A Whole Nother Story (9 page)

CHAPTER 11

W
ith darkness closing in, it was time for Mr. Cheeseman and his family to bid farewell to their new friends, quite certain, as with everyone else they had befriended over the last two and a half years, that they would never see them again.

“That was, without a doubt, the best shindig I’ve ever been a part of,” said Mr. Cheeseman to the entire group as they gathered around the station wagon to say their goodbyes. “Thank you all very much.”

“Nonsense,” said Jibby. “It is we who should be thanking you. Some of us more than others. In fact, I think Dizzy’s got something to say to you.”

Dizzy looked at Jibby, not sure what to make of this.

“That’s right,” said Jibby. “In honor of this happy occasion, I’m reinstating your speaking privileges.”

With a smile and a sigh of relief, Dizzy turned to Mr. Cheeseman and his family and spoke for the first time in four years. His words came slowly and seemed to stretch out to the point that they might break.

“Before today,” he began, “I was useless. Helpless. But thanks to you, I can stand on my own two feet again. Or on one foot. On a single wire. Thirty feet above the ground. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Just don’t forget us when you become a big star in Hollywood,” said Maggie.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Jibby. “Ain’t none of us going to forget you folks. Well, none of us but Aristotle here. Half the time he can’t remember his own name.”

“Have you tried bubble gum?” asked Gerard.

“Bubble gum?” said Aristotle.

“Yes, chewing bubble gum. I don’t know why, but it always helps me to remember stuff.”

“It’s been scientifically shown to improve memory and concentration,” said Maggie as if she had known that all along.

“Here,” said Gerard, reaching into his pants pocket and removing a package of bubble gum that looked as though someone had been sitting on it for several hours, which indeed someone had.

“I’ve got more, so you can have this. Even if it doesn’t work for you, it’s fun to chew. You can even put it on pizza.”

Aristotle seemed genuinely touched by the offer.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out with his heavily decorated arm and gently taking the flattened pack of gum from Gerard.

“Well then,” said Jibby as he stepped forward and produced a business card. The card was black and read
Captain
Jibby’s Traveling Circus Sideshow
in the same white lettering that adorned the side of the bus. “Here’s my card should you ever find yourself in need of anything. And I mean anything. Call me day or night.”

“Thanks, Jibby,” said Mr. Cheeseman, taking the card.

“I’d like one too,” said Maggie.

Jibby laughed and pulled several cards from his pocket.

“You can all have one,” he said, passing them out to Jough, Maggie, and Gerard.

Right then, Pinky let out a low, rumbling growl and it was not directed at Steve.

“Uh-oh, Dad,” said Jough. “Did you hear that?”

“Sure did. Are you certain, Pinky?”

“Grrrrrr,” growled Pinky.

“What’s wrong with the little hairless beast?” asked Jibby.

“Uh . . . nothing,” said Mr. Cheeseman. “She’s just anxious to get back on the road. We still have a long ways to go.”

“I understand,” said Jibby. “You take care now.”

“You too, Jibby.”

“Oh—and Ethan.”

“Yes, Jibby?”

“Good luck with that dime machine.”

ADVICE ON CHOOSING A DOG

L
ike many of you out there, I love animals. So much, in fact, that I have had the words
I Love
Animals
shaved into the side of my dog, Kevin. And at the cost of eightyfive cents per letter you can be assured that I am not kidding around.

Of the virtually hundreds of species of animals that populate this planet, may I say that dogs are far and away number one. I realize such an inflammatory statement is bound to result in an uproar from owners of cats, pigs, horses, or muskrats who will undoubtedly say, “Well, if dogs are so great, how come they are entirely unable to produce musk?”

This I cannot answer. But I do know that while your muskrat is doing the jitterbug out in muskratland, my dog is out fetching the newspaper, which is quite a trick considering I do not subscribe to the paper. Furthermore, after fetching the paper he can create an alibi for himself by playing dead.

Of course there are many other reasons for getting a dog besides the free newspaper angle. Dogs offer companionship, loyalty, and can help curb the burgeoning muskrat population.

But of the literally dozens of breeds available, how can you decide which dog is right for you? Should you get a big dog or a small dog? Should you get a purebred or a mix? Should you get a dog with the ability to warn you of impending danger, or should you get a dog that likes to chew?

Whichever you decide, remember to always spay or neuter your pets. And, if you can afford to, have it done professionally. The spaying and neutering of pets is a cause I truly believe in. It’s certainly something worth writing about. And I know just where to write it. “Here, Kevin! Come here, boy!”

CHAPTER 12

N
ot more than thirty miles away from where Pinky stood at the side of the road growling suspiciously, a long black car was cruising down the highway. Inside the car, Mr. 29, Mr. 88, and Mr. 207 were involved in a spirited discussion while Mr. 5 sat silently in the front passenger seat with his arms folded and his clammy forehead glistening.

“Now what about smashing?” said Mr. 207. “How is that different than crushing?”

“I believe that smashing involves repeated blows with a heavy object,” said Mr. 88. “Whereas crushing can be accomplished with just the mere weight of something.”

“How about smooshing?” said Mr. 207. “How is smoosh-ing different from smashing?”

“Smooshing is the grinding motion you make immediately after smashing,” said Mr. 88. “Like when you smash a bug with your shoe. Afterward, you always give a bit of a smoosh by rotating your foot a few times to make sure. Any other questions?”

“I have a question,” said Mr. 5, who had been riding in silence for as long as he could stand it. “Are you all out of your minds? Who cares about squishing and smooshing and smashing? We have only one concern. To find Mr. Cheeseman and his three horrible little children. And we won’t stop until we do. Is that understood?”

“Uh . . . actually,” said Mr. 207, “I believe we’ll have to stop before then. You see, we’re almost out of gas.”

Mr. 5 could only look to the sky, grit his teeth, shake his hands, and growl like an angry, frustrated wolverine with a sweaty, bald head.

The black car pulled off the rural highway and into a service station. The front doors opened and out came Mr. 5 and Mr. 207. The rear doors opened and out came Misters 29 and 88.

“Fill it up,” said Mr. 5 to the other misters. “I’ll be right back. This is the only gas station for miles. There’s a good chance they stopped here as well.”

The three men watched in silence as Mr. 5 walked into the small convenience store that also served as the office. No one spoke for a few moments until Mr. 207 broke the silence.

“What about mashing?”

“Same as smashing,” said Mr. 88. “Except that mashing applies only to potatoes.”

The two other men nodded as if to say “That makes perfect sense.”

Inside the convenience store, the man behind the counter looked to be in his nineties, with thick glasses and, perched behind his left ear, a hearing aid so large it could probably pick up radio stations from Guam. He wore a threadbare pale blue cardigan that at one time had probably been bright blue.

Mr. 5 walked over and tossed a photo onto the counter. It was an old family photo of Mr. Cheeseman, Olivia, Jough, Maggie, and Gerard, all smiling for the camera.

“Have you seen these people?” Mr. 5 asked.

“Who wants to know?” the old man replied.

“Who wants to know?” said Mr. 5 sternly. “I do.”

“Oh. Sorry. My eyesight’s not what it used to be. I thought maybe it was that fella over there.”

Mr. 5 was confused. He and the old man were the only people in the store. He looked in the direction of the old man’s gaze.

“That is a magazine rack,” Mr. 5 snapped.

“Oh. Well, like I told you, my eyesight’s not so good these days. Hearing could use some improvement, too. Why, there was a time when I could hear a worm crawling through the dirt at fifty paces. Came in handy during the Depression when food was scarce. Now, back then, you could buy a car for fifty cents and still have enough left over for a—”

“Listen,” Mr. 5 interrupted. “Have you seen these people or not?”

The old man picked up the photo and held it very close to his face.

“Ah, yes,” he said with a smile. “Saw ’em just the other day.”

“Which day, exactly?”

“Hmm, Tuesday I’d have to say. Tuesday and Wednesday.”

“Tuesday
and
Wednesday?”

“Yup. Didn’t see ’em Thursday. Had a doctor’s appointment.”

“So Wednesday was the last time you saw them?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

“What time?”

“I believe it was six p.m. eastern, five p.m. central.”

“Which way were they headed?”

The old man looked confused.

“Well, I don’t really remember exactly,” he said. “I suppose they were headed lots of different places throughout the course of the program. Bowling alley, rock quarry, back home again.”

“Rock quarry? What are you talking about?” said Mr. 5, his patience exhausted.

“Why, the Flintstones of course,” the old man said, looking at the photo and smiling once again. “They sure make me laugh. Fred’s my favorite. Yabba dabba doo.”

Mr. 5 reached out and angrily snatched the photo from the old man.

“Forget it,” he snapped. “We’ll just pay for the gas and be on our way.”

“Very well,” the old man said, leaning close to the pump readout. “Looks like it’ll be $5,964. You know, back in the day you could fill your tank for a penny and still have enough left over for a pint of ice cream and a glass of Ovaltine.”

“I think you’re forgetting the decimal point.”

“Huh?” the Old Man said, moving his face even closer to the readout. “Oh yes. Make that $59.64. That’s quite a difference, isn’t it?”

Mr. 5 handed the man sixty dollars in cash.

“Keep the change,” he said, then strode out of the store in a huff.

“Well, that young lady was not very friendly at all, was she?” the old man said to the magazine rack.

When Mr. 5 returned to the car, the others were once again sitting inside.

“Gooshing is not an action,” Mr. 88 was explaining. “It’s a sound. Like when you step in a puddle and your socks get all wet—”

Mr. 88 stopped short when the door opened and Mr. 5 slithered in.

“Welcome back, sir,” said Mr. 207. “Any luck?’

“Just shut up and drive,” said Mr. 5.

“Which way?”

“My gut says they’re heading west.”

As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon like a leaky boat. Well, except for the fact that boats are not generally round, orange, and on fire. Hmm. Come to think of it, in no way whatsoever did the sun, in this instance, resemble a leaky boat. My apologies. That was a dreadful attempt at simile. Please allow me to try again.

As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon like a selfluminous, gaseous sphere comprised mainly of hydrogen and helium. Mr. Cheeseman and his family waved their last good-byes to Jibby, Three-Eyed Jake, Aristotle, Dizzy, Sammy, and Juanita.

When Jibby and his friends were no longer in sight, Mr. Cheeseman found Gerard in the rearview mirror.

“Gerard,” he said. “I know you didn’t mean to, but we must be very careful not to say anything to anyone about the LVR and its possible time travel capabilities. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” said Gerard apologetically. “Don’t worry. I won’t do it again.”

“You’d better not,” said Jough. “It could ruin our chances of ever seeing Mom again.” With that, Jough turned to his father.

“Dad?” he said. “Was Mom a good dancer?”

Mr. Cheeseman started to answer but stopped. He swallowed a lump in his throat, then tried again.

“Yes,” he said. “She was a fabulous dancer. Absolutely fabulous.”

Pinky growled again and Mr. Cheeseman drove faster.

Back at the roadside, Jibby and his crew of misfits loaded the chairs, the banquet tables, and everything else they had used to stage the shindig. When they finished, Jibby and Jake pulled Aristotle aside.

“So,” began Jibby. “What do you think? Are they the ones?”

“They’re the ones all right,” said Aristotle, his molars working to soften the stiff pink bubble gum. “I remember them plain as day.” Suddenly, his face lit up. “Did you hear that? I remember,” he said. “Well, what do you know.”

“So what do we do?” asked Jake. “Do we follow them?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Jibby. “If what Aristotle has predicted comes true, they’ll find us. But just for now, maybe we should put Hollywood on hold.”

Mr. Cheeseman and his family drove for what seemed like an eternity, especially to young Gerard, who, at his age, was prone to bouts of extreme fidgeting. After sitting for so long, he simply could not keep his legs and arms still.

“Ouch,” said Maggie as one of Gerard’s uncontrollable arms made contact with her kneecap. “Sit still, would you?”

“I can’t help it,” said Gerard. “I try and tell my arms and legs not to move but they just won’t listen.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Cheeseman. “I know you’re all tired of being in the car. I was hoping to make it to the next town and get a motel, but we are officially in the middle of nowhere. It looks as though we’re going to have to camp out.”

“Yes!” Gerard exclaimed. “I love to camp out.”

“Me too,” said Steve.

Fifty miles away, a gray car pulled off the highway and into the same service station that Mr. 5 and his Plexiwave cohorts had just left moments before. In fact, the gas pump handle was still warm from Mr. 207’s grip.

The doors to the gray car opened and out stepped Agents Aitch Dee and El Kyoo.

“Fill it up,” said Aitch Dee to El Kyoo. “I’ll be right back.”

Aitch Dee walked into the convenience store and looked around to ensure that he and the elderly man behind the counter were the only two in the building.

“Have you seen this man?” he said, tossing a photograph of Ethan Cheeseman onto the counter.

“Who’s askin’?” the old man demanded in his very old, very quavering voice.

“Abraham Lincoln,” said Aitch Dee.

Upon hearing this, the old man didn’t seem so old anymore. Even his voice suddenly sounded much younger when he removed his thick glasses and replied, “How goes the war, Mr. President?”

“I think we’re going to march south and take them by surprise.”

“I would suggest that west is the way to go.”

“So he’s been here?” asked Aitch Dee. “Ethan Cheese-man?”

“No,” said the old man. “But another gentleman was here just moments ago asking the same question. They left here and headed west.”

“Excellent. Good work, Agent Gee Doubleyou.”

“Just doing my job,” said Gee Doubleyou. “Would you like to buy a magazine?”