My Life as Polluted Pond Scum Read online

  He reaches for his pocket pager just as Veggie-Man swoops by. “Hey, Tidy,” he calls, “is that your beeper or mine?”

  Tidy Guy unsnaps his pager from his belt and takes a look. “It’s mine,” he shouts. “Can you wait a minute?”

  “I’d love to,” Veggie-Man calls. “But I should be heading home.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I promised my dad I’d wax the family starship before the next meteor shower.”

  “Well, all right.” Tidy Guy shrugs. “If you have to.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No sweat. And hey, thanks for the practice, Veg. It was great.”

  (And you thought Veggie-Man was a real bad guy. Of course, if you had read My Life As an Afterthought Astronaut, you’d know he’d already been turned into a good guy. But enough shameless promotion. Back to our story.)

  After waving a fond farewell (and with the quiet assurance that more Afterthought Astronaut books might get sold), our hero pulls out his cordless phone and calls the number on his pager.

  The voice on the other end is faint and full of static.

  “Hello?” it answers.

  “Hi, this is Tidy Guy. I’m returning your call.”

  “Tidy Guy, thank goodness you’ve called. help your need We.”

  Our hero frowns. “Pardon me?”

  “We your need help! your We help need!”

  “I’m sorry, your words are all scrambled.”

  “help your need We! your need help We!”

  Sensing somebody might need his help (don’t try this deep thinking at home, folks), Tidy Guy reaches for his Acme Unscrambler (sold at superhero stores everywhere) and turns it on. Instantly the words come in clear:

  “We need your help! We need your help!”

  “Who is this? Who needs my help?”

  “We’re from Planet Getalife. We’re under attack.”

  “Who is attacking you? And why is your transmission all scrambled?”

  “It’s him. him It’s...”

  But the voice is fading again. The transmission grows so weak that even the Unscrambler doesn’t help.

  “Chaos...he attacking us is.”

  A cold chill shivers through our hero’s body. While checking to make sure his goosebumps are perfectly lined up, Tidy Guy realizes why the words are scrambled. His archrival Chaos Kid is once again on the loose. As the baddest of bad guys, Kid’s sole purpose in life is to spread chaos and disorder throughout the universe.

  “us Help...su pleh.”

  Now even their letters are being scrambled.

  It is time for action. Quickly checking his coordinates, Tidy Guy discovers Getalife is just two blocks and a couple thousand light-years away. Dropping his spacecraft into hyperneat, he races off to help. Who knows what mean-spirited mix-ups his obnoxious antagonist is organizing. What traumatic turnabouts he is contemplating. Or how many terrible and untidy tongue twisters I can work in before this section is over. And then, just when you’re about to sprain your mouth...

  I hesitated. I wasn’t sure where my story was going or what would happen next. But that was okay. Why should Tidy Guy’s life be any different from mine? I saved the story and shut ol’ Betsy down. Little did I know that in just a few short hours, my life would be even stranger and more chaotic than Tidy Guy’s.

  At first glance you wouldn’t know Mr. Snavely was sanity impaired (even though it was obvious he and Steve Urkel shopped for clothes at the same place and Mr. Snavely seemed to be sporting more than the usual number of pocket protectors). Still, as he showed me around his one-man operation, he seemed pretty normal.

  “As you can see, the Water Management Facility is fully automated, allowing one person to monitor the entire operation.” He pointed to a wall of TVs. “These screens keep an eye on the lakes and reservoirs in the system . . . starting down here at the filtration pools where the city’s wastewater is treated and purified, and going all the way up here to Knox Lake.”

  “Knox Lake?” I asked.

  “That’s right. Of course because of its high level of toxicity, that lake is restricted, so—”

  “Except to monsters and ghosts,” I pretended to laugh.

  He slowly turned to me.

  I gave a weak little smile to show it was a joke.

  He cranked up his own nervous version of a grin. “Now Wallace,” he said, “you certainly don’t believe those silly rumors, do you?”

  “No, sir,” I said. But it was obvious my answer was as fake as his grin.

  He continued to stare at me like I might know something I shouldn’t. I forced another smile and, after fidgeting a hole in the floor with the toe of my shoe, I figured it might be a good time to change the subject. “What are all those meters below the screens for?” I asked.

  He turned back to the monitors. “Those gauges display the water levels. If a certain level is too low, we raise it; if it’s too high, we lower it.”

  He turned back and caught me still staring at the Knox Lake screen. “Unless of course it’s Knox Lake,” he said evenly. “With so many toxins, it would never do to drain that, would it?”

  “No, sir,” I said, continuing to dig my shoe toward China.

  “Wouldn’t want to endanger any downstream life, now would we?” He cranked up his grin even wider. “Not with our beloved Middletown right below it.”

  I nodded. Was it my imagination or had the room gotten like a hundred degrees hotter?

  I looked back at the monitor. For a haunted lake it seemed pretty normal. Just your average lake in the hills surrounded by your average woods and, of course, your average ten-foot-high fence with barbed wire so nobody can get near it.

  I glanced back at Mr. Snavely, who was still staring at me. I had a ton more questions about the lake but figured I might wait until a little bit later . . . like the year 2039.

  I changed the subject.

  “What do you do if the lakes and reservoirs get too high?” I asked. “Or too low. How do you raise them or lower them?”

  He pointed to one of the monitors. In the corner of the screen, there were a bunch of pipes and stuff. “See these valves?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Each lake has them. If there’s a problem, I hop on the motorbike parked outside and head up to the lake where I can either open or close the valves as necessary. From this location I can reach any reservoir in the system in less than thirty minutes.”

  Again I nodded. Everything seemed simple enough. Except for the staring part. He just kept on doing it. Ever since I mentioned Knox Lake, the guy had definitely gotten weird in a Freddy Krueger kind of way.

  Then, without notice, he spun around and headed toward his office. “Come with me, young Wallace,” he said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  Hanging out with this guy was definitely not high on my top-ten list of things to do, but I saw no other choice. Besides, if I didn’t bring up Knox Lake again, there was a chance he might actually become more human.

  As I entered his office, I spotted a giant tree branch on his desk. It was pretty stupid looking with dried moss and old pine cones and stuff hanging from it. Since I hadn’t exactly hit it off with him earlier, I figured I’d give it another try by using my world-famous McDoogle small talk. Unfortunately, my mouth was running before my brain got in gear.

  “Hey,” I said, pointing at the monstrosity, “what’s that hunk of junk for?”

  “That’s my Environmentalist of the Year Award,” he said as he tenderly picked it up. “My pride and joy.”

  I swallowed hard wondering if I should be getting my own trophy, “The McDoogle Open Mouth Insert Foot Award.” But Mr. Snavely had barely noticed. Instead, he carefully stroked his treasure and began muttering, “After all these years of service, this is all I have to show for it.” His voice grew darker as he lost himself in thought. “Never paid what I’m really worth, always taken for granted.” Now he was staring out into space, “Always having to put up with those st
upid sewer jokes . . .”

  I don’t want to say this guy was mentally disturbed, but I did catch myself glancing over at the coatrack wondering where he hung his straitjacket.

  Then, suddenly remembering I was in the room, he looked to me and cranked up another fakey grin. “Say, Wallace, this is the time I usually make coffee. What do you say? Can you handle it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The kitchen is next door. Just go through the monitoring room. You can’t miss it.”

  I nodded and headed out the door, grateful to put as much distance between us as possible. (I would have preferred to go to Colombia for the coffee beans, but for now the kitchen would have to do.)

  Of course, I didn’t know anything about making coffee, but why bother Dr. Psycho with details. I figured it was like making hot cocoa. Heat up some water, throw in a dozen tablespoons (I like my hot chocolate on the sweet side), and there you have it.

  So, thirty seconds later, I was in the kitchen trying to dissolve a half pound of coffee in a tiny little mug. It was then that I heard the shouting. Lots of it.

  I looked up and realized it was coming from an air vent right above my head. The air vent leading directly to Mr. Snavely’s office.

  “I know I said next month,” he was shouting. “But with the stupid kid here, I have a perfect alibi. Everyone will believe it’s his fault.”

  Now, I know it’s not cool to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help myself. Especially when I figured that the “stupid kid” he was referring to was someone I happen to be very close to.

  “No,” his voice echoed in the air shaft, “you have to do it tomorrow. Tomorrow or we have no deal. No, don’t worry about the lake. I’ll go up there tonight and take care of it. You just make sure you have the money with you. No! It’s tomorrow or nothing!” With that, there was a loud bang as he slammed the receiver down.

  Maybe my imagination was working overtime, but something didn’t sound right. And it sounded like it would be even less right by tomorrow. I didn’t know what to do. I glanced down at the coffee. It was the thickness of chocolate pudding, which I figured was probably strong enough.

  I decided to play it cool and head back to his office to get more information. But as I crossed through the monitor room I couldn’t resist the temptation to glance at the Knox Lake video screen.

  I wished I hadn’t.

  In the middle of the monitor, out toward the center of the lake, there was some major swirling and churning going on. I fought back my uneasiness and stepped closer for a look. In the middle of all the spinning water, a giant, black head began to emerge. And around that, a dozen swirling tentacles.

  But that was only half of it.

  The head and tentacles started moving toward the distant shore. It was hard to make out because of all the spray and mist, but standing on that distant shore was a large, glowing something. A large, glowing something with blazing, bright hair.

  I tried to swallow, but it’s hard to swallow when your mouth has turned into the Sahara Desert.

  “Wallace!” The shout from the office made me jump. “Wallace, where’s that coffee?”

  Not taking my eyes from the screen, I slowly backed out of the room and into Mr. Snavely’s office. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the garbage can next to his door until I had stepped into it.

  No problem, except that I couldn’t seem to get my foot out of it and started stumbling backward.

  Even that was no big deal, until I glanced over my shoulder and saw Mr. Snavely directly in my path, his eyes widening in terror.

  “Walla—”

  That was about all he got out before I crashed into him—coffee and all.

  The good news was we both landed in a chair.

  The bad news was the chair had wheels.

  We zipped across that room at just under the speed of sound. It was then I had the nifty idea to stick out my hands and try to slow us down. Unfortunately, there were only two things to grab hold of.

  The first was his floor lamp,

  RRIIIP

  CRACKLE . . . SPARK . . . SPARK . . .

  which did nothing to slow us down, although it was definitely a shocking experience.

  CRACKLE . . . SPARK . . . CRACKLE . . .

  “YEOOOWWW!”

  The second was his bookcase, which was a pretty good idea except for the part where it ripped away from the wall and came crashing down on top of us.

  K-THUNK!

  So there we were, two guys in a chair with a cup of pudding-thick coffee, a shorting lamp, and a huge bookcase (complete with a thousand books on water management), all rolling toward a very unfriendly looking desk until, finally,

  K-THUD!

  we hit it.

  After the usual moanings and groanings, I dug myself out of the wreckage of twisted lamp, broken bookcase, and a gazillion books, only to discover there were little pieces of tree limb, moss, and pine cones scattered everywhere. I threw a glance to the desk and went cold. Besides completely destroying Mr. Snavely’s office, I had managed to totally demolish every square inch of his prized environmentalist award.

  Below me, I could feel Mr. Snavely digging and clawing his way out. When he finally emerged, my pudding coffee was smeared all over his face.

  I tried to ease the tension by smiling and making a little joke. “So, do you want some cream and sugar with that face?”

  He didn’t laugh. In fact, he didn’t say a word. But if looks could kill, I should have taken the day off and done a little casket shopping.

  Chapter 3

  Close Encounters of the Weirdest Kind

  “You’re crazy,” I yelled. “No way am I going up to Knox Lake.”

  “Come on,” Wall Street said. “What are you afraid of?”

  I thought for a moment, then in my bravest and most manly voice cried, “Everything.”

  Wall Street and Opera exchanged glances. Things weren’t going well. Not well at all. It was the end of the day, and I had called them over to my house for an emergency meeting of Dork-oids Anonymous, of which I, of course, am the lifetime president. I needed their help in making a decision. Should I go back to the Water Management Facility tomorrow and face whatever trap Mr. Snavely was setting for me, or should I call in sick and opt for living a few more years?

  A no-brainer, right?

  Well, not exactly. Not when you involve Wall Street and money. Just as soon as I mentioned the lake and assured her I had actually seen something on the monitor, her cash register brain went into overtime. Immediately she changed the subject and started talking about the three of us going to the lake and checking out the monster.

  “It’s our civic duty,” she said. “The only honorable course of action,” she insisted. “Besides, if there’s really a monster, think of the millions we could make if we caught it and sold it to the zoo.”

  “I don’t know.” Opera sounded reluctant as he popped open his second bag of Chippy Chippers, those wonderful, extra-crispy, deep-fried artery pluggers that he’s so fond of eating. (Along with any other junk food he can get his pudgy little pinkies on.)

  “But we’d make a fortune,” Wall Street insisted.

  Still no takers.

  It was time to break out the big guns, to go for the jugular, to bravely go where no moneygrubber had gone before. She turned directly to Opera and asked, “Do you have any idea how many bags of potato chips you would be able to buy with the money we made?”

  Opera glanced down at the bag in his hand. Then he looked over at me. But seeing the fear and concern in my eyes, he did what any true-blue friend would do. He closed up the bag, fought back a belch, and asked, “So when do we go?”

  “Guys,” I said as I rose to my feet. They looked at me, waiting for more. Okay, fine. They wanted more, I’d give them more. “Guys, guys, guys, guys.”

  They continued to stare. So much for my debating skills.

  I tried another approach. “Listen, first of all, Knox Lake is not the problem. Surviving whatever Snavely’
s going to do to me tomorrow, that’s the problem. And second . . . second . . .” Unfortunately I didn’t have a second, so I improvised. “And second, it’s almost spring break. Do you have any idea what a drag it is to be eaten by a monster just before spring break?”

  I could tell by the embarrassed silence that I must have really stumped them.

  At last Wall Street cleared her throat. “You’re right, Wally,” she said. “We’ve been incredibly selfish.” She turned to Opera, “How could we have been so spoiled and self-centered?”

  “Lots of practice?” he suggested.

  She shook her head. “I’m serious. I mean, here we are, thinking only about ourselves.” She turned back to me. “Wally, when you’re right, you’re right.”

  “I am?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Absolutely. Say, can I borrow your phone book?”

  I nodded, feeling a wave of cautious relief slowly wash over me.

  She grabbed the book and started flipping through the pages, looking up a number. “That’s why it’s so important that we see that monster now,” she said, “and not a second later.”

  “What?!” (So much for cautious relief.)

  She looked up and, seeing my expression, patiently explained. “You’re afraid if you go to work tomorrow, that somehow Mr. Snavely’s going to hurt or maybe even kill you, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If he does, there will be a big investigation at the facility. And since Knox Lake is part of that facility, they’ll probably go up there and discover what’s really in that water, right?”

  “Right . . .”

  She pulled a cellular phone out of her pocket and began to dial. “So everyone will know what’s up there but you, ’cause you’ll already be dead.”

  I frowned. “So . . .”

  “So it’s completely selfish and unfair for everybody else to know what’s in that lake, except you.”

  Whatever safety I’d felt was rapidly slipping away. “Meaning . . .”

  “Meaning, we have to find out what’s up there now, today, before you die tomorrow.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but no words came. Not even a thought . . . except that maybe Wall Street should forget being a business tycoon and take up being a politician.