My Life as a Toasted Time Traveler Read online

  “SOMEBODY HELP ME!” That was me screaming for help.

  “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” That was Billy running toward me to catch the ball.

  Even Coach was shouting the same words of encouragement. “Let him catch it! Let Billy catch it!”

  Incredible. Everything was exactly as it had been . . . well, almost everything. There was one difference. This time I knew what was about to happen. This time I knew I was about to step in a gopher hole the size of the Grand Canyon.

  I glanced down. Sure enough, there it was, just waiting to grab my foot and destroy any hopes of remaining a normal, living human being. But remembering what had happened the last time, I quickly side-stepped the hole and kept running. That was the good news.

  The bad news was, when I looked back up I’d lost track of the ball . . . until everything went into super-slow motion and ol’Vacuum Cleaner Boy with the toaster top suddenly hovered behind me again.

  “It’s above you!” he shouted. “Raise your glove and take two steps to the left.”

  I looked over to Billy. He was running toward me in slow motion. “But that’s exactly where he’s running,” I shouted. “We’ll crash into each other again.”

  “I’ll take care of him. Just take two steps!”

  Reluctantly, I did what he said.

  “Now raise your mitt.”

  I did.

  “Perfect.”

  More smoke and light shot out of his vacuum cleaner as he zipped down to Billy’s side. Before I could stop him, he gave my friend a hard shove.

  “Hey,” I shouted, “you can’t—”

  But he was already pressing the buttons on his remote control.

  SNAP . . .

  ZIP . . .

  FLASH . . .

  POP . . .

  And once again, we were back in real time.

  Before I knew what had happened, the ball landed in my mitt. It was incredible. I, Wally McDoogle, had just caught a ball. Talk about a miracle. I mean it was right up there with Moses and the parting of the Red Sea. Think of it, me, Wally Klutz-oid McDoogle, actually being athletic. Incredible.

  Once again the crowd was going crazy. But instead of booing me, they were cheering. And once again Coach was running onto the field. But instead of a free trip to Antarctica, he raced out and started patting me on the back. Normally I would have appreciated the gesture, but it’s hard to be appreciative when you’re being pounded in to the ground like a fence post. (Coach obviously didn’t know his own strength.)

  “Way to go, McDoogle!” he shouted. “You gotta be the world’s luckiest idiot.”

  Coming from Coach this was a major compliment, and I felt bad not being able to answer. But I figured he couldn’t hear me anyway, not over all the noise of smashing cartilage and snapping bones.

  Yet, I barely noticed the pain. After all, we’d won. The Norton Lumber Knuckleheads had just become the All-City Champs! And I was the reason.

  The rest of the team surrounded me and tried to raise me up onto their shoulders. But after dropping me a half-dozen times (after all, I am still Wally McDoogle and such things are still expected), they settled for some good, hearty high-fives. Except for the broken wrists and fingers, I was having the time of my life.

  “Whey, Whoaally!” I looked over and saw my best friend, Opera, cramming his fifty-seventh hot dog into his mouth. He was grinning ear to ear— not a pretty sight, particularly with the stream of mustard escaping out of both corners of his mouth. Yes sir, the boy definitely liked his junk food. “Whay woo woh!” he shouted.

  “Thanks,” I shouted back.

  “Wally, over here!”

  I turned. There was a bright flash. It was Wall Street, my other best friend, taking a picture.

  “What’s that for?” I shouted.

  “Baseball cards. They’ll make us a million.” Wall Street was fond of making money, especially when it came to making it off me.

  “Oh, and here.” She tossed me a giant, econosized Gooey Chewy bar. “The guy at the snack stand knows how much you like these, so he asked me to give it to you free of charge.”

  “Great!” I shouted, as I tore off the wrapper.

  “Of course, there’s a five dollar handling fee to me for bringing it over to you,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said. “Just put it on my bill.”

  But even then, during all the celebrating, I was feeling just a little uneasy. I mean, all of this praise, all of this congratulations, even the free Gooey Chewy bar . . . for what? For something I didn’t really deserve.

  Like it or not, I had a conscience, and it was beginning to work overtime. It was beginning to make me feel just a little bit guilty. Until I looked over my shoulder and saw Billy pulling himself up off the ground.

  Suddenly, I was feeling a lot guilty.

  True, I’d won the game, but it wasn’t right. It was almost like I’d cheated or something. Like life was supposed to go one way, but I broke the rules and made it go another.

  Unfortunately, as we continued to celebrate, the feeling continued to grow. . . .

  The rest of the day was pretty much the same . . . victory celebrations here, more Gooey Chewy bars there. But all the time, the guilt kept piling up.

  After an autograph session (courtesy of Wall Street, who was piling up dough faster than Jed Clampett), I finally made it home and crawled into bed. It had been one exhausting day. And something was wrong, terribly wrong.

  As I munched on another Gooey Chewy, I reached for ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer. It was time to start up another one of my famous superhero stories.

  Yes sir, nothing like a little fantasy to help me get a better grip on reality. . . .

  It has been another long day for the fantastically frustrated and phenomenally UNfamous...Flame Boy.

  Even as a little spark, he had wanted to be a major superhero. But with all the other heroes around who drive cool cars out of cool bat caves or fly about in capes and long underwear, there was just no need for Flame Boy’s unique skills.

  Oh sure, being made of flame is a lot of fun when friends use him to toast marshmallows or light Fourth of July sparklers....But just try entering a building without setting off the smoke alarms or holding some girl’s hand without having to race her to the nearest emergency burn unit.

  In short, Flame Boy isn’t happy being who he is. In fact, this very moment he is thinking of drowning his sorrows in a tall glass of water, when suddenly the Flame Phone rings.

  Crackle-crackle-crackle...

  Crackle-crackle-crackle...

  Quicker than you can say, “Uh-oh, here we go again,” Flame Boy races across the room while grabbing a fire extinguisher to put out the burning carpet behind him. He picks up the phone and answers, “Hello?”

  “Hello, Pizza Gut? This is the President speaking. I’d like to order 200 deluxe pizzas to go, please.”

  “Come on, who are you kidding?” Flame Boy says. “You aren’t the President.”

  “I certainly am, at least that’s the name stitched on my underwear. Anyway, I’m about to declare a national emergency. But before I close down the country I want to make sure I have enough pizzas to hold me over. Oh, and could you add extra anchovies, please?”

  “A national emergency? What happened?”

  “My archrival, the arch-anarchist Arctic Guy, has just escaped from Coldsom Prison.”

  “No,” our hero gasps a fiery gasp.

  “Yes,” the President says, “and he has just taken the sun hostage. He will not let its rays strike the earth until we give him every dollar in our treasury and promise to get rid of all those Brady Bunch reruns.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I know. What would we do without those heartwarming adventures of Marcia and all those little cuties? Listen, could we have extra cheese on those pizzas?”

  “Mr. President, I’m afraid you have the wrong number. This isn’t Pizza Gut, but I’m sure I can help.”

  “If you’re not Pi
zza Gut, then who are you?”

  “I’m the one and only...” he gives a dramatic pause, waiting for the usual dramatic superhero music. But alas and alack (whatever that means), he has not yet achieved superherohood. There is only silence——which he tries to cover by coughing a lot and clearing his throat. He tries again. “I am the one and only...Flame Boy!”

  Still more silence.

  “Who?” the President asks.

  “Flame Boy. I’m kinda new. But don’t worry, sir, I’ll save the day. And you won’t have to miss a single episode of those Bradys.”

  “Great! ’Cause this afternoon the kids think Alice is tattling on them, and they give her the cold shoulder and——”

  “I better be going, sir.”

  “Oh right, and don’t forget the extra cheese.”

  Quicker than you can ask, “Isn’t it just a bit coincidental for the President to be calling our hero?” Flame Boy races for the door.

  Outside it’s worse than he fears. It is so cold joggers are sweating icicles, people are using ice picks on their hot chocolate, and a polar bear has broken out of the local zoo to raid K-Mart for gloves and thermal underwear.

  Flame Boy looks up to the sky and immediately sees the reason. A giant glob of Sunscreen #85 is between the Sun and Earth. It is totally blocking off all rays to our planet. Not a bad idea for those afraid of getting a sunburn, but a lousy idea for those not wanting to freeze to death.

  But how can our superkid reach the giant blob of Sunscreen? How can he save the world when he doesn’t have all the cool superhero gizmos that all the other cool superheroes use and try to dump on poor unsuspecting kids during all those Saturday morning commercials?

  Then he sees it, the unemployment agency. And standing in line is a fire-eater who hasn’t had a job since the last time the circus came through. Quicker than you can say, “And I thought the President calling him was a bit much,” our hero races up to the fire-eater and convinces him to include him in his act.

  Grateful for a partner, the fire-eater swallows Flame Boy’s flames and spits him high into the air toward the Sunscreen #85. It is a beautiful sight as Flame Boy shoots higher and higher and higher some more.

  But what will happen when he arrives? Will he meet the sinister Arctic Guy? Will he be able to dissolve the Sunscreen? And most importantly, will there be any more far-fetched coincidences like the President and fire-eater? These are just some of the questions running through our hero’s mind, when suddenly——

  SNAP . . .

  ZIP . . .

  FLASH . . .

  POP . . .

  I glanced up from ol’ Betsy. My room was filling with more smoke and light than a Michael Jackson concert. Besides the now familiar special effects, there was an even more familiar face. It was hovering above my bed wearing the usual dork-oid glasses, vacuum cleaner back pack, and ever-popular toaster helmet.

  “Oh, no,” I sighed. “It’s you again.”

  “No, it’s not me,” he said. “At least not the me you think I am. I’m a different me.”

  “Haven’t we already had this conversation?”

  “I’m not who you think I am, Wally.”

  “I know, I know. You’re me, right.”

  “I’m you, but I’m not that other you.”

  “What other you?”

  “The you you met at the ballpark.”

  “My head’s starting to hurt again.”

  “Listen, that guy you met on the baseball field wasn’t me. Well, it was me, but it was me from an earlier time. I’m here to tell you that when I came back to help you catch the ball I made a terrible mistake. You must go back to that game and fall down exactly like you were supposed to.”

  I pushed up my glasses . . . which he did exactly the same way, at exactly the same time. I tried to ignore the coincidence and asked, “Let me get this straight. You’re coming back to tell me that the first you who came back was wrong and that I better listen to this you.”

  “That’s right.”

  I frowned, but before I could answer there was another . . .

  SNAP . . .

  ZIP . . .

  FLASH . . .

  POP . . .

  Suddenly there was another Wally hovering beside the first one. Same light, same smoke. Only now it was in stereo.

  “This is too weird,” I mumbled as I gave my glasses another shove . . . just as they gave their glasses a shove. “Way too weird.”

  Little did I realize, the weirdness had barely begun. . . .

  Chapter 3

  Guest Appearances

  In a matter of seconds the two Wallys were in a big-time argument. The first one was trying to convince the second that he’d made a terrible mistake, that he shouldn’t have helped me catch the ball. Meanwhile, the second Wally was telling him he didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “I do too.”

  “You do not.”

  “Do too.”

  “Do not.”

  “Too.”

  “Not.”

  This was obviously a new definition of the phrase, talking to yourself. I could tell the guys were getting nowhere fast, so I raised my hands and shouted, “All right, all right!”

  They both turned to me. “We’re not accomplishing anything with all of this arguing,” I said.

  “Well, he started it.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “Not.”

  “Too.”

  “All right, all right,” I repeated. “Look, can you turn off those vacuum cleaner thingies? They’re pumping out more smoke than the boy’s restroom over at the high school.”

  “Sure,” they both said in unison. Then, snapping off their machines, they floated to the ground in perfect synchronization.

  “Now,” I said, “will one of you please tell me what’s going on?”

  They both answered at exactly the same time, saying exactly the same thing. “It all started back when . . .” they stopped and glared at each other.

  They tried again. “Actually, it all started when—”

  Once again they stopped and glared. It was incredible, like they were the same person. Come to think of it, maybe they were.

  I pointed to the first one. “You start.”

  We all three cleared our throats, and he began. “You know how clumsy you are with mechanical stuff?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Well, in about seven years you’re going to try and fix your mom’s vacuum cleaner.”

  “While at the same time making some toast and switching TV channels with your remote,” the other added.

  “How do you know all that?” I asked.

  “Because we’re you,” they said in unison, “and that’s what happened to us.”

  We all three sniffed and pushed up our glasses. I pointed to the first Wally and he continued.

  “Anyway, with the vacuum cleaner, toaster, and TV remote, you will somehow get all the wires crossed and have a major accident.”

  “Which, of course, is the only type of accident you can have,” the other Wally added.

  We all sniffed and nodded.

  “And, before you know it,” the first Wally continued, “you will accidentally create a time machine!”

  “That’s right,” the second Wally said. “And one of the first things I decided to do was go back in time and change our image from McDoogle the Catastrophe to McDoogle the Hero.”

  “But that was wrong,” the first Wally insisted. “Because you changed history and made a terrible mess of the future.”

  “What’s wrong with being a superstar?” the second Wally demanded.

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to be,” the first Wally said. He turned to me. “You know how guilty you’ve been feeling?”

  “Well, yeah, how’d you know about that?” I asked.

  “Because we’re you,” they said in unison.

  “Oh, right.”

  “That guilt is because you didn’t
trust things to be as they should. God has a specific plan for your life and you short-circuited it.”

  “I didn’t short-circuit it,” the other Wally said. “I just made it better.”

  “Better isn’t always best.”

  I frowned. “You’re saying I was supposed to fall in that gopher hole and make a total fool of myself.”

  “I’m saying you were created a certain way, and there is a certain plan for your life.”

  The second Wally jumped in. “And I just made that plan better.”

  “No, you made it worse.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “Not.”

  “Too—”

  “Guys, guys,” I held up my hands again. Then turning to the first Wally I asked, “You’re saying that by changing history I messed up God’s plan.”

  “Big time.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I scoffed. “Things are going great.”

  “Sure, right now. But let me take you into the future to show you what will happen.”

  “You can do that?” I asked. “You can take me into the future?”

  “Believe me, it’s not anything you’ll like. Not after you ruined it by catching that ball. Come with me, and let me show it to you. After that, I know you’ll want to go back to the game and fix things like they should be.”

  “He will not,” the second argued.

  “He will too.”

  “Will not.”

  “Will too”

  “Not.”

  “Too.”

  Suddenly everything started vibrating. Talk about rock’n’roll. My room shook so hard I could barely stand.

  “Wha-a-a-at’s hap-p-p-p-ening . . . !” I shouted.

  “It-t-t-t’s him!” the first Wally yelled. “He must-st-st-st have follow-ow-ow-ed me through the time warp!”

  “Who-o-o-o follow-ow-ow-ed you?” I shouted back.

  Before he could answer, something the size of an overfed whale started to materialize, Star Trek style, right there in my bedroom.

  “Quick-ick-ick!” the first Wally shouted to the second. “Turn on-on-on-on your Time-ime-ime Cleaner.”