Jack's Black Book (13 page)

“We better get going,” Mom said. “If they see us they might invite us in.”

“Yeah,” Pete said, and wrinkled up his nose. “And if you breathe the stinky dog-poop Pagoda air in their house you'll be paralyzed for life.”

Dad put the car in gear and we slowly cruised down the street and around the corner. When we got to Wilton Manors Boulevard there was a billboard with Mr. Pagoda's giant painted face beaming down on us. VOTE PAGODA! NO PET TAX! it read.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, joking around. “For once you and Mr. Pagoda are on the same side.”

“That just goes to show you how bad my luck is in this town,” he muttered.

No one said another word. The Pagodas had passed us by and we were all depressed. Mom tried to cheer us up by having Dad stop at the Dairy Queen and treat us all to a strawberry dip. But it only reminded me of the time Mr. Pagoda poured a gallon of his experimental cherry-colored sun-block into the swimming pool and made us all dive in about a hundred times. Each time we climbed
out, we were recoated with a waxy, pinkish oil which floated on the surface and was supposed to “automatically safeguard the skin,” according to Mr. Pagoda. Unfortunately, it made our feet so slick the only way to reach the end of the diving board was to crawl out on our hands and knees.

Two days later Pete burst into my room. “You won't believe this,” he shouted, waving a shiny brochure above his head. “You aren't as dumb as you look. You were right. Mr. Pagoda invented something and now they are rich! Look!”

I snatched the brochure out of his hand and threw myself across the bed. THE PAGODA PET PAD was printed in bright red letters across the top. Below was a picture of a dog cautiously staring at a little rug that was blocking its way into a living room which had been prissily decorated with white furniture. It looked like God's living room. Below the picture was an explanation: “Vet Approved. The PAGODA PET PAD is a safe and painless way to correct bad pet habits! Keep pets from entering rooms and off of furniture. Just plug in the PAGODA PET PAD
and once your pet receives a few uncomfortable shocks, it will soon alter its problem behavior. GUARANTEED.”

I looked at the price. “Eighty bucks!” I shouted. “No wonder they're rich.”

I could have thought of the Pet Pad, I said to myself. But I hadn't. I hadn't thought of Kleenex, or toilet paper on a roll, or toothpaste, or tiny screwdrivers to fix your glasses, or back scratchers on a long stick, or Pet Rocks, or any of that stuff. I wished I were one of those people who had just one brilliant idea and turned it into a fortune. Mr. Pagoda had, and now I felt more stupid than ever before.

While Pete was busy telling everyone what he had discovered, I rode my bike over and looked at their house from across the street. Someone had stuck a hand-drawn sign in his yard. PAGODA for District Council—NO PET TAXI! I read it twice before I realized there was a mistake—NO PET TAXI! Then I thought, well, maybe he was against pets riding in taxis, too. After all, he was now a politician so he was obligated to keep saying stuff. And who was I to second-guess him? He was the one with the brains and money.

No matter how nutty they are, I thought, they are my friends. I took a deep breath and threw my arms up into the air as I crossed the street. “Let the Pagoda games begin,” I declared, as if I were announcing the opening of the Olympics.

Gary Pagoda was sitting on the front lawn next to a
bucket. I crept up behind him and just stood there. The bucket was filled with gasoline. A small tape recorder was at his side. A woman's breathy voice kept saying over and over, “Breathe deep, exhale. Breathe deep, exhale.”

I was a little nervous because the last time I had seen him he'd threatened to stab me to death with his Kentucky Toothpick. Now I was worried that if he was breathing gasoline fumes he'd be really nasty. “Hi,” I said, as friendly as I could.

He ripped a match out of a matchbook, lit it, then quickly dunked it into the gasoline.

I took a step back. “Hi,” I said again.

“I heard you the first time,” he snarled. “I'm concentrating.”

He lit another match, then quick-as-a-cat put it out in the gas.

“Is this a good idea?” I asked, just as the silky voice on the tape recorder said, “Now let's make a list of positive images. Kittens … clean underwear … fresh snow …”

Gary made a face and snapped off the tape player. “Don't get all weak in the knees,” he said with that bully tone of his. “The trick is to drown the match before you can ignite the fumes. You gotta be quick. If you can dunk ten in a row I'll give you ten bucks. If I do ten in a row you give me five. What do you say?”

That was a pretty good deal. “Can you give me a few warmups?”

“Sure,” he said, and tossed me the matchbook.

I ripped one off, lit it, then quickly plunged it head-first into the gas. It went out. I did another, and another, without going up in flames. “Ready,” I said, figuring I'd have ten bucks in a few minutes.

“Okay,” he said. “You're on.”

I lit the first one and dunked it. The second. The third. The fourth. The fifth. I had total concentration. I held the matches two feet above the gas, paused to let the flame grow, then stuck them straight down into the gas. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. “Finished,” I said smoothly, and tossed him the matches. “You're up.”

He took a step forward and stood about two inches from my face. “How much will you give me if I set the entire matchbook on fire and dunk the whole thing?”

He still scared me. “Ten bucks,” I said, knowing that if he did it I would still break even.

“Watch this,” he ordered. He lit a match, then used it to light the corner of the matchbook. He held it upside down until the remaining match heads went up in a ball of flame, and then quickly he plunged it into the gas.

The explosion was awesome. There was a loud whoosh followed by a wall of red flames and heat. I threw myself back onto the lawn and began to roll over and over. I didn't actually see that I was on fire but I wasn't taking any chances. When I stopped, I saw Gary still rolling. Smoke was coming off his pants. He was laughing wildly
when he jumped up and ran around the corner of the house. I smelled burning hair, and touched my eyebrows. They were singed down to a stubble. Great, I thought, now I'll have to draw my eyebrows on like those old movie stars. And if I have to explain to Dad how this happened he'll burst into flames and scorch the rest of my hair off.

I stood there for a minute, spitting on my fingertips and swabbing down my eyebrows while waiting for Gary to come back. But he didn't. The gas was burning a black patch on the new front lawn. The tape recorder had melted down into a blob of molten plastic, and the NO PET TAXI sign had caught fire. A trail of thick smoke lifted up into the sky. I smiled. This was just like old times. The people next door, who now lived in the house we used to live in, were staring out their window and shaking their heads back and forth. I waved to them. “Up your nose with a rubber hose,” I sang. “I'm a Pagoda wannabe and proud of it!” They closed the curtains. That used to be us, I thought. When we first moved in next to the Pagodas we, too, thought they were insane. But now I felt really happy to be back with them. And the only reason why, I figured, was that I was just as stupid as they were. The Pagodas were my kind of people.

I took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. A little speaker over my head blared out, “Whatever you're selling we don't want none!” Probably another Pagoda invention, I thought. An automatic anti-salesman device.
Then it sounded like half a dozen little dogs were barking and scratching the inside of the door.

Frankie Pagoda answered. He had a black patch over one eye, like a pirate.

“Yo ho ho,” I sang. “It's your old pal Jack Henry. What happened to you?”

I should have been more polite and said hello first, but I was overexcited.

He stared down at the dogs and kicked them out of the way. “I hurt it,” he said quietly.

“How?”

“I was prying open a gallon of paint with a screwdriver when the tip slipped and I drove it up through my eye.”

All I could think of was Robin Hood shooting an arrow into the center of a bull's-eye. It made me squint. “Are you blind?” I asked.

“One eye only,” he replied.

“Do you have a glass eye?”

“I did,” he said. “But Gary borrowed it last Halloween and I haven't seen it since.”

“How's Susie?” I asked, taking roll.

“Oh, she's still got all her pieces,” he said. “But she's started to do gymnastics so you can bet she'll break her neck or something.”

“We saw an ad for the Pet Pad,” I said, wanting to change the subject. “Is that thing for real?”

“Amazing, isn't it?” he replied, instantly cheering up. “Can you believe we've made a fortune on Pet Pads?”

I couldn't even bear to think about it. They'd made a
bundle on an idea any toddler with a hairpin and an electrical outlet could put together. I figured that made me about the stupidest kid on the planet. Maybe my IQ
was
low, way low, below the Pagoda line.

“Come in,” he said. “I'll show you how it works.”

“Cool,” I said.

We went inside the house. Everything might have been new, but it all still smelled like old dog poop, and pee, and pine-scent spray. That much hadn't changed.

“We have a Pet Pad on the couch,” he said, and pointed at it. “It keeps the dogs from jumping up.”

I looked over at one of their yappy Pomeranians. Its hair was standing straight out like a scared porcupine's.

“What happened to the poodles?” I asked.

“Couldn't take the heat.”

Frankie bent down and removed a small transformer from behind the couch. It was wired up to the Pet Pad. “Dad customized this pad,” he said. “The Pomeranians need a little extra zap because of them already being so high-strung.” He turned a dial to a setting that read TEN POUNDS. “Touch it,” he instructed. “You'll only feel a tingle.”

I placed my hand on the pad. It wasn't very strong, kind of a light shock, like when you hold a nine-volt battery on your tongue.

“Isn't this thing dangerous with kids around the house?” I asked.

“Nay,” Frankie replied. “Dad says most people probably buy them to keep the rug rats and crumb-catchers
from crawling on the good stuff anyway. Besides, we tested it on a lot of kids and not one of them got hurt. If anything, the kids also figured out pretty quick not to sit on the couch.”

“You touch it,” I said.

“Okay, but turn it up to the setting marked TWENTY POUNDS. Gary and I made up a game called Death Row, where we take turns giving each other a blast.”

I did.

“I'll be the Boston Strangler,” he yelled out, and touched the pad. He didn't even blink.

“Your turn,” he said.

“I'll be Jack the Ripper,” I declared.

He turned up the dial to FIFTY POUNDS. When I touched it my eyelids fluttered and I shook uncontrollably. “Ha!” I shouted when I lifted my hands. “You can't kill the Ripper!”

“Yeah. Now turn it up to a HUNDRED POUNDS.”

I did and he touched it. Wham! His whole body jerked back as if he'd been hit with an invisible baseball bat. “The Strangler survives to kill again,” he said gruesomely, and lunged toward the Pomeranians. They fled down the hallway. Then he took the transformer and turned the dial up to the last notch, marked with a skull and crossbones. “Your turn, Mr. Ripper,” he said gleefully.

I leaned forward and waved my hand over the pad. It seemed to hum, and the little hairs on my arms stood up.

“Don't be a wuss,” Frankie said. “It won't hurt you.”

I gritted my teeth, turned, and sat on it. Wham! The next thing I knew I was on the other side of the room. I had hit the coffee table, bounced off, and knocked over a bunch of dog-show trophies.

When I opened my eyes, Mr. Pagoda was staring down at me. “Hey, welcome back, Jack,” he said. “You okay?”

I lifted my arm and he jerked me up off the floor. “Frankie,” he said, “don't overzap your old buddy. We could use him to help us hand out leaflets.”

“For Pet Pads?” I asked. I was still a little woozy.

“No,” he said. “To get out the vote. Didn't you see the sign on the front lawn?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And the billboard, too.” Just then I glanced out the back glass doors. Gary climbed up the pool ladder and was shaking his head back and forth to get the water out of his ears. He was stark naked. When he saw me looking at him he grinned and pointed to a red burn spot on his butt. I thought it was a bad time to remind him that he owed me ten bucks. I looked back at Mr. Pagoda. He was dressed as if he were going fox hunting in Ye Olde England. He wore tight red pants, with a little black velvet jacket, knee-high black leather boots, a riding crop, and a black leather hunting cap.

He caught me staring at his outfit. “You like it?” he asked, and struck a fashion pose. “I'm giving an anti-pet-tax speech at the Las Olas Kennel Club. Very upscale voters, so I have to look the part.”

Just then Mrs. Pagoda entered the room and blew a few
ear-piercing notes on a little brass horn. “Let the voter hunt begin,” she shouted.

Gary opened the sliding glass door. “Did you call me?” he asked.

“Go put some clothes on,” she said. “Or get a tattoo on your privates—one or the other.”

“Will do,” he said with a smile, and closed the door.

Mrs. Pagoda turned to me. “He's doing so much better since the therapy,” she whispered. “He doesn't hurt other people anymore. And he hasn't stolen a car for three months.”

I was relieved to hear that.

“Knock on wood,” said Mr. Pagoda. “Now let's get going. I've got an election to win. We're going to take this anti-pet-tax issue all the way to the White House.”