My Life as a Broken Bungee Cord Read online

  My Life As a

  Broken Bungee Cord

  Tommy Nelson® Books by Bill Myers

  Series

  Secret Agent Dingledorf

  . . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT

  The Case of the Giggling Geeks

  The Case of the Chewable Worms

  The Case of the Flying Toenails

  The Case of the Drooling Dinosaurs

  The Case of the Hiccupping Ears

  The Case of the Yodeling Turtles

  The Incredible Worlds of

  Wally Mc Doogle

  24 books

  My Life As . . .

  a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce • Alien Monster Bait • a Broken Bungee Cord • Crocodile Junk Food • Dinosaur Dental Floss • a Torpedo Test Target • a Human Hockey Puck • an Afterthought Astronaut • Reindeer Road Kill • a Toasted Time Traveler • Polluted Pond Scum • a Bigfoot Breath Mint • a Blundering Ballerina • a Screaming Skydiver • a Human Hairball • a Walrus Whoopee Cushion • a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug) • a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard • a Cowboy Cowpie • Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion • a Skysurfing Skateboarder • a Tarantula Toe Tickler • a Prickly Porcupine from Pluto • a Splatted-Flat Quarterback

  Some books available on CD

  Picture Book

  Baseball for Breakfast

  www.Billmyers.com

  the incredible worlds of

  Wally Mc Doogle

  My Life As a

  Broken Bungee Cord

  BILL MYERS

  Illustrations by Jeff Mangiat

  MY LIFE AS A BROKEN BUNGEE CORD

  Copyright © 1993, 2005 by Bill Myers.

  Illustrations by Jeff Mangiat

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts in reviews.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson® , a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. Visit us on the Web at www.tommynelson.com.

  Tommy Nelson® books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail:

  [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are from the International Children’s Bible® , New Century Version® , copyright © 1986, 1988, 1999 by Tommy Nelson® , a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Instructions for making a model balloon (pages 27–30) are based on information in Ballooning: The Complete Guide to Riding the Winds by Dick Wirth and Jerry Young. Copyright © 1991 Marshall Editions Developments, Ltd. Copyright © 1980 by Marshall Editions, Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Myers, Bill, 1953–

  My life as a broken bungee cord / Bill Myers.

  p. cm.—(The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #3)

  Summary: When he takes part in a hot-air balloon race, twelve-year-old Wally, computer whiz and “human catastrophe,” learns what it means to fully put his trust in God.

  ISBN 0-8499-3404-4 (trade paper)

  ISBN 1-4003-0573-X (hardcover)

  [1. Hot-air balloons—Fiction. 2. Balloon ascensions—Fiction.

  3. Christian life—Fiction. 4. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series :

  Myers, Bill, 1953– . Incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #3.

  PZ7.M98234Mye 1993

  [Fic]—dc20 92–45182

  CIP

  AC

  Printed in the United States of America

  05 06 07 08 09 WRZ 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Thanks to Balloon Adventures—

  For a great ride and a great adventure.

  Trust God all the time. Tell him all your problems. God is our protection.

  —Psalms 62:8

  Contents

  1. Just for Starters

  2. Bully for Me

  3. Up, Up and Away

  4. D–Day

  5. A Little God Talk

  6. Going Up?

  7. Going Down?

  8. Uh-Oh

  9. Tests of Faith

  10. Wrapping Up

  Chapter 1

  Just for Starters

  “AUGHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  That’s what you’re supposed to say when you’re falling toward the earth at a zillion miles an hour. And, always being careful to obey the rules, I gave it everything I had. . . .

  “AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  I wasn’t sure where I was. I wasn’t sure how I got there. But I had a pretty good idea where I was going. Something about the way the trees, houses, and ground all raced at me gave the distinct impression I was about to make a distinct impression. The ground and I would soon become inseparable buddies.

  Then I heard it. . . .

  “Hey, McDoogle—hey, Dorkoid!”

  I looked around. There was nobody in sight. Well, unless you count the bald eagle that was in a nosedive directly beside me.

  “You talking to me?” I shouted over the roaring wind.

  “You see any other Dorkoids?” he called.

  I glanced around. He had a point.

  “So,” he continued, “you all ready for spring vacation?”

  I looked at the ground. It was three hundred feet away. “It doesn’t look like I’ll be around for spring break this year.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “I’m allergic to dying. I break out into a bad case of death every time it happens.”

  The bird cackled. “That’s good, McDoogle— you ought to write that in your next story.”

  “Yeah,” I said, glancing back at the rushing ground, “but I’m not that fast of a typist.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Listen, I don’t want to be nosy, but exactly where am I—how did I get here?”

  “Get where?” the bird asked as he began to preen his tail feathers.

  “Here . . . you know, ready to die.”

  “Oh, this. Haven’t you figured it out?”

  “Figured what out?”

  “It’s a dream,” the bird called.

  “What is?”

  “This is. How else could I be talking?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course, a dream.” Suddenly, I felt more relaxed. I glanced back at the ground. It was still coming at us pretty fast. “Uh, listen. It’s been awhile since I’ve had one of these things. . . . I forget, when you hit the ground in a dream, do you feel pain?”

  “Nah.”

  “Good.”

  “If you hit the ground in a dream, you die.”

  Not so good. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so relaxed. Suddenly, I felt your usual raw, white-knuckled, panic-stricken terror!

  BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP . . .

  “What’s that beeping?” I shouted.

  “My telephone pager.”

  “Telephone pager?”

  The bird shrugged. “Hey, it’s your dream, McDoogle, not mine.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Listen, I better be going. Have a nice day.”

  “YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE ME HERE! WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?”

  “Got me. Though I kinda liked that screaming stuff you were doing.” With that he gave two mighty thrusts of his wings and was gone.

  I looked back at the ground. I knew I was in trouble when I could count the blades of grass in the approaching lawn, so I did what I did best . . .

  “AUGHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  “Hey, Wally. Wally, wake up.”

  I felt a finger jabbing into my ribs. I wished it would jab a little harder ’cause right now I could see the bugs crawling between those blades of grass. . . .

  “Wally, you gotta see this. Wally, wake up.”

  M
y eyes fluttered open. “Mumph umph mazrabballa,” I said. It was supposed to be, “Thanks for saving my life,” but for the moment that was the best I could come up with.

  “Wally, look out the window!” The voice belonged to Wall Street, my best friend, a Latino girl. Not only did the voice belong to her, but so did the finger digging into my ribs.

  “Ow! Rumphel mul somnada!” (Translation: “Knock it off with the open-heart surgery, will ya!”)

  “He’s over on this side now,” a new voice said. It belonged to Wall Street’s mom.

  Suddenly, reality flooded in. We were riding in Wall Street’s mom’s station wagon—me, Wall Street, and Opera, my other best friend. It was spring break. Her mom had talked our folks into letting us ride with them to the mountains and visit Wall Street’s brother.

  KWOOOOOOOOSHHHHHH!

  “What’s that?” I muttered, grateful that my mouth was finally working in English.

  “It’s Miguel!” Wall Street cried. She quickly rolled down the window and stuck out her head.

  Opera was up in the front seat doing the same.

  So was Wall Street’s mom.

  But not me. No sir. I was an individual. Just because everybody else did it was no reason for me to do it. I was no follower; I was a leader.

  KWOOOOOOOOOOSHHHHH!

  Then again, even leaders need a little fresh air.

  I rolled down my window and stuck my head into the cold mountain air. I couldn’t believe it. Directly over our car was a gigantic hot-air balloon. A guy was standing in the basket below it waving and shouting.

  “Hello down there!”

  “Mickey, is that you?” Wall Street cried from the other side of the car.

  “Hey, Sis!” The guy reached up and squeezed a lever. Suddenly:

  KWOOOOOOOOOOSHHHH! . . . a giant flame leaped out of a burner thingie above his head. It shot half a dozen feet into the balloon, making it rise a little bit. When he turned it off, he shouted back down to us.

  “Tell Momma to take that left turn coming up and follow me! There’s a pasture a quarter mile ahead. I’ll touch down there. My friend Kenny’s already there with the chase car.”

  He squeezed the lever, and it let out with another . . .

  KWOOOOOOOOOOOSHHH! . . . before he disappeared over the treetops.

  “That fool!” Wall Street’s mom cried before rattling off a bunch of Spanish. Wall Street’s mom always rattled off Spanish when she got upset.

  “I didn’t know your brother flew hot-air balloons,” Opera shouted over the Walkman that was permanently attached to his ears.

  Wall Street grinned. “Miguel’s always trying weird stuff.”

  It was good to see her grin about her brother. Usually, whenever his name came up, she’d get all quiet or just shrug. I guess there was a big showdown between her mom and brother awhile back. He’d quit college, then run off to work at some mountain resort. Wall Street said his letters sounded like he didn’t even believe in God anymore.

  She was pretty upset about the whole thing. First her dad left them, and now her brother. I can’t tell you how many times she brought up Miguel’s name in Sunday school. It seemed to be all she ever prayed about.

  Suddenly, Wall Street’s mom turned the car to the left. We skidded off the pavement and onto a gravel road. (Besides speaking Spanish when she’s upset, she also drives a little crazy.) We pulled ourselves up off the floor and crawled back into our seats.

  “There he is!” Opera pointed. “Dead ahead!”

  It was like a dream, the way the giant balloon hovered in front of us, slowly dropping lower and lower. All the time Miguel stood in the basket carefully looking down, occasionally firing the burner thingie.

  We rounded a bend. Suddenly, we were at the field. Wall Street’s mom hit the brakes. We hit the floor.

  She threw open the door and raced across the field after the balloon. “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey!”

  We crawled back up, shoved open our doors, and followed.

  Miguel’s friend Kenny was also running toward the balloon. Not far away stood a rusty old pickup with a giant X painted on top.

  After Momma came Wall Street. Then Opera. And finally, yours truly. I would have been in the lead, but stepping on untied shoelaces and falling flat on your face tends to slow you down a little.

  “Watch out for this barbed wire!” Wall Street shouted back to us.

  “Got it,” Opera yelled as he side-stepped it.

  “What barbed wire?” I shouted. “I don’t see any—”

  TRIP . . . TUMBLE TUMBLE POKE POKE “OW!”

  I found it. Actually it found me. Suddenly, my pants and the wire were one.

  Meanwhile the balloon dropped lower and lower until finally the basket skimmed the bushes. A couple of nearby cows looked up a moment before returning to their afternoon grass snack.

  At last the basket touched down and started dragging across the ground.

  “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey!” his mom kept shouting as she raced toward him.

  Miguel pulled a rope that opened the top of the balloon, and suddenly the entire thing began to collapse. Kenny was the first to arrive. He grabbed hold of the basket to keep it steady. Next came Miguel’s mom.

  “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey!”

  He scrambled out of the basket and threw out his arms (either to protect himself or to hug her, it was hard to tell which).

  “Mickey, Mickey, OOAAAFFFF!” she grunted as they hit.

  “OOAAAFFFF!” he grunted as he staggered under the blow.

  A second later Wall Street joined them. Then Opera. The balloon was still inflated and flapping in the breeze.

  “Sis!” Miguel shouted. “You and your friend grab the canopy. Help Kenny, here, get out all the hot air.”

  Wall Street and Opera hopped to it like pros.

  I would have hopped to it like a pro, but I was still hung up like a goon. I’d had a couple of minutes to get untangled from the wire, which, of course, meant I was more tangled than ever. Besides my pants, I’d now snagged my red sweatshirt . . . my socks . . . my shoes . . . my belt . . . even my wrist watch.

  The cows glanced over at me with boredom. I guess they’d already heard of my reputation for gracefulness, so they just went back to munching.

  “Well, at least there aren’t any bulls,” I muttered to myself. “With this red sweatshirt, things could really get out of hand if there was a—”

  Moooo!

  I froze. Somehow that moo sounded a little too macho to be a cow.

  MooooOOOO!

  It also sounded a little too mean. I looked over my shoulder.

  MOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

  Uh-oh.

  Chapter 2

  Bully for Me

  “RUN, WALLY! RUN!”

  I’d already figured that part out. When a giant bull charges at you full speed, you decide that stuff pretty early. I sprinted across the field as fast as I could. Unfortunately, “as fast as I could” was a little slower than “as fast as the bull could.”

  He gained on me with every step!

  Of course, it would have helped if I had had my shoes on . . . or my socks . . . or any other stitch of clothing. But I’d left them all hanging back on the barbed-wire fence.

  Now it was just me and my Fruit of the Looms!

  “GO, WALLY! GO!”

  I was going, I was going! But so was Bully Boy. I could hear him breathing and snorting right behind me!

  “Jump over the fence!” Miguel called. “Jump over the fence!”

  They stood up ahead on the other side of a wooden fence, cheering me on.

  I threw a look over my shoulder . . . a bad idea. Sometimes if you’re going to die, it’s best not to know the details—like how sharp the hoofs are, how far the horns stick out, how angry the eyes bulge.

  By the looks of things this guy was definitely in the mood for a little snack. A human shishkebab to be exact. He obviously wanted me to “stick around” for dinner. Now, I like eating out as much as the n
ext guy. I’m just not crazy about being the main course!

  “GO, WALLY, GO!”

  The fence was just feet from me. Unfortunately, the bull was just inches!

  “JUMP, WALLY! JUMP! JUMP!”

  It was now or never. I leaped into the air and gave it everything I had. Everyone watched in awe as I sailed high and far. It was a gorgeous leap. Everything was perfect. Well, except for the part where I hit the fence. . . .

  “OAAFFF!”

  . . . on the wrong side.

  Well, that about wrapped it up for living. In a second Bully Boy and I would begin a game of darts—with me being the dartboard!

  Too bad. There were so many things I had wanted to do before I died . . . like quarterback the Dallas Cowboys, travel to Mars, shave.

  But none of that would happen. It was all over—except the funeral, which I probably wouldn’t hang around for anyway. They’re always so depressing . . . especially when they’re your own.

  Suddenly, Miguel’s big hands grabbed me by the shoulders and dragged me over the top board of the fence. That was the good news. The bad news was he managed to scrape off a few layers of my skin in the process. . . .

  “OW! OW! OOO, THAT SMARTS!”

  But a few chunks of skin were a small price to pay for the rest of my flesh. Suddenly:

  CRASH!

  The bull hit the fence. Everybody screamed. Well, everybody but me. Being the courageous type that I am, I didn’t let out a peep. No sir, not a shout, not even a whimper. It’s hard to scream when you’ve already passed out.

  * * * * *

  “So . . . OW! . . . how long . . . OUCH! . . . have you been . . . OOO! . . . working for this resort?” I sat next to a big stone fireplace in the hotel lobby talking to Miguel. I was also pulling out thorns from my tender tootsies. Thanks to Miguel’s quick thinking, the bull didn’t get me. Thanks to leaving my shoes and socks on the fence, the thorns and thistles did.

  “I’ve been working here about four months,” he said.

  “It’s really beautiful up here.” Wall Street sighed as she gazed out the picture window at all the mountains and trees. “You think we’ll get the chance to go camping?”