Going Bovine (40 page)

Parker shields his eyes with the card-holding hand to look up at me. “Cam, you okay up there? That mad cow disease kicking in?” He leans in to the camera and uses that low voice everyone loves. “Moo.”

There’s a lot of foot stomping, clapping, and cheering. I just want to win some cash and find my yard gnome. It’s not a lot to ask.

“Okay, let’s do it. Cameron, who sings the Rad soda anthem, ‘Make Mine an XL’?”

The Rad soda anthem is only on TV or the radio every fifteen minutes. He’s starting with the easy ones.

“Uh, that would be Big Philly Cheese Steak.”

“You are absolutely right. And a big one hundred dollars goes into the What’s Your Category? account.”

The light-up board rings and flips over a flashing one hundred sign. The crowd cheers. Somebody screams out, “Dunk him!”

“Question number two, Camster. What album does the coyote use to trick the roadrunner into thinking there’s a stampede of elephants after him? Take your time.”

“El—” I start.

Parker holds up a hand. “Take your time. Don’t rush.”

Oh. Right. He wants me to milk it for the home audience. Create suspense.

“Uh,” I say, screwing up my face like I’m trying to solve one of my dad’s quantum physics equations. “I’m not sure, but I think, I think it’s Elephants Are After Me, Volume One?”

“Cameron,” Parker says, looking very serious. “You … smoked it!” People go wild.

“Okay, Cam. Getting serious now. Big money time. Two-part question. Part one: Who composed the highly influential ‘Cypress Grove Blues’?”

“Junior Webster.”

There’s a murmur of appreciation in the crowd.

“Cam-my-man is on fire. Part numero dos: What does Cypress Grove refer to?”

I am about to hand Parker Day his stylist-assisted ass on a platter. “A cemetery in New Orleans.”

Parker raises that much-photographed eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re ab-so-lutely sure?”

“Well … yeah. I guess so.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“No. I mean, yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

He strokes his chin meaningfully. “Oh, Cam-Cam-Cam. I am sorry but that … is incorrect.”

“Incorrect? No way. I’ve been there. I met him …”

“You met Junior Webster. Sure you did, sponge brain. The correct answer is, the town of his birth. See? Town of his birth. Right here. On the card.” He presents the card to the camera for a close-up. “Camtoid, I’m going to have to ask you to take a seat in the …” Parker leans toward the audience, his hand cupping his ear.

“Dunking chamber!” they shout, right on cue.

I climb up the rickety ladder to the platform. As I do, I hear Gonzo’s lone voice. “You da man, Cam!”

My head’s swimming, both from the smell and my thoughts: if Cypress Grove wasn’t the cemetery he meant, then maybe I went to the wrong place, which would mean I got the wrong message, which would mean this whole trip is wrong and I’m doing this for nothing. There’s no way to know for certain. I’m choked by a panic that has nothing to do with the Dunking Chamber.

“Cam, you okay up there? Need some help?”

“Huh?” I realize I’ve stopped at the top of the ladder. I scoot out and take a seat on the platform over the cesspool.

“You comfy up there, Cam-man?” Parker asks. It would be so easy to swing a foot out and kick him in that photogenic head.

“Like a bug in a rug,” I answer. This actually gets a laugh from the crowd.

“Okay. Last question. For all the money. We’re going to play a sound bite from a song. You have to tell me the song and the artist. Get it right, and you win six hundred bucks. Get it wrong, and it is down the flusher with the Cam-a-lama-ding-dong. You ready?”

I nod.

The speakers crackle to life. A song wafts out. A haunting melody on recorder and ukulele. And then that helium-high Portuguese vibrato floats over the crowd. It’s possible I have the biggest shit-eating grin in the history of television.

“Oh, Cam. Do I sense you’re in trouble?” Parker asks, moving toward the HIT ME button. “Time for your answer.”

“Oh, dude,” I say, shaking my head and sighing. They want some good television, I’m happy to oblige. “Gimme a minute.”

“Ten seconds on the clock, Big Cam.”

In the audience, people start counting down, “Ten, nine, eight, seven …” Gonzo’s eyes are huge, his lips barely moving as he counts with them. I let them get to “zero.” The buzzer goes off. The ruffing dog noise spreads through the crowd like a wave.

“Time’s up, Cameron. Have you got an answer?” Parker’s licking his lips. His palm hovers over the button, just itching to dunk me into a nasty pond of muck.

“Yes, Parker. I believe I do. That would be ‘Viver É Amar, Amar É Viver’ by the Great Tremolo.”

Parker’s smug smirk vanishes. He looks back down at his cards as if he can’t believe what’s written there. The crowd goes quiet. They want dunking action, and they don’t know why it’s taking Parker so long to satisfy them.

“Cameron, Cameron, Cameron,” Parker says, shaking his head. The crowd’s on edge. “You. Are.” He sighs, and his hand gets closer to the button before he pulls it away completely. “Absolutely right! Come on down, Cam-my-man.”

An assistant helps me down the ladder to the huge applause from the audience and a few jeers. “You’ve just won six hundred dollars and a case of Rad Mellow—keep it on the chill-low with Rad Mel-low.”

An assistant pulls out a wagon filled with Rad Mellow six-packs, and Parker counts off six hundred dollars, which I immediately stick in my pocket. We’re back in the black. Now all we have to do is find Balder.

When I get offstage, Gonzo welcomes me with double high-fives. “Dude, you rocked the house!”

“Thanks, Gonz. Have you seen the goons who stole Balder?” I ask. The hot sun and my nerves have gotten the best of me. I’m starting to cramp up again, and my vision’s a little blurry.

Gonzo shakes his head. “Not yet, man. Hey, you okay? You don’t look so good.”

I’m sweating freakin’ bullets. “I’m just overheated.”

We’re pushed along with the crowd down to the beach, where they’ve built a large, open-air platform designated STAGE THREE. It’s a Marisol event. In her bright pink sarong and half-shirt, she’s waving to the crowd and blowing kisses, her long black curls shining under the sun. If we’ve found Marisol, we’ll probably find the goons.

“Hey,” I ask a girl who’s on her way in. “What’s this show?”

“Some kind of auction for charity,” she says. “They let people come up onstage to auction off their most valuable or weird possessions. The more bizarre you are, the better chance you’ve got of getting on.”

We thank her and push through the crowd. On stage, this chubby guy’s standing there with an autograph he got from some movie star. A few bids are traded back and forth and the gavel comes down on a final price of $125. They usher the next idiot onstage. I can’t believe it. It’s Keith. And he’s holding Balder, who’s been outfitted in a frilly pink dress, pantaloons, and a white lace bonnet.

“Gonzo,” I say, pointing.

He starts to laugh but stops when he sees I’m not in a joking mood. “Dude, they put him in a dress.”

A security guard the size of a compact car steps in front of us. He puts out a hand to stop our progress. “You can’t go in unless you’re part of the auction.”

“That’s our gnome! They stole him from us!” Gonzo yells.

The guy pushes us back, away from the stage. “Fine. You have the winning bid, you can get him back.”

I stick my hand in my pocket, feeling the slickness of those six one-hundred-dollar bills. “Fine. We’re in,” I say.

The guy hands us paddles and we push our way up to the front. Keith is blabbing on and on about how he and his buddies kidnapped the gnome from the dean’s house in the dead of night, making up a bullshit story so he’ll sound hot. Marisol acts all enchanted. She flips her long, dark hair and gives Balder a kiss, then lifts his dress to show off his pantaloons.

Balder’s bearing up with his usual stoic grace, but I know under that Zen master expression is a seething cauldron of gnome rage.

“I can’t believe that guy. What a freakin’ poser,” Gonzo snarls.

Two supertall dudes crowd next to us, making it hard for us to be seen.

“Here. Climb up and get ready to bid,” I say, boosting Gonzo onto my shoulders.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Gonzo asks. “You strong enough to hold me?”

“I can hold you long enough to win back Balder. You just be quick on that paddle.” Gonzo’s heavier than I thought, and my muscles feel the strain, but I can hold him for the five minutes this should take.

“How much we got?” Gonzo yells down.

“Six hundred,” I croak back. My neck’s killing me.

Keith finishes his shout-outs to a million buddies back home, and the bidding starts. It’s fast and furious at first. Bids fly out from all over. But when it reaches three hundred bucks, most people drop out. It’s just us and some other guys, bidding back and forth in twenty-five-dollar increments.

“Do I hear three fifty?” Marisol shouts to the crowd. “I’ve got three fifty!”

“Gonz! Who’s bidding against us?” I say with effort. For a Little Person he is solid.

“Those assholes from the car. His buddies,” he says.

Gonzo’s paddle goes up. The bidding goes back and forth, till we reach $525. We’ve still got $75 in the bank. I’m sweating like a mofo. My muscles are getting stiff and twitchy. Man, not now. Please not now.

“They’re weakening,” Gonzo yells.

His paddle goes up. Marisol calls out $525. The twitch travels down my arms and into my legs. My knees are buckling.

“G-Gonzo,” I sputter. “I can’t hold you.”

“Just one second, dude.”

The guys make a counterbid of $600. Marisol wants it over. She yells going once, going twice, just as my legs give out and I fall to the ground with Gonzo on top. I hear Marisol shout, “Sold!” We’ve lost Balder.

“Dude, what the hell?” Gonzo yells, rubbing his head.

A guy with massively tattooed arms crouches down and asks Gonzo if he’s okay. Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. No need to check here. Just leave me on the ground, watch your step.

“You all right?” Gonzo asks me, almost as an afterthought.

“No,” I say, standing with effort. “We lost Balder.”

“We’ll get him back,” he says, checking his head with his hands. “I’ll be in the first-aid tent.”

“Yeah. Got it,” I snap, practically pushing him toward the tent with tattoo boy.

Keith welcomes his friends up onstage. He gives Marisol the gnome as a gift. She squeals and collects her prize, holding our gnome over her head, showing him to the crowd.

“He’s so cuuuuute!” she yelps. “We’re going to use him for the new ad campaign for I Double Dog Dare You!” The crowd loves this. They go wild. I remember the last TV spots they did for that show. It involved a stuffed bear. In one spot, they hacked his arm off with a chain saw. In another, they put a firecracker in his mouth and set it on fire. By the end of the five spots, he was nothing but a few pieces of dirty, scorched fluff attached to one glass eye.

“Hey, get a picture!” Keith Middle Guy Asshole Taker of Other People’s Yard Gnome Friends yells out to his buddies. He puts his arm around Marisol. And she gives him a big kiss on the mouth.

“Whooo-hooo! This is the rockingest day of my life!” Keith yells. The guys make that weird dog sound they do when they want to show their support. My heart sinks, both because I’ve lost Balder and because I’ve somehow put Keith on a path to certain doom. I hate that I know this. I hate that I can’t just hate him.

“Hey, Marisol!” Keith grins from ear to ear. “Wanna screw?”

There’s a collective stunned gasp from the crowd. Marisol’s mouth hangs open. Keith pulls my magic screw from his pocket and hands it to her. “Here. It’s a magic screw. Supposed to bring you good luck.”

People laugh now, even though it’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Marisol seems like she still wants to hit him but, hey, she’s on TV and she needs to at least pretend to be cool, so she laughs, too, and says, “Omigosh, you are too funny!” The crowd yells “Magic screw!” over and over, and then Marisol signs off with her trademarked “I’m Marisol, over and outie—later days!” Thumping house music blares out of the speakers for the part where they roll credits on TV. Marisol does a silly dance with Balder and the screw, one in each hand, so that nobody gets the idea that she takes this—or anything else, for that matter—seriously. It’s all one big laugh, one big party house. No need to care. Or get involved. No risk, no mess, no hassle.

A couple of suits meet Keith when he comes offstage. They shake hands and offer cards. “We loved what you did with that magic screw business,” they say. “The kids loved it, too.”

“Yeah?” Keith grins. “I didn’t plan it or anything. It just happened.”

“Yeah, great. Listen, we were just talking about building some YA! TV promos around you. You could be the wacky Magic Screw Guy. What do you say to that?”

“I’d be on TV?” Keith punches the air with his fist. “All right! Sign me up, man!”

“Great! We’ll go fill out the paperwork. Listen, you like Rad soda?”

And just like that, something in the cosmos shifts. A butterfly flaps its wings in South America. Snow falls in Chicago. You give an idiot a stupid magic screw and it turns out to be a necessary part after all.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

In Which Gonzo Makes a Life-or-Yard-Gnome Decision

A hundred bucks of my prize money has gotten us intel about Balder. He’s currently in Marisol’s dressing room, where she’s using him as a jewelry tree. Another hundred bucks has gotten us badges that allow us backstage access. The minute Marisol leaves her dressing room for the beach stage to film a spot, we duck inside. We find Balder buried under a collection of colorful scarves. His face is red and he looks tired.

“Thank the gods you’ve found me,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life. Do you know she let her friends put makeup on me?”

Balder is indeed sporting some sparkly blue eye shadow and glossy lipstick.

“It’s cool,” Gonzo says. “You look pretty glam rock.”

“Let’s just get you out of here, okay?” I bundle Balder up in one of the scarves and we head for the door just as Parker walks in.