No Other Story (9 page)

“Well, I could have been talking about Santa Barbara.”

“Who's Santa Barbara?” asked Mr. 207.

“I think that's one of his helpers,” said Mr. 70.

“Would you all just shut up already?” fumed Mr. 5, his bony hands clutching at the air in front of him as if choking an imaginary throat. “Santa Barbara is a place, not a person!”

“Well, it must have been a person at one time,” said Mr. 207.

“He's got a point,” said Mr. 88. “They wouldn't name a place after a fake person.”

“What about Indiana?” asked Mr. 70.

“What are you talking about?” sneered Mr. 5.

“You know, Indiana Jones. He's a fake guy, and they named a whole state after him.”

Mr. 5 looked as though his bald, skeletal head might spontaneously combust at any moment from the pressure building up from within. “How do you people manage to dress yourselves in the morning? Now listen, we're here for one reason and one reason only. We've got a very important job to do. Is that something you imbeciles can get through your thick skulls?”

The three imbeciles nodded their thick skulls and mumbled the start of an apology before trailing off.

“Okay, let's move,” said Mr. 5.

The four Plexiwave employees exited the car and walked toward the Cheeseman house, the falling snow covering their tracks as they went.

“One thing I don't get,” said Mr. 207. “Why does Santa Claus have a Spanish first name and a German last name?”

“Good question,” answered Mr. 88. “And why is he also called Saint Nicholas?”

“Maybe Santa Claus is short for Saint Nicholas,” offered Mr. 70.

“What?” scoffed Mr. 207. “How the heck is Santa Claus short for Saint Nicholas?”

“You know,” said Mr. 70. “If you say Saint Nicholas really fast, it kind of sounds like Santa Claus.”

Both Mr. 88 and Mr. 207 gave it a try and found Mr. 70's theory to be entirely plausible. “You're right,” said Mr. 88. “It
does
sound like Santa Claus if you say it really fast.” He said it seven or eight more times in a row before Mr. 5 stopped in his tracks, spun around, and glared at Mr. 88.

“All right, that's enough!” Mr. 5 moved his face so close that Mr. 88 hoped he did not intend to use a lot of words that began with the letter
P
. “I've had it with you pinheads and all your preposterous poppycock! I don't want to hear one more word about Santa Claus or Saint Nicholas or Father Christmas or anybody else like that. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

The men shuffled their feet and gave a nod and a single-shoulder shrug. Mr. 88 wiped the spit from his forehead.

“Good,” Mr. 5 continued. “Now, Mr. 88 and I are going to enter through the back door and do what we came here to do. And while we're engaged in our very important work, you two nimrods are going to stand watch. Any questions?”

“Uh, yes,” said Mr. 70. “What about Kris Kringle?”

Christmas is a time for gathering with family and friends to celebrate, reminisce, and sing songs about the malodorous nature of Batman. It is also a time to spruce up the house by going out and getting what Germans call a
tannenbaum
, what vegetarians call part of a balanced breakfast, and what the rest of us call a Christmas tree.

Most people, including the Cheesemans, get their annual tree from a commercial Christmas tree lot. To get the full experience, however, I believe you need to go out and chop down your own tree. Sure, it's a little more work, though I must say it helps if you live, as I do, close to a good-sized city park.

Once you've gotten the tree home and you're certain you were not followed, you should set the proper mood for the decorating experience. Start by putting on some seasonal music and gathering up some wood for a big fire. Now, unless you live out in the country, the wood-gathering part may prove to be a challenge. Perhaps you've noticed that your neighbors rarely use their doghouse or porch swing.

Now that the fire is blazing and the house is at a toasty womb temperature, you may commence with the decorating. First, take your tree and place its
trunk in the customized stand, which, with its three opposable thumbscrews, looks like some type of evil torture device designed to force Christmas trees into giving up valuable information.

“All right, Tannenbaum, who sent you? Who do you work for?”

“Ahhhh! I don't know what you're talking about! I'm just here to provide a little Christmas joy for a couple of weeks, then dry up and get tossed into the gutter! That's all, I swear it!”

Now, with the tree firmly fixed in its upright position, it is time to cover it with popcorn, cranberries, and other things your dog will enjoy eating when you're not home. Assuming you have a dog.

And, if you do, I advise you to leave it at home for protection when going out to buy the tree. Otherwise, villains may seize the opportunity to break into your house for the most evil of purposes.

The longest journey begins with a single step. I'm not sure who first said that, but odds are it was someone who did not own a car.

Either way, the crux of the matter is that in order to travel anywhere, you must first have a means of getting there. With the once-football-shaped LVR-ZX now as flat as Kansas, the Cheesemans seemed to have no way of getting to where they wanted and desperately needed to go.

“There is one way,” said Sullivan, thoughtfully stroking his ratty yellow beard. “The LVR-ZX may be destroyed, but there's still the LVR-TS714 version 8.0.”

“What the heck is an LVR-T … 4 … something-something?” asked Simon.

“It's a time machine,” said Sullivan. “How do you think I got here, by astral projection? LOL.”

LOL indeed. Suddenly it sounded as if getting to where they wanted to go was going to be a piece of cake. All they had to do was hop into Sullivan's time machine, hit a few
buttons, and they'd be there in no time. There was only one problem.

“Where is this time machine of yours?” asked Jason.

“Don't worry,” said Sullivan. “It's well hidden. And I think I remember where.”

“You
think
you remember?” said Catherine.

“Pretty sure,” said Sullivan. “I bet we'll be able to find it. Of course, it doesn't have any seats. Or lights, so it won't be the most comfortable ride. But other than that, it should be good to go.”

No sooner had Sullivan spoken these words than Signor Rossini slammed his pencil onto the table and rose up from the bucket seat that had once belonged to the LVR-TS714 version 8.0. “I must get to a piano immediately!” he shouted while waving his latest composition in the air.

Gurda grunted something, and Stig and Sullivan each snorted out a laugh. Apparently Gurda
did
have a very good sense of humor.

“Yes, Mr. Rossini,” said Catherine. “We'll get you to a piano right away.” She hoped, as did the others, that once they managed to get Ethan out of Some Times and back to the real world, he would snap out of whatever this spell was that he was under. “Mr. Moss, how soon can we leave?”

“Please, call me Sullivan. Or Sully. I can't have my great-aunt and the future former president of the United States calling me
mister
.”

Catherine smiled. “Okay, Sully. How soon can we leave?”

Sullivan said nothing, but walked to the entrance of the
cave and looked out. Apparently he did not see his shadow, because, when he returned to the group, he announced that winter was over and it was now summer, with a slight chance of spring later in the day. “We can leave right away,” he said.

“But there are dinosaurs out there,” said Professor Boxley, not wanting to sound like a coward, but also not wanting to suffer the indignity of wetting his pants again. “And Vikings and Huns and who knows what else.”

“We don't really have much of a choice, I'm afraid,” said Jason. “Either we take the risk and try to find this hidden time machine, or we all stay here for the rest of our lives, living in a cave and eating roots and berries.”

By now it was beginning to get somewhat darker than it had been. Though day and night seemed to be coexisting, the light remained sufficient for traveling and, presumably, for finding hidden time machines.

It was decided that they would take the sled and the mechanical dog along to make the journey easier and to carry any supplies they might need. These included a few tools should the LVR-TS714 version 8.0 be in need of any repairs, being that it had been sitting in its secret hiding place for the past twenty-six winters, forty-two springs, thirty-nine summers, and eighteen autumns.

As Sullivan pointed out, the runners of the sled could be removed and replaced with wheels, which would do better on the bare ground now that the snow had melted away and the earth had begun to bake in the hot summer sun of late evening.

“That's a pretty awesome dog,” said Simon.

“Thanks,” said Sullivan. “His name is Rufus. You can pet him if you want. He doesn't bite, unless I push the right button. I made him from stuff I took off the LVR-TS714 version 8.0.”

Simon gave Rufus a tentative pet.

“Wait a minute,” said Catherine sternly. “You stripped the time machine? Our only way out of here?”

“I took only nonessential parts,” said Sullivan. “You know, like chairs, lights, cup holders. Stuff like that. Like I said, it won't be a comfortable ride, but it should still get you where you want to go.” He smiled and gave a hearty double thumbs-up, which did little to instill confidence.

“I don't understand,” said Jason. “Why would you strip parts from the time machine? Even if we hadn't come along, you'd still need it to get back yourself.”

“Oh, I have no intention of going back,” said Sullivan. “I'm a married man now. I couldn't leave Gurda. And I couldn't bring her back with me. They'd put her in a museum.”

“Or on a reality show,” said Catherine.

“LOL,” said Sullivan, which sadly indicated to the others that, in the future, there were still reality shows. He then attempted to lift the sled and flip it over, but couldn't manage it. “Whew, that's heavy,” he sighed. “Would you mind giving me a hand, Uncle Jason?”

“Can we help too?” asked Simon, referring to himself as well as to Steve, who occupied his right hand, and Gravy-Face Roy, who sat upon his left.

“Sure, Grandpa. I'll take all the help I can get.”

Jason and Catherine snickered at this. “Please don't call me
Grandpa
,” Simon implored.

“Well, what should I call you?” asked Sullivan.

“How about
Gramps
?” suggested Catherine.

“Or maybe
old-timer
,” Jason offered.

This was normally where their father would have intervened and put a stop to the teasing, but, of course, Ethan was no longer with them, and Signor Rossini was off on his own, slicing his arms through the air and humming the tune in his badly bruised head. They were all anxious to have their dad back, but none so much as Simon.

“Okay, on three,” said Sullivan. They all took hold of the sled and tried rolling it over. As they struggled with the task, Gurda seemed to appear out of nowhere to provide that extra bit of muscle necessary to turn it belly-up.

Without a word, she returned to the cave, and Sullivan watched her with admiration. “You can see why I fell in love with her.”

“You do seem very happy together,” said Catherine. “Where did you meet, anyway?”

“At a discotheque in the 1970s,” said Sullivan. “Would you hand me that wrench, Grandpa?”

With a huff, Simon grabbed the screwdriver with his Gravy-Face-Roy-covered hand and passed it to Sullivan. Not only was he the lone eight-year-old grandfather in existence, he was now being bossed around by his middle-aged grandson. Unbelievable.

“Wait a minute,” said Jason. “You mean you met your Neanderthal wife at a discotheque from the 1970s?”

“Yeah, you should see her do the robot,” Sullivan boasted.

“You met your Neanderthal wife at a discotheque from the 1970s and danced the robot,” Catherine confirmed.

“Yeah. Isn't Some Times amazing? Everything happening at once. I mean, where else could you go skiing in the morning, then spend the afternoon at the beach, lying in the sun and looking at the stars?”

“Or get eaten by a T. rex with buckteeth,” said Professor Boxley, his eyes darting nervously back and forth.

Sullivan laughed. “Oh, you mean Trixie. I've had a couple of run-ins with the old girl myself.” Sullivan removed the runners from the sled and replaced them with wheels stolen from some nonessential parts of his LVR-TS714 version 8.0.

“It does seem awfully dangerous here,” said Catherine, looking around at the wild and barren landscape that surrounded the cave. “Why would anyone choose to live in such a ridiculously hazardous place as Some Times?”