My Life as a Toasted Time Traveler
MY LiFe
as a
toasted
Time Traveler
BOOKS BY BILL MYERS
The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle (20 books):
—My Life As a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce
—My Life As Alien Monster Bait
—My Life As a Broken Bungee Cord
—My Life As Crocodile Junk Food
—My Life As Dinosaur Dental Floss
—My Life As a Torpedo Test Target
—My Life As a Human Hockey Puck
—My Life As an Afterthought Astronaut
—My Life As Reindeer Road Kill
—My Life As a Toasted Time Traveler
—My Life As Polluted Pond Scum
—My Life As a Bigfoot Breath Mint
—My Life As a Blundering Ballerina
—My Life As a Screaming Skydiver
—My Life As a Human Hairball
—My Life As a Walrus Whoopee Cushion
—My Life As a Mixed-Up Millennium Bug
—My Life As a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard
—My Life As a Cowboy Cowpie
—My Life As Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion
Other Series:
McGee and Me! (12 books)
Bloodhounds, Inc. (10 books)
Forbidden Doors (10 books)
Teen Nonfiction
Hot Topics, Tough Questions
Faith Encounter
Just Believe It
Picture Book
Baseball for Breakfast
the incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle
MY LiFe
as a
toasted
Time Traveler
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A TOASTED TIME TRAVELER
© 1996 by Bill Myers.
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. Tommy Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Tommy Nelson, titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.
Cover art by Jonathan Gregerson.
Quotations marked NKJV are from the New King James Version, © 1979, 1980, 1982, Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a toasted time traveler / Bill Myers.
p. cm. — (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; bk. #10)
Summary: After a future version of himself travels back in time to warn Wally of an upcoming accident, he is confronted by multiple future Wallys arguing that he must not try to rewrite God’s plan for his life.
ISBN 978-0–8499–3867–2 (pbk.)
[1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Christian life—Fiction.
3. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Myers, Bill, 1953–.
Incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #10.
PZ7.M98234Mym 1996
[Fic]—dc20
96–10293
CIP
AC
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 EPAC 27 26 25 24 23
For Bill Burnett—
as you continue being an example
and setting the standard.
Trust in the LORD with all your heart,
And lean not on your own understanding;
In all your ways acknowledge Him,
And He shall direct your paths.
—Proverbs 3:5–6 (NKJV)
Contents
1. Just for Starters . . .
2. The Plot Sickens
3. Guest Appearances
4. Pick a Wally, Any Wally
5. Decisions, Decisions
6. Grand Central
7. All Dressed Up and Everywhere to Go
8. A Not-So-Bright Future
9. The Final Chew Down
10. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters . . .
The next time I try to do things my way instead of God’s way, just shove a burning stick of dynamite into my hand, or push me off the World Trade Center without a parachute, or make me eat my little sister’s cooking. Anything would be better than the pain of trying to run the show my way.
At least that’s what I know now. Unfortunately, what I know now isn’t the same as what I thought I knew then.
Confused? Me, too. So what else is new? Maybe I’d better start at the beginning. . . .
It all started with the Little League All-City Championship. I was playing for the Norton Lumber Knuckleheads. We were supposed to be the Norton Lumber Knights, but Coach thought Knuckleheads was a more appropriate name. You’d like Coach. He’s always so kind and encouraging:
“All right, you knuckleheads,” he shouted into the dugout, “we’re one run ahead. If you can actually stop them from scoring this inning, we’ll be All-City Champs. Now get out there and try not to make total fools of yourselves.”
See what I mean? But he wasn’t done yet.
“Oh yeah, and McDoogle, you’re playing center field.”
My jaw dropped to the dugout floor. Coach had kept me on the bench the entire game. Actually, the entire season. I didn’t hold it against him. We had terrific players, and he expected each of us to do our part. My part, of course, was to go nowhere near the playing field when the game was in progress and, of course, to stay out of everybody’s way. I had always succeeded in this mission . . . except for one time, just a few minutes earlier.
I had returned from the snack stand with my second Gooey Chewy bar of the game. I love Gooey Chewy bars. In fact, I’d eat them morning, noon, and night if it weren’t for Mom and this thing she has about nutrition. Then, of course, there are those minor irritations like cavities, humongous dentist bills, and shouting dads.
Anyway, there I was, innocently chewing on a Gooey Chewy bar in the dugout when I accidentally tripped over a baseball bat. No problem, except for the part where I went flying into the air and landed on top of Phinnies Dooberslurp, our center fielder.
Fortunately, Phinnies broke my fall. Unfortunately, I broke his arm—in about three places.
But that was only the beginning of the fun and games. In my never-ending quest to be the greatest Walking Disaster Area of all time, Phinnies and I continued our little falling routine until we crashed down onto the end of the players’ bench.
No problem, again, except Phinnies weighed just under three tons, which propelled the other end of the bench into the air like a jet-powered teetertotter.
Even that wouldn’t have been so bad, if it weren’t for the three reserve players sitting on that other end, the ones who were suddenly launched into the air like space shuttle astronauts. They might have made it into orbit, too, if they hadn’t smashed into the dugout roof.
After the ambulance came and carted them off, Coach discovered we only had eight players left. Well, nine, if you count me. But we know better than to do that, right?
Well, we may know better, but Coach didn’t. Apparently he wasn’t as familiar with my world-famous klutziness as he should have been.
So, as everyone ran onto the field, I stayed behind, explaining to him that it would be better to play one player short than to send me out.
“The rules say I gotta let you play,” he growled.
“But—”
“We’ll be okay,” he said, “just as long as you don’t move or blink. I don’t even want to see you breathing. Got that?” He towered abov
e me, a mountain of intimidation. “If you make the tiniest error, McDoogle, so help me I’m going to boot you all the way to Antarctica.”
I guess he had heard of my reputation after all. And since Antarctica is a terrible place to visit this time of year, I figured it was best to obey him. I headed out to center field and stood perfectly still, not moving, not blinking, and just basically doing my best imitation of not being there.
Our right fielder, Billy Buckleman, a great guy and an even greater athlete, called over to me. “Hey, Wally. Pssst, Wally.”
“Yeah?” I whispered.
“What’s with the glove?”
I glanced down at my mitt. From the looks of things, I guessed I had it on the wrong hand. “Oh,” I said, quickly switching it, “thanks.”
“No, no,” he laughed. “It’s not the hand you’re wearing it on, it’s how you’re wearing it.”
“What’s wrong with the way I’m wearing it?”
“You’ve got it on backwards.”
I glanced down again.
“How do you expect to catch anything with the BACK of your glove?”
He had a point. Then again, how did I expect to catch anything with the front? It’s not that I’m unathletic, but last year they even cut me from the girl’s knitting team. (Something about not trusting me to hold all those sharp, pointy, knitting needles.)
“Oh, and one final thing,” he said. “Watch out for all the gopher holes out here.”
I glanced around. He was right, there were a half dozen of the little critter’s holes scattered about the outfield.
“Thanks,” I said.
Jimmy Riordan, our star pitcher, stepped up to the mound. Six pitches and six strikes later, he had retired the first two batters.
The crowd was going wild. One more out and we were going to be All-City Champs.
Unfortunately, the next batter hit a double. It should have been another out, but our third baseman, Thadius Snodgrass III, was too busy straightening the crease his mother had ironed down the middle of his baseball uniform to notice the ball rolling past him. By the time he finally got around to seeing it, the runner was on second base.
Coach was furious, screaming the same promises to Thadius he had made to me about that free Antarctica vacation, courtesy of Boot-in-the-Pants Airlines.
Now things were tense. The tying run was on second, and the winning run was stepping up to the plate. It was Gary the Gorilla, the only seventh grader in the world who had a five o’clock shadow by high noon.
He took a couple of practice swings and waited.
Jimmy Riordan wiped the sweat from his face. He started his windup, checked second, then threw a smoking fastball right across the plate. Gary missed, swinging so hard that it was all the infielders could do to keep their hats from blowing off in the wind.
Jimmy went into his windup and fired a second pitch.
Another miss.
Another hurricane.
Now we were down to one last pitch. One last pitch and the title would be ours.
Jimmy started his windup, checked second, and threw another sizzler. But this time Gary caught a piece of it. The ball looped slowly into the air. An easy fly ball, another out . . . except for one minor problem.
You guessed it. It was heading directly toward me.
Now it was time to put aside my fears and face them like a man. It was time to stand up and become the true sports hero I knew I was. It was time to scream my head off:
“SOMEBODY, HELP ME!”
“I’m right here!” It was Billy. He was running toward me as fast as he could. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
“Let him catch it!” Coach was shouting. “Let Billy catch it!”
I nodded my head, but the weirdest thing happened. Even though I was nodding my head yes, I was hearing my voice shout, “NO!”
Weirder still, it was my voice, but it wasn’t coming from my mouth.
I spun around searching, trying to find out where the voice was coming from, when I noticed something even more unusual. Everything was now moving in super-slow motion. . . .
Coach was yelling at me, but it took him forever to get out the words.
Billy was running toward me, but it was doubtful he’d be arriving until Christmas of the year 2043.
And the ball?
I jerked my head up. It was still in the air but floating toward me very, very slowly.
And then I saw him . . . hovering about fifteen feet behind me. There were all sorts of lights and sparks around him, and they all seemed to come from what looked like a portable vacuum cleaner strapped to his back. Then, of course, there was the toaster he had tied to his head, a toaster that had more smoke and fire shooting from it than our barbecue grill the last time Dad tried using it.
Oh, and there was one other detail. Although he was a bit older and taller, he looked exactly like me. Same dork-oid expression, same dork-oid clothes, even the same dork-oid glasses.
“Who are you?” I shouted. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve come to make you a hero.”
“What are you talking about? Who are you?” I repeated.
“Wally Ulysses McDoogle, at your service.”
“You can’t be,” I shouted.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s me.”
“Exactly.”
“So, who are you?”
“You.”
“No way. I’m me; you’re you.”
“Exactly. But I’m also you, and you’re me.”
“If you’re me, what’s that make me?”
“Me.”
“I think I’m getting a headache.”
“Me, too.”
“Listen,” I shouted, “I’d love to continue this little hallucination, but if you don’t mind I need to put my imagination on hold and get back into the game.”
“That’s exactly why I’ve come.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve come from the future, Wally. I’ve come to warn you of an accident you’re about to have. If you listen to me, we can change history. You’ll never be a dork-oid again. I can make you a hero. You’ll be rich, world famous, loved by mill—”
“Look, I really appreciate the offer, but as you can see I’m kinda busy with reality right now. Maybe you can swing by a little later when I have time for a real mental breakdown.”
“Wally—”
“Run along now, go haunt somebody else.”
He let out a sigh which I had to admit sounded a lot like one of my sighs and said, “All right, if that’s what you want.”
He pulled out what looked like an oversized TV remote, pressed a bunch of buttons, and suddenly everything was at normal speed again . . .
The screaming Coach.
The soaring ball.
The running Billy.
I tried my best to get out of Billy’s way, but it seemed no matter where I ran, that was the way he ran. When I went to the left he’d go to the left. When I went to the right, he’d go to the right.
“Look out,” he shouted. “Look out!”
“I’m looking,” I cried, “I’m looking!”
And then it happened. My foot caught one of those world-famous gopher holes, and I started to fall.
“AUGHHH!”
But being the friendly type that likes to share my good fortune, I didn’t just fall by myself, I managed to plow into Billy along the way—
“OOAFFF!”
—and drag him down with me.
“WALLY, LET GO OF . . .”
But that was all he said before we hit the ground. A moment later something hard and round hit my head. Something hard and round that felt an awful lot like a baseball. Now, normally I would have cried out in pain, but at that particular moment I was too busy being knocked unconscious.
I’m guessing the lights out routine only lasted a couple of seconds. Because when I came to, the crowd was still groaning. And for good reason.
We were f
inished. We’d lost. The tie-scoring run was crossing home plate, and Gary, the winning run, was right behind. The great Knuckleheads had lost by a single point. One lousy point.
And there was only one person to blame.
As I lay on my back, trying to move, trying to guess how many bones I’d broken, I could hear the crowd booing me and Coach doing more than his usual amount of screaming.
Then, suddenly, the guy with the vacuum on his back was hovering over me again. “See what I mean?” he shouted.
I tell you, for a daydream he was sure pushy.
“Just do what I say,” he shouted. “Let me change history and this will all be different. Never again will you be Wally the Dork-oid. You’ll be Wally the Hero.”
I rolled over onto my stomach. The crowd was going crazy. I don’t want to say they were angry, but even with my glasses cockeyed I could see the foam frothing from their mouths.
I looked over to Coach. He was racing toward me with all the compassion of a pit bull gone berserk. Call me a pessimist, but somehow I suspected he wasn’t coming out to congratulate me.
“Just say the word and I can change all this,” the older version of me kept shouting. “I promise I can make you a hero. You’ll be loved by millions.”
Now I have to admit it was a tough choice. Being hated by the world, plus enjoying Coach’s wonderful, upcoming trip to Antarctica . . . or being loved by millions.
But since I was sure Mr. Flying Vacuum Cleaner with the identity crisis wasn’t real, and since I’m allergic to penguins, I decided to give it a shot.
So, still lying on my back, I groaned. “Sure, whatever you say.”
Instantly there was a loud
SNAP . . .
ZIP . . .
FLASH . . .
POP . . .
Suddenly I was standing back in center field. Suddenly Gary the Gorilla was back at the plate. And suddenly he connected with the ball again, sending it high into the sky directly toward me.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. Needless to say, this Wally wannabe with the vacuum cleaner and toaster helmet was starting to get my attention.
Chapter 2
The Plot Sickens
To quote another famous baseball player, “It was déjà vu all over again.”