Authors: John J. Bonk
“That’s not fair, fakin’ ’em out like that,” I grumbled to Darlene. “Those poor penguins are pouring all their energy into
something that’s never gonna happen.”
“Well, it
is
gonna happen. Just not the way they think.”
Wicked laughter erupted from across the aquarium. I craned my neck to see past the blubber-fur-and-feathers display and saw
three buzz-cut boneheads bobbing over the edge of the Oceanarium. Who else but Zack, Pig, and Tyler? And it looked like they
were taunting the dolphins! Mr. Kincaid was standing there too, not doing a darn thing about it.
“Can you believe those guys?” I could feel the outrage smoldering in my cheeks as I checked out the scene. “Gawd, all those
Fireballs are such – such – sludge! Okay, not
all
of them, but Zack and some of those other jocks are just –”
Darlene burst a bubble in my face, following it up with, “Sludge?”
“S-L-U-D-G-E. Slimy, slobbery, muck-sucking, low-life sludge.”
Why is there never a teacher around when you need one? Or a chaperone?
“Look, now they’re actually throwing stuff
in the water! That better not be pennies!” With no time to waste, I fumed up the steps toward the crime scene, practically
ramming into good-for-nothing Mr. Kincaid.
“Knock it off, you guys! Can’t you read the signs? ‘Coins can kill! If swallowed, they can lodge in an animal’s stomach, causing
ulcers, infections, and even
death
.’”
“Up yours, tool!” “Get bent!” “Beat it, drama queen!”
Just in the nick, a security guard flew onto the scene and marshaled the culprits away from the Oceanarium and into the tented-in
area at the registered group entrance. “The boys were just having a little fun,” Mr. Kincaid called out, running after them.
Jerk!
I was left alone – shaken. Staring at a clinging sea star.
Everything seemed to be under control again until I gazed down at my watch. 4:58! If I were a whale, a spray of adrenaline
would’ve shot out my blowhole.
Dad’s supposed to meet me by the man-holding-the-giant-fish fountain outside, like – now!
My heart was sputtering as I sprinted out to the fountain next to the parking lot. I had my eyes peeled for a black sedan
because Dad said he’d be picking me up in a limo.
Okay, get a grip
, I told myself. It wasn’t too long before my classmates were piling onto the buses in the distance, and I starting thinking
“what if he doesn’t show up?” thoughts. I’d be stranded. I mean, look at his track record.
What if he pulls another Dad stunt?
Just as both Buttermilk Falls buses were pulling out of the
lot, some maniac cab came tearing past them, zigzagging through Section DD-HH. It zoomed past me and the driver shouted, “Welcome
to the windy city!” through a bullhorn. The license plate number was a blur. But the cab had a blue sign lit up on the roof
that read: LuvQUEST.com and something about “finding your soul mate in the urban jungle.” I jotted that down in my notebook
in case I had to report this wack-job.
When I looked up, there it was – Dad’s black limo! Just pulling into the parking lot. That psycho taxicab almost crashed right
into it!
“… Home of Wrigley Field,” the cabbie shouted, sticking his head out his window. He was done up in clown makeup with a rainbow
Afro wig.
Gawd, what a freak
. “… the Bears, the Magnificent Mile – umm, deep-dish pizza. Welcome to Chi-town, Dustin Grubbs!”
The taxicab came to a screeching stop right in front of me. My jaw just about hit the pavement along with my spiral notebook.
“What’s the matter, kid, don’t you recognize your ol’ man?”
“Get in, get in!” blasted through the bullhorn. I went for the back door of the cab. “No, no, you’re riding shotgun. Sit up
front with me!”
As soon as we pulled away, a wave of fear splashed through me. Big, spooky city – big, nutcase clown – what was I getting
myself into? I untwisted my seat belt and fastened the cold buckle with a sharp and final
click
.
“It’s great to see you, Dusty! I really missed you, kid!” He leaned over and grazed my forehead with a scratchy kiss. It sounded
like Dad, but I still wasn’t 100 percent sure if he was really my father or Zippo the Kidnapping Clown.
Would it be rude to ask to see three forms of ID?
“It’s great to see you too – I think.”
“Ouch! Way to hurt your ol’ man right outta the gate.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that, Dad.”
If that
is
your real
name
. “It’s just – you said you were picking me up in a limo. And what’s with the clown thing?”
“This
is
my limo – and I know how much you’ve always loved clowns.”
“Dad, I hate clowns. Gordy loves clowns.”
I felt my toes clench. We were definitely off to a rocky start.
“Oh – well, I guess I screwed that up.” Dad pinched off his red rubber nose and tossed it out the window. Someone honked a
horn. “There. All better?”
He still had a giant red mouth painted on, though – not to mention blue eyebrows and a ruffle collar.
“So, since when do you drive a cab?”
“Since my landlord insisted on being paid in money instead of knock-knock jokes.” He laughed. I didn’t. “Man, oh, man, go
ahead and check out my hack license if you want. I won’t be insulted. It’s right there in front of you.”
There was a blurry head shot on his ID card hanging on the dashboard. It could’ve been the Easter Bunny, for all I knew. Okay,
it had “Theodore Grubbs” plastered across the top of it, but for some reason I still had my doubts. But when we turned onto
Lake Shore Drive, he ripped off his curly wig and tossed it onto the backseat and I knew it was Dad for sure. His receding
hairline had moved farther north, but the familiar 3-D mole constellation on his temple was definite proof. He’d always told
us that if you connected the dots it’d form –
“The Big Dipper!” I exclaimed with a sense of relief.
The wig had left a purplish imprint across his forehead – it looked as if you could screw the top of his head off and paper
snakes would jump out. Just as I was starting to breathe easy, I wasn’t sure I wanted to breathe at all.
“No offense, Pop, but what reeks?”
The little cardboard pine tree deodorizer dangling off the rearview mirror must’ve expired because the cab smelled like an
armpit bouquet.
“
Err
, it could be the Italian beef sandwich I brought you. They don’t make ’em like this anywhere else but Chicago. It’s delish.
Go ahead, dig in.”
I debagged half the sandwich and took a cautious, drippy bite. “Hah and oosey!” I said with a mouthful.
“Huh? Oh, hot and juicy,” he echoed, handing me a cold, wet can of Mountain Dew. “So, did you have a
whale
of a good time at the aquarium? Are you an expert on coral reefs and mollusks now?”
“Nuh-uh.” I swallowed fast and popped open the can of soda. “But if you’re interested in the history of the tomato, I’m your
man.”
“How’s that?”
“Pepper’s dad chaperoned, and he couldn’t stop blabbering about his tomato patch – and his strawberry patch –”
“All I’ve got is a nicotine patch. Bah-
dum
-pum!”
He usually “bah-
dum
-pummed” after cracking a joke. Like back in the vaudeville days when the drummer would play a rim shot after a comic delivered
his punch line. Corny, but effective.
“Nicotine patch,” he repeated, getting a bigger kick out of it than the first time. “I should write that one down. Maybe I
can work it into my act.” He peeled a long, curly blue hair off his cheek and flicked it away. “Say, how’d that audition of
yours pan out? You were so worked up about it – did you knock ’em dead?”
“Something like that.”
All of a sudden a speeding minivan cut in front of us and Dad grabbed his bullhorn and yelled “Maniac!” out the window. “Where’d
that guy learn to drive?” he asked me. “Sears Roebuck? Bah-
dum
–”
“Actually, Dad,” I interrupted, “Sears
does
have a driving school.”
That ended up being a real conversation killer, which was just as well – I didn’t feel like spilling my guts about my audition
disaster anyway. Still, I should’ve let him get out his final “pum.” With my sandwich in one hand and my soda in the other,
I sunk deep into the ripped vinyl, taking in the incredible view. Downtown Chicago on the left side looked as if it were decorated
in an endless strand of twinkle lights – and Lake Michigan, to my right, turned a glittery purple and
eventually disappeared, blending seamlessly with the night sky. The taxi made a jerky left turn off Lake Shore Drive and Dad
leaned over and tore a bite out of my sandwich, growling like a lion with fresh kill in his teeth. He was obviously begging
for a reaction.
“Hey, Dad, you like seafood?” I said out of desperation.
“Who doesn’t?”
We turned to each other with mouths wide open. “See –
food
!” We spouted at the same time. “Bah-
dum
-pum!”
It was perfect timing. We really yucked it up. Who knew that Wally’s lame kindergarten joke would put us right back on track?
“So,” Dad said, sucking in a dangling green pepper, “on a scale from one to ten, how badly does your grandmother hate my guts?”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
If I were Pinocchio, my nose would be poking through the windshield.
“Don’t kid a kidder, kid.”
“Okay, about a fifty-seven, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
We must’ve drove around for hours while Dad talked my ear off, asking questions about the family and pointing out the sights.
The Sears Tower, one of the tallest buildings in the world; Navy Pier with its giant Ferris wheel; the water tower where Mrs.
O’Leary’s cow knocked over a lantern and started the Great Chicago Fire.
“What about your mom – is she seeing anyone?”
Mountain Dew shot out of my mouth. I hadn’t seen that one coming! But I have to admit, it was exactly the kind of question
I was hoping for.
“She sees lots of people.” I was playing it ultracool.
“You know what I mean. Somebody special?”
“A foot specialist – for her bunions.”
“Wisenheimer.”
Mom had sworn me to secrecy about her love life, but here’s the real scoop: She had dated her boss at the Donut Hole, but
that went stale quicker than their day-old crullers. Then there was Dr. Devon, who was “perfect on paper” but there wasn’t
any “chemistry” so she broke things off “before anyone got hurt.” I think she went and got hurt anyway, and quit trying altogether
after that.
“You wouldn’t be holdin’ out on your ol’ man now, would ya? Don’t be afraid to come right out with it – you won’t hurt my
feelings.”
“Cripes,” I mumbled, sopping up soda under my rear end with the napkins. “This is turning into a sticky situation.”
“I knew it.” He ripped off his ruffle collar, looking disturbed.
“Huh? No, not Mom – the Mountain Dew! Jeez, if you gotta know, sure, she’s dated around a little – especially since she found
your old weights in the attic and started working out. She’s turning into one of those mom-babes.” I figured a
little carrot-dangling couldn’t hurt. “But why the tenth degree? You talk to her all the time on the phone.”
“She doesn’t tell me everything, Dusty.”
“Me either.”
“Well,” Dad said, pondering it over, “you know your ma – both she and God work in mysterious ways.”
So does her son. Suddenly he slammed on the brakes, and we went lunging forward – then back – then forward. “We’re here!”
he announced, turning off the ignition. The cab was parked halfway on the curb. “That’ll be seventy-three fifty. Plus tip.”
“You live
here
?”
“Just three nights a week.”
I thought Dad was exaggerating when he called the comedy club where he performed “a hole in the wall,” but it turns out he
was right. Anyone would walk right past the Laugheteria if it weren’t for the nonstop laugh track they had blasting out front.
I wondered how the bum we had to step over in the doorway was sleeping so soundly. There was a sleazy uneasiness that hit
me when we walked into the place, yet I couldn’t wait to check it out.
“Hey, Morty, I know this is kinda last minute but can you put me in the lineup for tonight?” Dad asked a short, bald guy wiping
down the bar. I could barely even see his face through the curtain of smoke pouring from his cigar.
“Yeah, I can probably squeeze ya in,” Morty growled, scratching his potbelly. “But some talent scout’s supposed to be in
the audience for the first show, so comics have been showin’ up since six, begging for a spot.”
Morty disappeared down behind the bar for a second and it sounded as if he was horkin’ up a Chevy. He came back up and started
filling bowls with peanuts while he puffed his cigar, staring me down. “Either the rats around here are getting bigger, or
the comedians are getting smaller.”
“No, this here’s my kid, boss,” Dad said, grabbing a handful of nuts. “He’s visiting me for the weekend.”
“Well, he’d better be twenty-one and real short for his age, see, or I could lose my license.”
“I just turned twelve,” I told him.
“Well, don’t advertise it!” Morty barked, slamming the bar. “For cryin’ out loud, Teddy, didn’t you teach him any sense?”
Dad was crunching away on the nuts and went for another handful. “Would it be okay if I snuck him backstage, so he can see
me do my set from the wings? The kid’ll get a real kick out of it.”
Sweet!
“Just keep it on the down low,” Morty grumbled, “or it’s
my
butt that’ll be in a sling.” I tried to picture that for a second, but decided it was just a weird expression.
“I owe ya one, boss.”
Morty snubbed out the burning end of his cigar, blew on
it, then slid it into his shirt pocket without flinching. “I tell ya, the things I let you clowns get away with.”
Literally, in Dad’s case.
He led me through the dark, noisy club to a place called the greenroom where the comedians waited to go on. I hear every theatre
has one, too – this was my
first
, which was a real thrill. Funny, because it wasn’t green at all – more like flesh-colored. Rotting flesh. Still, I was stoked
getting to be around all these authentic show-biz folks. From their reactions when we walked in, you could tell that everyone
knew Dad. He wet some cocktail napkins at the sink and started scrubbing off his makeup while he introduced me one by one.