My Life as Crocodile Junk Food

by Bill Myers

  Suddenly, we were interrupted by someone passing us a wooden bowl of milk. Only it didn’t exactly look like milk. Come to think of it, it didn’t smell like it either. All the dried fish had made me pretty thirsty, but I wasn’t sure if drinking this was such a good idea. Jamie agreed.

  “You might want to pass on that, Wally.”

  “What is it?”

  “Beer—made of manioc . . . and human spit.”

  Suddenly, I struggled to keep my dinner down as I passed the bowl on to Jamie.

  “And they wonder how diseases spread,” Jamie said as he stared sadly into the bowl.

  “You really want to help these people, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Don’t you?” Jamie looked up at me.

  Before I could answer there was a commotion at the far end of the hut. A bunch of men were dancing and jumping around.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “They’re smoking drugs. They’re hallucinating and asking the demons to come and take control of their bodies.”

  “You’re kidding me!” I exclaimed.

  The look in Jamie’s eyes said he wasn’t.

  “But that’s—that’s like witchcraft.” I stuttered.

  Jamie nodded, even sadder than before.

  I watched as another man began leaping and jumping and acting out of control. The only problem was . . . he wasn’t acting.

  Suddenly, our circle began to clap and cheer. I looked over at the doorway and was happy to see George come back into the hut. I’d been kinda missing him. At first he looked more naked than usual until I realized it was because he didn’t have his monkey on his shoulder.

  I caught his eye and gave him a grin as he handed a wooden platter of meat to the men. He tried to return the smile, but he didn’t have much luck at it. I motioned for him to sit beside me, but he just turned and walked out.

  “What’s with him?” I asked.

  Jamie looked more miserable than ever.

  “Is he okay?”

  Jamie shook his head. “The people believe that to keep the spirits happy you have to make sacrifices to them.”

  “Sacrifices? Like what?”

  Jamie hesitated.

  “Like what, Jamie?”

  “Animals.” He took a deep breath. “The greater the spirit, the greater the sacrifice.”

  “But what’s that got to do with George being so sad?”

  Again Jamie hesitated.

  “Jamie?”

  Finally, he spoke. “Did you see his monkey when he came back in?”

  “No, but what’s that got to—” And then it hit me. “No way!”

  Jamie didn’t answer.

  “Not his pet monkey!?” I practically shouted. “They wouldn’t make him kill his pet monkey!”

  “What do you think is on that platter they’re passing?”

  I looked at the platter as it slowly approached us. My stomach began to turn. My head began to get light. I wasn’t sure if I was going to get sick, or pass out, or both. I rose unsteadily to my feet.

  “Wally, you okay?”

  “Yeah . . . I just . . . I gotta go outside.”

  I knew the men were staring at me, but I had to get out of there. I had to get away from that platter. I had to get away from everybody. I wanted to shout at them. To scream and yell. I wanted to hit them. I wanted to do all those things. But by the time I staggered out of the hut and into the rain, all I could do was cry.

  I don’t know how long I was there, but finally I heard Jamie’s voice. “You okay?”

  “No! I’m not okay! Everything’s awful! Everything’s ugly! Stupid!”

  Jamie nodded. “Everything but the people.”

  I was furious, but I didn’t know at whom. I tried to say something but only managed to squeeze out a little sob.

  Jamie said nothing. After a moment I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Now you know why we’re here,” he said softly. “Now you know why we’re trying to help.”

  “But the pain,” I croaked. “These people are dying, they’re killing themselves, they’re, they’re . . . How do you handle all this?”

  Jamie took a deep breath. I could tell he was fighting back his own feelings. Finally, he answered. “You live with it, Wally. You live with it, and you try to make it go away by doing what you can.”

  Chapter 7

  Farewells

  Since they didn’t have beds in the hut, everyone slept in one of those hammock thingies. Mine was pretty comfortable once I got into it. But getting into it was the trick. It seems every time I hopped into one side, I’d go flying out the other.

  Hop.

  FLIIINGGGG . . .

  “WHOOOAAAAA!”

  KER-THUMP! (The KER-THUMP was me hitting the ground.)

  “They’re supposed to be beds,” Jamie said with a chuckle, glancing over at me as I lay flat on my back. “Not slingshots.”

  “I know that,” I said scowling as I got up and tried to hop back in. “It’s just gonna take a little time to get the hang of—”

  Hop.

  FLIIINGGGG . . .

  “WHOOOAAAAA!”

  KER-THUMP!

  “Then again, maybe I’ll just spend the night here on the ground.”

  Of course, all the men in the hut laughed, and, of course, I gave them my world-famous Wally-McDoogle-the-Idiot grin. It felt kinda good doing what I did best, being the source of everyone’s laughter. And for a moment I almost forgot all our problems . . . almost, but not quite . . .

  Twenty minutes later I was safe and secure in the hammock (thanks to the guys tying me in it like a mummy)—but I still couldn’t sleep. I was faced with a major decision . . . what to worry about the most:

  A. Being lost in the rain forest.

  B. Being chased by angry poachers.

  C. Being with these people who are sick and dying.

  D. Worrying about Dad worrying and calling up Mom so she’ll worry even more.

  E. All of the above.

  Not wanting to miss out, I checked letter E. This meant my mind raced around and around. And when it got tired of racing around and around, it started racing back and forth. Then it started going up and down. In short, my brain was getting a lot of exercise. Too much. I had to think of something to help it rest. Finally, I had it. My “Techno Boy” story. True, I didn’t have Ol’ Betsy with me to write anything down, but I still had my mind . . . and my not-so-normal imagination . . .

  When we last left Techno Boy, he was being sucked into the belly of a giant flying saucer with the rest of the people from Earth. It is the worst of all worsts. Well, actually the third worst of all worsts. The worst of all worsts is discovering you’re having creamed spinach for dinner——while the second worst of all worsts is having to listen to the stupid jokes fellow earthlings tell as they’re being sucked into flying saucers.

  “Hey, Techno Boy!” It’s Mrs. Sludge, his English teacher. She’s rising off the ground just a few feet away and asking, “What’s the difference between an elephant and a matter baby?”

  “I don’t know,” our hero sighs, “what’s a matter baby?”

  “Got me, what’s a matter with you, baby? Har-Har-Har.”

  Techno can stand no more. Quickly, he tugs on his thumb. But this is no ordinary thumb. As he pulls it, his thumb grows longer and longer until we discover it is a giant radio antenna specifically tuned to the frequencies of all power lawn mowers.

  What? You didn’t know lawn mowers reacted to radio waves? Haven’t you ever wondered why, whenever you tune into the radio or start watching a good TV show, your mom suddenly decides it’s time for you to quit lying around the house and go mow the lawn? (See how educational these stories can be?)

  Now, where was I? Oh yeah...

  Our superhero presses four tiny freckles on his arm. Now, to the untrained eye, they look like freckles, but by now we all know better than that, don’t we? They’re not freckl
es, they’re special remote-control buttons.

  Immediately, mowers all over the country start up their engines. But our hero is not thinking of mowing the nation’s lawns (although he could stand a little extra cash over the summer). Instead, he turns his left ear to the right and his right ear to the left. (Don’t try this at home, kids, unless you’re a Transformer toy.) This, of course, revs up all the mower engines faster than a used car salesman’s mouth. They begin to take off...literally. Like helicopters, millions of lawn mowers lift out of their garages and soar high into the sky.

  “What are you doing, Techno Boy?” a voice from inside the flying saucer shouts. “Resistance is futile. Quit now.”

  The lawn mowers arrive. Techno Boy leaps on the nearest riding mower (a Torro, of course) and shouts for his fellow prisoners to do likewise. But they are too busy cracking jokes to hear.

  “Hey, Techno Boy,” Ms. Lottahype calls. “What’s black and white and black and white and black and white?”

  “Please, Ms. Lottahype, just take hold of that mower over there and——”

  “A zebra rolling down a hill!” She doubles over in laughter.

  “Everyone!” Techno Boy cries. “You must grab hold of these lawn mowers. They’ve got enough power to pull you out of the tractor beam and free——”

  But it does no good. Everyone is too busy yelling jokes and shouting punch lines.

  “What would happen if every car in the nation turned pink?” someone cries.

  “You’d have a pink carnation!” another shouts.

  “Where does an 800-pound gorilla sit?” somebody yells.

  “Anywhere he wants!” another answers.

  Techno Boy is beside himself. What can he do? The lawn mowers are all hovering, waiting to help these poor people, but no one will take hold of them.

  Suddenly, our heroically handsome hunk of junk has an idea. Techno Boy throws his trusty Torro into “We-Better-Try-Something-Else-And-We-Better-Try-It-Fast” mode. He and all the other lawn mowers roar away.

  “Where’s he going?” someone shouts.

  “He’s deserting us!” somebody screams.

  “Why’d the chicken cross the street?”another cries.

  However, Techno Boy is no longer there to hear. He’s gone.

  But not for long. (After all, he is our hero and heroes are expected to save the day.) Soon there is a low droning on the horizon. Closer and closer it comes. Louder and louder it drones.

  Suddenly, the lawn mowers come into view. Only now there are strange boxes dangling from each of their handlebars...

  Could it be? Great Scott, yes! They’re TV sets. Big ones, small ones, miniature ones, color ones, old black and white ones. And they are all heading directly toward the people.

  What can it be? What clever trick is our rechargeable hero planning to pull off with all these TVs?

  We were awake early the next morning. As soon as they untied me from my hammock, I leaped out and hit the ground. . . .

  FLIIINGGGG . . .

  “WHOOOAAAAA!”

  KER-THUMP!

  I tell you, this “Flinging” . . . “Whoa-ing” and “Ker-Thumping” was getting kinda old.

  It had stopped raining outside, and the ground was covered with dew. Well, we call it dew. George and his buddies called it “star spit.” (Kinda makes you glad to sleep inside at night, doesn’t it?)

  “You must leave now,” the shaman said, “before the spirits waken and make you sick.”

  Once again Jamie tried to talk the men into coming to the medical clinic to get inoculated from the disease. And once again they had the same answer as before. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  After some more dried fish and manioc root (not to be mistaken for orange juice and an Egg McMuffin), we started to head back to the waterfall with George. It wasn’t easy saying good-bye to these people. We’d only known them a few hours, but they already seemed like old friends. As we left, the shaman put a necklace of bones and teeth around each of our necks. I wasn’t crazy about the idea—I mean, whose bones and teeth were they, anyway? But I could tell the guy was doing it to be friendly, so I kept quiet. I did a lot of squirming, but it was quiet squirming.

  When we reached the edge of the clearing, we turned back to the village one last time. I’ll never forget what I saw. It’s like a picture in my brain. The whole tribe was huddled together. They had all come out to wish Jamie and me, two total strangers, a safe journey. Talk about a loving people. I tried to swallow the lump I felt growing in my throat. I knew Jamie was doing the same. They were good people. Very good.

  We turned back to the forest, and a dozen steps later the village behind us had completely disappeared. With all the vines and trees it was like it never existed.

  “You saw a real neat thing,” Jamie said as we followed George along the path. “They won’t be around much longer.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Four hundred years ago there were over four million pure Indians around here. In a few years, there’ll be less than one hundred thousand.”

  I gave a low whistle. “Where do they all go?”

  “Some are dying of disease, others are moving away to the cities.”

  “Well, at least there they’ll have TV.” I grinned, throwing in some of my famous McDoogle humor.

  “Yeah,” Jamie said, “along with more disease, more poverty, and more mistreatment.”

  So much for humor.

  Jamie continued. There was no missing the sadness creeping into his voice. “That’s another reason we’re trying to reach people like this—to help them beat all the junk the world’s throwing at them.”

  I nodded silently. This missionary stuff was beginning to sound a lot more important than I’d thought. Jamie really cared for them, and now I could see why. In fact, when we stopped for lunch (manioc and dried stingray—yum, yum) I wasn’t surprised to hear him trying to tell George about God. At first I was kind of embarrassed. Don’t ask me why, but that’s how I get when you talk about Jesus and stuff. But not Jamie.

  He picked up a stick and started to draw in the dirt. He spoke mostly English, but with the help of the drawings, George seemed to understand. “This is God over here,” he said as he drew a little stick figure.

  “And this is us over here.” He drew another figure:

  “Now between us and God, there is this big canyon, this big gap called ‘sin.’ Sin is like all the wrong we’ve ever done.”

  George nodded. He seemed to really be getting into it.

  Jamie kept going. “Here we are, on one side totally cut off from God by this big canyon. So how can we ever cross over it?”

  George looked up anxiously for the answer.

  “Well, that’s where Jesus comes in. You see, Jesus came down from heaven and died.” Jamie drew a picture of a cross in the chasm:

  “Jesus?” George asked, pointing at the cross.

  “That’s right; ‘Jesus,’” Jamie said. “Jesus took the punishment we deserve. So now you and I can cross that canyon and be friends with God.”

  George looked up, his eyes wide. “Jesus?” he asked, jabbing his finger at the cross again.

  Jamie nodded. “Jesus came so we can be friends with God.”

  “Jesus?” George repeated in astonishment, again pointing his finger at the little cross. “Jesus . . . make us friends?” Now he was pointing to the drawing of God.

  “That’s right—Jesus gave His life so we can be friends with God. He gave His life to save ours.”

  George continued to stare. Jamie and I traded looks. We weren’t sure what was going to happen next, but neither of us were breathing.

  Finally, Jamie spoke. “Would you like that? Would you like to be friends with God?”

  Then suddenly, out of the blue, George stood up, snorted, and headed down the path. We glanced at each other. Jamie looked disappointed. I guess he figured George wasn’t buying it.

  Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. We’d soon find out. . . .
<
br />   Chapter 8

  Reunion with Some Old Buddies

  An hour later we arrived at the waterfall. Funny, it didn’t seem as frightening from the bottom looking up as it did from the top falling down.

  George came to a stop and motioned to a steep, rocky path beside the waterfall. Obviously, this was the route we were supposed to take. It didn’t look too bad . . . if you happened to be a mountain goat or had a spare helicopter. But if you happened to be a professional klutz, it looked like there could be a lot of pain involved.

  “I hope somebody brought the Tylenol,” I said as I checked the “softness” of the ground where we were standing—the ground my body would soon be hitting from the trail above.

  Jamie barely heard. He was too busy saying good-bye to George. I could tell things were getting pretty emotional as they kept hugging and promising to see each other again.

  Then it was my turn. I wanted to say so much. You know, little things like, “Thanks for saving my life.” I also wanted to say how sorry I was about his monkey, or how I’d love to be pen pals if he’d just give me his village’s zip code. But when we hugged nothing came out. Nothing but a hoarse kind of . . . “Thanks.”

  He nodded and stepped back. Then, before I could make any more great, profound statements, he turned and started toward the forest.

  “Let’s go, Wally!”

  I looked up. Jamie was already halfway up the side of the waterfall. I looked back at George. He continued toward the forest, blending more and more into the trees.

  With a heavy sigh, I turned and started up the rocks—not, of course, without the usual slips,

  “WHOA . . .”

  slides—

  “OOOPPS . . .”

  and—

  KER-THUMPS . . .

  I got up, brushed off the mud, and started again.

  And failed again.

  And started again.

  And failed again.

  “Quit horsing around,” Jamie shouted. By now he had reached the top where he could sit and watch the whole show. He tried not to laugh, but he was about as successful with that as I was with my climbing.