My Life as a Broken Bungee Cord Page 4

“Guess we better radio the truck,” Miguel said as he pulled out one of the walkie-talkies. “Let Momma know where we’re heading.”

  I glanced around the basket. There was no steering wheel, no rudder, no nothing. Only three little gauges and the burner above our head. “How do you steer this thing?” I asked.

  “You don’t.”

  Suddenly, I wasn’t so relaxed.

  “You just gotta go with the wind,” he explained, “. . . wherever it takes you.”

  “But how do you know where?” I asked. “It doesn’t even feel like we’re moving.”

  “That’s what these gauges are for. You can’t go by your feelings up here. You have to trust these gauges.” He clicked on the walkie-talkie. “Mickey to Momma, Mickey to Momma—do you read me?”

  There was nothing on the other end but static.

  He pointed back to the gauges in front of us. “That one tells our height, that’s the temperature, and that’s our rate of climbing or falling.”

  There was that word again . . . falling.

  He continued. “By adjusting our altitude with the burner, we can rise into or drop out of different wind currents. And since each wind current travels a different direction . . .”

  “We can control our direction,” I finished.

  “You got it. By traveling up and down, we actually end up steering this thing.” Again he clicked the talk key. “Mickey to Momma, Mickey to Momma—you guys hear us?”

  More static, then a familiar and very worried voice. “Mickey, Mickey, is that you? Where are you, Sweetheart?”

  Miguel broke into a smile. “Hello, Momma. We’re about three miles due east of the launch site. Get back on Highway 34. Head east six miles. There’s a parking lot in back of a gas station and a 7-Eleven—you passed it driving up here. We’ll try to set down there.”

  After a few more nervous questions at the Momma end and plenty of it’ll-be-okays from the Miguel end, he finally turned off the radio.

  “Why do you keep this bungee cord?” I asked as I began to rewind it. It was a lot longer than I had thought.

  “I keep it around for fun.” He grinned.

  My eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you bungee jump along with everything else?”

  “You should try it, Wally,” he said with a laugh. “It will change your life.”

  “You could say the same thing about dying,” I said.

  He smiled again and continued. “There’s a whole world out there, Wally. I just want to live it. I want to taste and see and do and try everything . . . and bungee jumping, that’s part of it.” Suddenly, he pointed below. “Look at that!”

  A giant eagle crested through the tops of the clouds. It skimmed above the surface slowly and majestically. Its gigantic wings and broad back looked strong enough for a person to ride on. Don’t worry, I wasn’t about to try it. And luckily Miguel hadn’t thought of it . . . yet.

  Finally the mighty bird dipped its left wing and disappeared back into the blanket of clouds.

  “Wow!” I exclaimed.

  Miguel agreed. “I tell you, when you’re up in this silence, surrounded by all this beauty . . . it’s almost enough to make a guy believe there really is a God.”

  “Almost?” I asked, glancing at him.

  He smiled. “You been talking to Sis?”

  “A little . . .”

  “She’s pretty bummed about my leaving and stuff, isn’t she?”

  “Confused, mostly.”

  He nodded. “Me, too.”

  I wanted to say something. You know, some speech about how much God loves him. How, even though he’s left, he can come back to Jesus again. But I was too scared. Wally McDoogle, Super Chicken, struck again. The only thing I could do was squeak out a pathetic little, “Why . . . why are you confused?”

  “Got me . . .” He let out a long sigh. “I guess when Dad left I just started wondering if I could believe in anything anymore . . . even God.”

  More silence. Lots of it.

  After a moment, Miguel continued. “If I can’t see Him, or touch Him, I figure, how do I know God’s even real?”

  More silence. Boy, could I argue or what? I was really laying into this poor guy.

  He let out another sigh. “Of course, I guess you can say the same thing about the wind . . . I mean, we can’t see it or touch it either . . . but it sure has an effect on us, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. He’d put the words right in my mouth.

  * * * * *

  About an hour later, Miguel slowly eased the balloon down in the 7-Eleven parking lot just like he had predicted. The landing was a lot smoother than the takeoff. Everyone greeted us and slapped us on the back . . . well, everyone but the bull.

  Wall Street and Opera were pretty jealous. Being the good friend I was . . . (and wanting to show my thanks for all their help at takeoff), I did my best to rub it in.

  I was feeling pretty good (who says revenge isn’t sweet) until Miguel stepped in. “Maybe you guys would like to come up with me again tomorrow?”

  “Really?” they shouted.

  “Sure,” he said, “but you’re going to have to listen a lot better than you did this morning.”

  Everyone quickly agreed.

  “Great.” He grinned. “Because I can’t think of a better crew to help me with my race tomorrow.”

  “Race?” Wall Street cried. “We get to be in your race?”

  “Did you hear that?” Opera shouted to me. “Isn’t that great? You get to do this all over again!”

  I pretended to smile but was actually checking my pockets for change. I’d be swinging by the 7-Eleven convenience store to pick up a package of breath mints. Surviving one balloon flight was one thing. But for someone with my luck to live through two . . . well, I was definitely going to look and smell my best when I met God.

  * * * * *

  After dinner I whipped out Ol’ Betsy to finish my Ecology-Man story. I mean, what is worse than having a half-finished story lying around when you’re dead?

  Now, where we? Oh, yeah . . .

  Toxoid Breath is doing his best to suffocate our goodest of good guys. But not with morning breath, not with the smell of stale corn chips, not even with the deadly aroma of gym socks left all semester in his locker. No, Toxoid Breath is about to smother Ecology-Man with...Da-da-daaaa! (that’s bad guy music)...Air Pollution!

  But Ecology-Man has a solution to the pollution. He throws back his head and cries:

  “Oh, winds, come hither to assist

  your humble servant in his never-ending

  (and politically correct)

  war against pollution!”

  Everyone waits with bated breath. (How you get “bated breath” is beyond me. Unless you stick out your tongue at a bunch of fishermen and one of them grabs it and wraps worms around it and tosses it into the lake. Who knows. Who cares. Back to our story...)

  Suddenly, a tornado roars down from the clouds. But it’s no ordinary tornado. This one learned to talk by watching TV. Unfortunately, it only gets MTV, so its style is more rap than talk...

  “Yo, Enviro-Dude,

  How y’all doin’,

  It’s been a long time,

  So tell me what’s a brewin’?”

  “Wendell, you old windbag,” Ecology-Man shouts, “is that really you?”

  “None other——give me five, Bro.”

  They high-five (no easy trick with a tornado).

  “How’s Wendy, your wife?” Ecology-Man asks, “and your little gusts, Stormy and Breezy?”

  “The wife’s jus’ fine,

  The kids are really growin’.

  Shootin’ up like whirlwinds,

  a puffin and a blowin’.”

  Before Wendell can show pictures of the kids or play home videos of their latest vacation to Disney World, the dreaded Toxoid Breath reaches to his iron belly and pulls another lever.

  A giant door hisses open. There, standing alone on the platform in all of his glory is...Kirby, the vacuum cl
eaner salesman.

  “Hi, there,” he calls. “Can I interest you in this year’s new and improve——”

  “Not now, Bro.

  We’re catchin’ up on life.

  Come back tomorrow,

  and talk to the wife.”

  “But it’ll only take a minute. All I have to do is flip this switch and——”

  Suddenly, the vacuum cleaner roars to life. It starts sucking up everything in its path——ground-in dirt, dust in those hard-to-reach places, leaves, trees connected to those leaves (hey, these machines are powerful), and finally ol’ Wendell himself.

  Ecology-Man grabs a boulder and hangs on with his manly hands. But not Wendell. (As we all know, tornadoes are a little short in the hands department.) He screams for help as his funnel cloud is drawn into the vacuum’s nozzle. “Ecology-Man...Help me! Help me!”

  But there’s little our hero (and part-time life-insurance agent) can do...except sell another policy. “Hey, Wendell, have you thought of increasing your coverage? Looks like you might need it.”

  The tornado has little time to answer (let alone write a check). Quicker than you can turn to see how many pages this goes on, Wendell is sucked into the vacuum cleaner!

  SLUUURRRRP GULP “Ahhhh...”

  “Wendell!” Ecology-Man screams at the vacuum cleaner. “Can you hear me?”

  There is no sound from the machine except a muffled burp...

  Now our hero is mad...really mad. Madder than when his dad chewed up his Legos in the lawn mower. Madder than when he missed his favorite TV shows because every channel had election returns. Almost as mad as when Collision, his sister’s cat, ate too much grass and threw up in his left tennis shoe without bothering to tell him so when he slipped his foot into it in the morning....Well, you probably get the picture....

  But Toxoid Breath isn’t finished. He forces the vacuum cleaner salesman to switch his machine to “High” and aim it directly at our gorgeously good-looking good guy.

  Ecology-Man hangs on to his boulder for dear life as...

  Off come his shoes...

  Off come his socks...

  Off come his pants...

  Now it is just our hero in his Beauty-and-the-Beast boxer shorts. But just before they start to slip away, our radically recyclable hero shouts——

  “Come on, guys.” It was Miguel’s voice. He was knocking on our room door. “Got a big day tomorrow. Turn off the light and get some shuteye.”

  I threw a look over at Opera. He was already counting sheep. Better make that Twinkies snack cakes. Yeah, by the smile on his face it was definitely Twinkies.

  With a heavy sigh, I shut Ol’ Betsy down. As much as I hated leaving a story half finished, I knew I had to be alert for tomorrow. The last thing I wanted to do was nod off and doze through my own death.

  Chapter 6

  Going Up?

  “No pressure,” Miguel whispered as we unloaded the balloon from the pickup the following morning. “But if those guys over there beat us, I’ll be humiliated for life!”

  “Thanks,” I sighed as I glanced over at the other team. “That sure takes a load off my mind.”

  “You have a mind?” Wall Street smirked.

  Everyone snickered. Everyone but Momma. She just stood beside the truck doing what she did best . . . looking worried. She would have joined in the conversation, but she’d already covered her list of topics:

  “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “Are you really sure it’s safe?”

  “Are you really really sure it’s safe?”

  “Are you really really really . . .”

  (Well, you get the picture.)

  Miguel promised her everything would be fine—that we’d be safer in the air than she’d be driving on the ground. Of course, she nodded and pretended to believe him . . . but of course, she didn’t.

  “Hey, Mickey!” It was the tall guy from the other team. The one with the big mouth. He was unloading their balloon from their truck. “Sure you don’t want to chicken out? Feels like there might be a teensy-weensy little breeze starting.”

  There was no missing his sarcasm, but he had a point. A small wind had picked up.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Miguel muttered.

  But the Mouth continued. “After we clean your clocks, the least you and the kiddies can do is swing by the resort and wash our truck.”

  “No need,” Miguel shot back. “After we trounce you, you’ll be too humiliated to be seen in public!”

  It wasn’t much of a comeback, but considering his chances of winning, it wasn’t too bad. I mean, look who he had to work with. The four of us were definitely the losingest bunch of winners I’d ever seen.

  —First there was me, with my fear of heights.

  —Then Opera, with his fear of the great outdoors.

  —And don’t forget Wall Street, with her fear of losing her brother.

  —And, of course, Momma, with her fear of . . . everything.

  Yes sir, we were definitely world-class, champion, triple-A losers. But that didn’t seem to bother Miguel. He went right on working with us like we were pros.

  A half-hour later the balloons were up and inflated. Both teams fought to hold their bucking baskets in place as the Mouth shouted last-minute instructions:

  “Basket weights look the same—three men in ours . . . three kiddies and half a man in yours.”

  His group gave the usual sneers and laughs.

  He continued. “Closest one to the marker in Old Man Wilson’s field is the winner, right?”

  Miguel nodded as he fired another burst of flame into our balloon. Momma held onto the basket as Opera, Wall Street, and Yours Truly climbed on board.

  “On my count,” Mouth shouted.

  Again Miguel nodded. The balloon started to buck. More than yesterday. A lot more. The wind had definitely picked up.

  “Mickey—” I started to ask.

  “It’ll be fine,” he cut me off. “Everything’s fine.”

  I wanted to argue, but with the pressure he was getting from the guys, I figured it wouldn’t do any good. Besides, he was the expert. Then there was his mom. The look on her face said she had enough to worry about already.

  “Okay, Momma,” he said. “When he says ‘three,’ let go.”

  She nodded.

  I prayed.

  “One, . . .” Mouth shouted.

  Miguel reached over and tapped one of the gauges.

  I prayed harder.

  “Two, . . .”

  He rechecked his fuel tanks.

  I prayed even harder.

  “Three!”

  Miguel fired the burner, Momma let go of the basket, and we were off! The burners roared as everyone hooted and hollered. Well, everyone but me. I was too busy popping breath mints into my mouth—one after another after another.

  At first, everything went smoothly.

  “This is incredible!” Opera cried.

  “Fantastic!” Wall Street agreed.

  Being the seasoned pro, I pretended to yawn. Then I spotted a little sandbag with a yellow flag tied to it. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “That’s what we hit the marker in Old Man Wilson’s field with.”

  “I thought you said it was a race!”

  “It is—only with balloons you don’t race for speed, you race for accuracy. The closest one to hit the marker is the winner.”

  Suddenly, the balloon gave a little shudder . . . then a bigger bump.

  “What was that?” In all my experience of ballooning (some forty-two minutes and sixteen seconds from yesterday), I had never felt anything but smooth floating.

  Again the balloon shuddered . . . harder this time. Then we started turning. Slowly at first. Then faster and faster.

  “Miguel!?” Wall Street cried.

  His eyes shot to the gauges. “It’s a thermal!”

  “A what?” Wall Street shouted.

  “A bubble of hot air—it’s taking us up!” He l
ooked toward the balloon as it gave another shudder and started to shake. We followed his gaze and, in perfect three-part harmony, gasped.

  The balloon was caving in!

  Quickly, Miguel fired the burner over our heads.

  “What are you doing?” Wall Street cried.

  “I’m taking us up!”

  “We want down, not up!” Wall Street screamed.

  “No way!” he shouted over the roar of the burner. “We’ve got to keep the bag filled!”

  As the bumping and spinning increased we began to sway back and forth.

  “Hang on!” Miguel shouted.

  The balloon gave another lunge, and we all screamed—again in perfect harmony. (I couldn’t help thinking we should take our act on the road, maybe pick up a recording contract, make a music video—) “Miguel,” Wall Street cried, “get us out of this! Get us down!”

  “The only way out is up! We gotta ride this thing to the top!”

  More spinning and swinging.

  “How high?” Opera shouted.

  “What?”

  “How high will it take us?!”

  “No telling—at this rate, a few thousand feet!”

  “A FEW THOUSAND FEET!” I cried.

  The balloon gave another jarring bounce, followed by even more rocking.

  It was wilder than any carnival ride I’d ever been on (not that there’s a lot of action on the merry-go-round). It was almost as bad as when Dad taught Brock to drive in the Wal-Mart parking lot! Luckily, up here, there were no shopping carts to hit . . . let alone light poles . . . or garbage dumpsters . . . or little old ladies. (Don’t worry, last we heard she was recovering nicely.)

  But there was another problem—the one dealing with our bodies and the basket, more precisely with keeping our bodies from being thrown out of the basket!

  “Okay, everybody scoot down!”

  “WHAT?” we shouted.

  “Sit down! To be safe, everybody sit down!”

  We quickly dropped to the floor of the basket as it kept rocking and swaying. All we could see now was the balloon . . . and believe me, that was enough. It was pretty scary watching the giant bag twist and snap and expand and collapse.

  Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. The balloon filled out, and we were back to normal. Oh, there were a few little bumps and turns, just to remind us what a good time we’d had, but basically the white-knuckled fun was over.