle, gurgle, gurgled .. .
Then, in a sudden flash of inspiration (more like a dim spark of ignorance), I had my excuse. “I, uh, I don’t have any money!”
They both cocked their heads and gave me a look that said, “Nice try, but do you really think our brain wattage is that low?”
“What?” I asked.
“You’re invisible,” Wall Street said. “You don’t ever have to pay for anything again.”
“Oh, yeah,” I answered quietly.
And so, with the same enthusiasm as a kid heading off to summer school, I trudged toward the line of people waiting to enter the theater.
“Take good notes!” Wall Street called.
Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle . . .
my stomach replied.
“What’s that sound?” the woman in front of me asked as she turned to her husband. “Is your acid indigestion acting up?”
“Not mine,” he mumbled. “Thought it was you getting all gassy again.”
For obvious reasons, I quickly moved past them and through the door.
So far, so good.
Next came the problem of finding a seat. Actually, finding a seat wasn’t as bad as keeping it. Because, just as soon as I plopped down into an empty one, somebody would plop down on top of me.
“Oaff!” I’d groan.
“EEEK!” they’d scream.
After two or three times of practicing this delightful ritual, I figured it was better just to stand. If that’s the worst of my problems, I had nothing to worry about.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t, and I did . . .
Oh, sure, it was lots of fun going around sipping people’s sodas without them knowing: “What’s with these tightwads?” some guy complained. “They only give you half a cup now!”
Or eating their popcorn (it was too dark for anybody to see my stomach): “Keep your paws out of my popcorn!” some woman yelled at the stranger beside her.
But that was as good as it got. Because soon they started showing the movie. I don’t want to gross you out, so I’ll just tell you the parts that weren’t incredibly gory and sickeningly gruesome.
Let’s see, first there was:
Then there was:
And finally:
Hmm, I guess all the parts were incredibly gory and sickeningly gruesome—which would explain why, when I walked out of the theater, I was incredibly numb and sickeningly sick. Numb, sick, and constantly searching the sidewalk for any scurrying bunny slippers with an appetite for human flesh.
I felt awful. Worse than awful. And there was nothing I could do about it.
Not only was there the guilt from sneaking into the theater, but also there were those awful scenes from the movie. I tell you, if I could have used a bucket of soap and a scrub brush to wash them out of my mind, I would have. But there was nothing I could do to get rid of them. They wouldn’t leave me on the way home, they wouldn’t leave me when I went upstairs to my room, and they wouldn’t leave when I tried to go to sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw dead bodies and burping bunny slippers with bloodstains around their cute little whiskers.
Finally, with no other solution, I reached for Ol’ Betsy and snapped her on. Maybe getting back to my superhero story would help clear my brain.
Then again, maybe . . .
When we last left SuperSlob, he’d just been attacked by the notorious, not-so-nice nut case... Neat Freak!
Already his room looks cleaner—— now you can actually catch glimpses of his green carpeting (or is that mold?)——and his dark brown walls (or is that dried chocolate syrup?). And then, just when things can’t get any neater, our hero feels his hair starting to untangle!
He turns to his mother in desperation. “Mom, what’s happening? My hair is combing itself!!”
“I don’t know,” she cries, trying not to clap in delight. “But it looks like you can kiss those dreadlocks good-bye!”
And still things grow worse. Suddenly
...pppiiiRRR
SuperSlob looks down and sees the giant rip in his T-shirt repairing itself. Not only that, but his favorite mustard stain (the cool one right up front where everybody can see it) is disappearing before his very eyes!
Is there no end to the tenacious torture this tyrant is touting? (Looks like it’s time to hit the ol’ dictionary. And while you’re at it, flip over to the Ns....) Is there no way to nullify his notorious neatness?
Nobody knows what made Neat Freak so nutsoid about neatness. Some say it happened when he was a baby. Rumor has it that his family ran out of windshield wiper fluid while driving through Minnesota and he had to stare through the bug-splattered windshield for too many hours. Others say it came from going to a museum and looking for an entire day at all those messy paintings they call modern art.
But whatever the cause, it was enough to cause this crazed kid to crack. Soon he was alphabetizing all the little noodles in his alphabet soup. Next, he was carefully arranging all those little grains of sand (or whatever they are) in the family’s cat box. And finally, worst of all worsts, he flew to New York to try to fill in the gap between David Letterman’s teeth.
“EXCUSE ME, MY DEAREST SON.”
SuperSlob spins around to stare at his mother as she continues to speak.
“IBELIEVE, IF IT IS NOT TOO DIFFICULT, YOU SHOULD PROCEED TO STOP NEAT FREAK AT YOUR EARLIEST POSSIBLE CONVENIENCE.”
“Mom, what’s wrong with your voice? You’re talking all funny.”
His mom’s eyes widen in horror.
“I AM NOT CERTAIN, BUT SOME -HOW, AS I ATTEMPT TO SPEAK IN ONE MANNER, MY WORDS ARE CHANGED SO THAT MY SENTENCES SAY SOMETHING ENTIRELY DIFFERENT.”
“Oh, no,” our hero cries. “It’s him! Neat Freak is even changing the way people speak!”
Without stopping to think of a plan (that would be far too organized), SuperSlob races outside to save the day. But it’s worse than he fears. Everyone is dressed in identical clothes, navy blue suits for men, navy blue dresses for women. The cars are navy blue, too. Even the sky is, you guessed it, navy blue... well, except for the little white clouds that are spaced perfectly apart filling the entire sky.
“Neat Freak!” our hero shouts to no one in particular. “Where are you? What’s going on?!”
“I WAS GREATLY CONCERNED THAT YOU WOULD NEVER ASK THAT QUESTION.”
Our hero’s jaw drops open in surprise. Everyone on the street has turned to him. And they are all speaking in unison. Everyone is saying exactly the same thing at the same time:
“SUPERSLOB, I HAVE RELEASED ONE GAZILLION AND SIX MICROS COPIC ROBOTS UPON THE PLANET. THEY ARE TAKING OVER THE WORLD AND WILL SOON MAKE EVERYTHING IN IT NEAT AND TIDY.”
SuperSlob watches in stunned silence as people’s jaws open and close——while they look to each other in fear, unable to stop their own mouths from speaking.
“Is that how you’re making all these people dress the same and talk alike?” he shouts. “With microscopic robots??”
“THAT IS CORRECT. WITH EVERYONE SPEAKING AND PERFORMING IDENTICAL MOVEMENTS, THE WORLD IS BECOMING EVER SO MUCH NEATER AND TIDIER.”
“You can’t do that!” our hero shouts. “You can’t have everything the same. You can’t expect
EVERYONE TO WEAR THE SAME CLOTHES AND SAY THE SAME THING AND DRIVE THE SAME —— ”
Suddenly, our hero grabs his mouth. Great goober peas, the “perfect-speak” is even happening to him! The tiny robots are taking control of the muscles in his own jaw. Is there no way of being free from this fiendish foe with the neurotic neatness? Does this mean we’ll always have to make our beds, that we’ll always have to change our underwear? And don’t even get me started about the flossing.
These and other weighty questions burn in our hero’s mind, when suddenly——
“Hey, Wally, you in there?” It was my older brother Burt (or was it Brock?).
I looked up from Ol’ Betsy. “Yeah,” I said, my voice doing its usual cracking routine.
“Didn’t see you at dinner.”
“I, uh. . . .” Quickly I leaped under my covers. The last thing I needed was for him to see I was invisible. “I, uh, I wasn’t hungry.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“Please, Lord,” I prayed, “don’t let him get all sensitive and open the door to check up on me.”
Finally, he answered. “Well, just ’cause you ain’t eatin’ dinner don’t mean you get off doin’ the dishes.”