My Life as a Broken Bungee Cord Read online

  “You guys want to follow it?” Miguel asked.

  “Sure!” we both exclaimed.

  “Jump in the pickup and let’s see where it goes!”

  He didn’t have to ask twice.

  We hopped in the back and hung on for dear life as Miguel took off. Rocks and gravel flew in all directions as we spun out, hooting and hollering all the way.

  Miguel drove like a madman as we bounced and skidded down dozens of different dirt roads trying to keep ahead of the balloon, trying to keep it in sight. I don’t want to say Miguel was a reckless driver, but for a while I was beginning to think I wouldn’t have to die in the balloon after all. Just a few more miles of riding with Miguel would do it.

  Lots of times we lost the balloon behind trees, but Miguel always seemed to know where it would show up next.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Opera shouted. “Tomorrow that will be us up there. Just think of it!”

  That’s exactly what I was trying NOT to think of. And the only “fun” I had was knowing that the balloon was up in the air and we were down on the ground.

  But Opera kept babbling about how in twenty-four hours that would be us up there . . . floating lazily in the breeze, drifting silently over the earth, blowing right into those . . .

  HIGH VOLTAGE WIRES?

  That’s right. Before we knew it, the paper balloon hit some high voltage lines.

  Miguel slammed on the brakes, and we all hopped out to watch.

  In a matter of seconds, the balloon burst into flames. And our little pride and joy turned into our little pile of ashes.

  “Oh, well.” Opera shrugged as we climbed back in the pickup. “At least that’s not us up there.”

  I gave him a look. He shrugged again. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly noon. I figured that gave me roughly eighteen hours. Eighteen hours left to live (if I survived the ride back). Eighteen hours. And then . . . well, then that would be us “up there.”

  Chapter 4

  D–Day

  It was colder than a church pew on Sunday morning.

  Scarier than eating your little sister’s cooking.

  Darker than when you’re out in the garage getting a tool for your dad when the light bulb’s burned out. (Thanks, Dad, I just love risking my life for a Phillips head screwdriver.)

  In short, I was not having a great time.

  “Okay, Wally, Sis—on the count of three, we lift the bag out of the pickup and set it on the ground.” Miguel was giving the orders. At least, I thought it was Miguel. At 5:00 in the morning it’s hard to remember your own name, let alone anybody else’s.

  “Where’s your friend Kenny?” Wall Street complained. “Why isn’t he here to help?”

  “Who needs Kenny, when I got you guys and Momma?” Miguel grinned. “Besides, he’s fighting off the flu or something.”

  With enough grunts and groans (to let him know we sure missed ol’ Kenny’s presence), we pushed the heavy canvas bag to the edge of the pickup and kind of half set, half dropped it to the ground.

  Miguel opened the top. There was nothing inside but folded cloth—lots and lots of folded cloth. “Okay,” he said, “Opera, Wally—take this bag and walk it out as far as it will go.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the balloon. At least, it will be when we get it inflated.”

  Opera and I took hold of the bag and started pulling. The material spilled out as we walked farther and farther from the pickup. We were in a field. Don’t worry, I already checked. The best I could see (which wasn’t much in the dark) there were no bulls. Even if there were, no self-respecting bull would be up this early in the morning!

  It all seemed so unfair—being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night just to die. At least in prison when they execute you at dawn, you don’t have to build your own electric chair.

  But here we were, up before the rest of civilization, unfolding a balloon, and getting ready for the ride of our lives . . . or deaths. In less than one hour we’d be going up. Which meant in less than an hour I’d be meeting God. Talk about unprepared. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. Do you think they pass out Certs in heaven?

  Then again, maybe things would work out. Maybe we’d be struck by a major earthquake, or maybe another outbreak of the Black Plague, or maybe they’d hurry up and build a railway right where I’m standing and hit me with a freight train. I should be so lucky.

  “Wally?” Opera puffed as we kept pulling out the balloon. “You don’t think we’re going to land anyplace outdoorsy, do you? I mean, where we have to hike, or anything like that?”

  “Nah,” I said, “this field is about as close to roughing it as you’ll get.”

  “Good.” He sighed. Then after another moment he started up again. “Wally?”

  “Yeah, Opera?”

  “I know you’re really afraid of heights and worried about dying and everything.” There was no missing the concern in his voice.

  Good ol’ Opera, a friend to the end.

  “And I just want to say . . .” He paused for a second. Even in the dark I could tell my buddy was getting kind of choked up. “If that should happen . . .”

  “You mean when it happens,” I corrected. (Hey, if we’re going for pity, let’s go all the way.)

  “When it happens . . .”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Boy, this is hard to say. . . .”

  “Go ahead,” I encouraged. “I know we’re men, but it’s okay to express our innermost feelings.”

  “Well then, if you should die . . .”

  “Yes . . .”

  “. . . could I have your CD player?”

  Good ol’ Opera, friend to the end.

  The last of the balloon came out of the bag. But there was one minor problem. It had a ten-foot hole in the top!

  “Uh . . . Miguel . . . MIGUEL!”

  “Relax.” Miguel laughed as he approached. In his hand was another big piece of material.

  “What’s that?” Opera asked.

  “It’s called a parachute,” he said as he stooped down and began to lace it over the huge hole.

  “A parachute!” I croaked.

  “Don’t worry, Wally. It’s not a real parachute. We just use it to let the hot air out of the top.”

  “‘Let out?’ I thought the idea with hot air was ‘to put it in’!”

  “Sure,” Miguel chuckled, “until we want to land. And we do want to land, right?”

  “We wouldn’t have to worry about landing if we never took off,” I offered.

  They just looked at me. (Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying.)

  Back at the truck we unloaded the wicker basket. Miguel set it on its side and attached the mouth of the balloon to it. Next he cranked up a gas-powered fan which started to fill the balloon with air. Soon it was full enough for him to step inside and walk around looking for rips or tears and stuff.

  “Okay?” He grinned as he stepped back out. “Let’s fire up the burner.”

  “Fire?” I moaned, vividly remembering the fate of our little model the day before.

  He kneeled down to two giant silver burners attached to the top of the basket and pointed them toward the opening of the balloon.

  “Momma, Sis—grab hold of the balloon’s mouth and keep it pulled apart so the flame doesn’t burn it.”

  “Are you sure this is safe?” his mom asked nervously.

  “Momma,” he assured her, “I do this all the time. Wally, Opera—once I get this thing fired up, you’ll need to run back down to the top of the balloon and hold down the crown line. As it fills with heat, it’ll want to roll back and forth.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He adjusted a few valves and suddenly . . .

  KWHOOOOOOSH! . . . there was that old familiar sound—accompanied by a six-foot-long flame shooting into the balloon. Wall Street gave a little scream and almost let go of the opening.

  “Hold it open, Sis! Hold it open!”

  She and Momma obeyed as the fla
me shot into the balloon, filling it with the fiery hot air.

  Opera and I raced down to the other end as fast as we could and grabbed the rope connected to the top of the balloon. In a matter of minutes, the balloon started rolling back and forth just like Miguel had said. At first it wasn’t much. But pretty soon it turned into a real wrestling match.

  “Hold it steady!” Miguel shouted. “Hold it down with that crown line.”

  “I can’t hang on!” Opera shouted as the balloon rolled back and forth. “The line keeps slipping from my hands!”

  I, on the other hand, wrapped the rope around my hand good and tight. I mean good and tight. No way would I let it slip away from me.

  The good news was, it didn’t. The bad news was, I did. Not from the balloon, but from the ground. As the balloon whipped back and forth, it started yanking my arm back and forth. And since my arm and I are kinda attached, it yanked me back and forth, too!

  “Let go!” Opera shouted. “Wally, let go!”

  “I CAN’T!” I struggled with the rope as the balloon kept throwing me around and rising higher and higher.

  “You’re supposed to ride under the balloon,” Opera shouted, “not on top of it!”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” I shouted back.

  Then, when I was positive that I would forever be attached to the balloon, that I had become the first human blimp (and wondered if that meant I could see all the Super Bowl games for free), my hand slipped from the rope.

  I hit the ground with a soggy . . .

  KERSPLAT!

  It would have been a . . .

  KERTHUMP! . . . but by luck I found the only cow pie in the entire field. At least I thought it was a cow pie. It sure smelled like a cow pie. But in two minutes and thirty-four seconds I’d find out this pie didn’t exactly belong to a “cow.”

  “Keep the rope tight!” Miguel shouted. “As the balloon fills, let it out—walk her back till she’s up over the basket!”

  It was quite a fight, but between the two of us, we managed. Soon the balloon hovered over the basket.

  Miguel had already climbed in. “Okay, everybody,” he shouted over the roar of the burner, “come on board!”

  Opera and Wall Street quickly scampered into the basket. I would have joined them, but I was busy shoving my glasses up on my nose and saying a little prayer.

  “Momma,” Miguel shouted. “You sure you know how to drive a pickup?”

  “Since before you were born!” She tried to look brave, but there was no missing the worry in her eyes.

  “Come on, Wally!” Miguel shouted. “We’re nearly ready!”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, uh . . . right.” I glanced around. Fortunately, I noticed something important had to be done—like retying my shoes.

  The basket gave a little scoot on the ground.

  “Get in!” Miguel shouted. “Now! We’re almost airborne!”

  I stood up. Well, it was now or never (unfortunately, the “never” part wasn’t much of an option). I did my best imitation of an athlete as I threw one leg over the basket and tried to climb in. Well, so much for imitations. I got hung up. One foot was in, the other foot was still hanging out. I kicked my inside foot around and only succeeded in getting it tangled up in some sort of a bungee cord that was coiled up and hanging inside.

  “Miguel, I’m stuck.”

  “Quit horsing around.” He scowled. I could tell he was getting pretty serious.

  “I’m not kidding,” I said. “I’m really—”

  “Wait a minute!” Opera shouted. “I forgot our lunch!”

  “NO, OPERA, STAY IN THE—”

  But before Miguel could finish the warning, Opera had leaped out of the basket . . . which meant the basket was suddenly a whole lot lighter . . . which meant we started to rise!

  “GRAB HOLD OF THE SIDES! MOMMA, OPERA, GRAB HOLD OF THE SIDES! HOLD US DOWN!”

  They did. Together Opera and Momma managed to pull us back down . . . a little. I would have helped, but I was still caught on the edge.

  And then we heard it:

  Mooo . . .

  Everyone spun around to the sound. But there were too many bushes to see clearly.

  Mooooooooo. . .

  Wall Street stuttered. “You . . . you don’t think that’s a—”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Opera chided. “That’s a cow if ever I heard one.”

  “Uh, guys, . . .” I interrupted, “I’m still kind of hung up here.”

  “Opera, climb in the basket,” Miguel demanded.

  But Opera and Wall Street were suddenly in the middle of what they did best. Arguing.

  “How would you know the difference between a bull and a cow?” Wall Street demanded. “You’ve lived your whole life in the city.”

  “Hey, I watch PBS!”

  “Opera, climb in the basket now or we’re going to—”

  MOOOOOOO . . .

  “Uh, guys, could one of you give me a hand here . . .”

  MOOOOOOOOOO . . .

  “It sounds like a bull to me,” Wall Street insisted.

  “Uh, guys . . .”

  “If it’s a bull it would be charging by now,” Opera said as he threw a look over his shoulder. “And as you can clearly see, there’s nothing heading toward us but . . .”

  Finally, the “cow” came into view. Its head was lowered, and it was charging.

  “. . . A BULL!!!” Opera shouted. In his panic he momentarily let go of the basket.

  “NO!” Miguel cried. “JUMP BACK IN, DON’T LET—!”

  He was too late. The balloon gave a giant leap.

  Wall Street screamed and in a desperate panic scampered over the edge of the basket and leaped out, too.

  “NO!” Miguel shouted, “DON’T—”

  But again he was too late. Opera and Momma tried to hang on but the balloon was too strong. It started to rise.

  The bull continued his charge.

  “LET GO!” Miguel shouted. “RUN TO THE TRUCK!”

  “But—”

  “LET GO! WE’LL BE ALL RIGHT!”

  The bull was nearly there, and by the look of things he’d already picked out his target. But it wasn’t Opera or Wall Street or Momma. It wasn’t even the basket. It was who or what was hanging over the basket. That’s right, ol’ bully decided my rear end was going to be his next bull’s eye!

  The balloon gave another lunge and finally ripped out of Opera’s and Momma’s hands, sending Miguel and me shooting high up into the sky.

  The only problem was, when we shot up, I shot out!

  “AUGHHHHHHHHHH . . .” I screamed as I tumbled out of the basket.

  The ground was twenty feet below. But I only fell about six feet before I bounced back up, then fell again, then bounced back up, then fell. What’s going on? I thought. Can’t I even do a simple thing like fall to my death? Then I noticed the pain around my ankle. The best I could figure the bungee cord that was tangled around my foot had tightened. It was the only thing stopping me from becoming a human omelet on the pasture below. As I bounced past the loose end of the cord, I grabbed it and held on tight . . . hoping that the other end was fastened to the basket.

  I looked up. There was Miguel, holding on to the bungee cord as if his life depended on it. (Actually, it was my life that depended on it.) I appreciated his effort, but I wasn’t crazy about this hanging upside down business or about bouncing up and down like a human yo-yo.

  The balloon kept rising, Miguel kept holding on, and I kept bouncing. They say great minds think the clearest in times of trouble. And I was proof of the theory.

  “OPERA!” I screamed.

  “Yeah?” His voice drifted up from somewhere under the truck.

  “The CD player is yours!”

  Chapter 5

  A Little God Talk

  “Wally . . . Wally, open your eyes . . . Wally?”

  The last time I saw the ground it was upside down and about thirty yards farther away than it should have been. It was then that I decid
ed to do what any All-American Coward would do. I had shut my eyes.

  That had been ten minutes ago.

  Somehow Miguel had managed to pull me into the basket where I was now huddled in a corner against one of the fuel tanks, kind of half shuddering, half shivering . . . but mostly half dying.

  “C’mon, Wally,” Miguel urged, “you can’t keep your eyes shut forever.”

  I answered, “If I open my eyes, it means I’m awake . . . and if I’m awake, it means I’m not dreaming. And if I’m not dreaming, I’m in big trouble.”

  He chuckled as he shut off the burner. Suddenly, everything became silent. Real silent. “You’re missing a beautiful sunrise,” he said.

  What did I care about sunrises? Any second we were going to die, and I was going to meet God with a bad case of morning breath!

  Yet everything was so still and quiet it seemed like we hadn’t risen an inch. Maybe I’d just get by with a broken arm then . . . or a leg or a neck. Maybe it would be okay to sneak one quick little peek. . . .

  Summoning up all my McDoogle courage, I opened my eyes.

  Miguel was right. It was beautiful. And peaceful. In fact, it was so incredibly still I thought maybe I’d already died and gone to heaven.

  “Hey,” I asked, looking down over the basket, “where are the trees?”

  Below us was a blanket of soft, swirling cotton— but a blanket that glowed with the fiery reds and oranges of the sunrise. It was like we were in a strange and incredible world. But a world without trees.

  “The trees are nine hundred feet below us,” Miguel explained.

  “Nine hundred FEET!”

  “Yeah, just underneath those clouds down there.”

  “Those are clouds?” I cried, pointing down to the cotton blanket. “What are they doing there? They’re supposed to be above us!”

  Miguel chuckled again. “Relax, Wally—enjoy it. There’s nothing in the world like this.”

  He had a point. Even in my nail-chomping frenzy there was something so soothing, so peaceful . . . and, above all, so quiet. No sound, no movement, only stillness. Pretty soon even I started to relax.