Timmy Failure It’s the End When I Say It’s the End Read online

  professional colleagues.”

  He puts me back down.

  “Now, this is what I’m going to be sending

  to everyone. Does it look okay?”

  Total feels compelled to tack on a note of

  his own.

  “Good,” I tell him. “Back in my detective

  days, I did a lot of missing-person cases. And

  I can tell you that it’s important to provide as

  much detail as you can.”

  I hand him another piece of paper, with

  the numbers 867 written across the top.

  “This is the area code for most of the

  Arctic,” I tell him. “Just start faxing as many

  random numbers with that area code as you

  can. Even if you don’t find your brother,

  you’ll surely find someone who’s heard of

  your brother.”

  But before I can say more, my Mr.

  Froggie phone rings.

  “What are you doing calling on the Mr.

  Froggie phone?” I ask my best friend, Rollo

  Tookus.

  “I tried calling you on your regular house

  phone,” says Rollo Tookus. “But it made this

  really awful computer noise.”

  “Yes, well, that’s because we’re using it to

  send faxes to the Arctic.”

  “That sounds like something I don’t want

  to know about.”

  “Correct. It’s top secret.”

  “Okay, well, that’s not why I called.”

  “Of course it’s not. You called on the Mr.

  Froggie phone. And that’s for clients only.

  But I’ve already told you I’m retired.”

  “I know, Timmy. You explained all that.

  But that’s not why I called, either.”

  “Well, then spit it out, Rollo Tookus. I’m

  in the midst of a very critical mission and I

  have absolutely no time to spare.”

  “Fine, Timmy. I just called to tell you

  you’re missing Elf-topia.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I answer.

  Elf-topia is the largest gathering of elves

  on the North American continent. It occurs

  in the front window of Elmsley’s, our city’s

  lone department store.

  There they gather, together with Santa

  Claus himself, who sits regally on his throne.

  The highlight of the event occurs when

  one of the elves (Ernie Elf) escorts a live

  reindeer (Biscuit) to the foot of Santa’s throne.

  There, Santa touches the nose of the reindeer,

  and when he does, it glows red.

  And the spectacle is repeated throughout

  the Christmas shopping season, to the delight

  of the easily amused townsfolk.

  But that’s not why I came.

  I came because last week Biscuit did not

  like having his nose touched and kicked Ernie

  Elf through the window.

  It was, other than my own exploits, one

  of the most exciting things to ever happen in

  our town.

  But, much like my career, it was not

  meant to last.

  “Where is everybody?” I ask Rollo from

  in front of Elmsley’s lifeless window.

  “They canceled it. I think one of the elves

  is suing somebody.”

  “You brought me down here for nothing?”

  “I’m really sorry, Timmy. I didn’t find

  out until after I called you. But it’s not for

  nothing. They’re having piggyback races

  through the department store instead.”

  “Well, that sounds profoundly stupid.”

  “It’s not. The winner gets a hundred-

  dollar gift certificate from Elmsley’s.”

  “A hundred dollars?” I reply, aware that

  such a sum could bankroll a good chunk of

  my film, currently titled Greatness on Two

  Shoes: The Timmy Failure Story.

  “Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll do it.”

  “Great,” says Rollo Tookus, climbing up

  on his father’s back. “Just get on someone’s

  back.”

  “Whose?” I ask.

  “Didn’t you come here with your mom?”

  “She had to work today, Rollo Tookus.

  Her law firm wanted her to finish

  something.”

  “What about Dave?”

  “He’s working also.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “He works for a hotel. They always work

  weekends.”

  “Well, then how’d you get here?”

  “I walked here, Rollo Tookus. On two

  feet. One after another.”

  “Oh,” says Rollo. “I just figured you came

  with somebody.”

  I look around the room and see the other

  kids, all of whom are on a parent’s back.

  “Well, how about you get on my dad’s back

  instead?” he says.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “He’s your dad.”

  So I look around to see if there is a spare

  parent.

  But there is not.

  “I don’t have to race, Timmy. Really.

  Just ride on my dad’s shoulders.”

  But there is no need.

  For by the time he finishes saying it, I

  am already gone.

  Gone because there is work to do.

  Not detective work, despite the public’s

  demand for me.

  But film work.

  Specifically, finding the locations where

  we will film Greatness on Two Shoes: The

  Timmy Failure Story.

  So I search the lonely city streets.

  For the high-rise that will be the head-

  quarters of Failure, Inc.

  For the boat that will take me to my

  island fortress:

  For the blimp I will use to save the

  helpless townspeople.

  But as I walk, I see only boring things.

  Until I come to a bar. And remembering

  that there is a pivotal bar scene where I kick

  in the doors and hurl the mobsters out the

  window with brute force, I am intrigued.

  “Well, it’s not ten stories high,” I think

  aloud, “but I suppose with a top-notch special-

  effects department, we can make it seem like

  it’s ten stories high.”

  And fortunately for me, it has the kind of

  doors that can be easily kicked in.

  So I do that.

  And once inside, I see someone I

  recognize.

  “Dad?”

  “Son! What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here? I thought you

  were in—wherever that place is.”

  “The Florida Keys. But, yeah, had a bit

  of bad luck. My restaurant was flooded. Big

  hurricane.”

  “So you came here?”

  “Yeah. I still have friends here from

  when your mother and me were together.

  And one of them told me about a bartending

  job here. I just need it until I can get back

  on my feet. I was going to call you just as

  soon as I—”

  “Say no more,” I tell him. “I

  understand.”

  For my father is not a bartender. Or a

  restaurant owner.

  He is an international secret agent who

  catches criminals.

  Like his son.

  “I see great possibilities,” I tell him as I

  walk
the length of the seedy bar.

  “Okay,” he answers.

  “Perhaps a crime-fighting partnership. I

  could even come out of retirement for it. Did

  you hear about my retirement?”

  “I don’t think I did.”

  “What? Don’t they have newspapers in

  Florida?”

  “Yeah. But I must have missed that.”

  A customer with a potbelly ambles into

  the bar.

  “Give me a second, Tim.”

  My dad walks behind the bar and fills a

  frosted glass with beer.

  I hop onto a barstool.

  “It goes without saying,” I tell my father,

  “but our partnership would have to be

  secret.”

  “Right,” he says, handing the customer a

  bowl of peanuts.

  “There are just too many people who want

  to off us,” I remind him.

  “Off us?”

  “Eliminate us. You know, because we

  pose a threat to their crime-loving ways.”

  “Oh, right.”

  A man and a woman walk into the bar.

  “Hey, son, I want to talk more about this,

  but you probably shouldn’t be in here. It’s

  sort of just for adults. But listen, if you’re

  not doing anything next weekend, and your

  mom says it’s okay, we can go to the park or

  something.”

  “Sure,” I answer. “But not the park. Too

  risky.”

  “Fine,” he says. “Well, you pick some-

  place. But I have to take care of these

  people.”

  “Right,” I say, hopping off the barstool.

  My dad pours a gold-colored drink into

  two tiny glasses.

  “See you soon, buddy,” he says as I walk

  toward the doors. “And if you need anything,

  just tell me.”

  So I stop. And turn around.

  “I need your bar for a film.”

  “Timmy, you have to compromise on this a

  bit,” says Mr. Jenkins.

  I am meeting with him after school. And

  Tom John John is sitting in the chair next to

  me.

  Looking his usual self.

  “But Tom John John has no vision for

  the film,” I complain to Mr. Jenkins. “I am

  the writer. I have the vision.”

  “Yes, well, he’s the director,” says Mr.

  Jenkins. “And he has a vision, too.”

  Tom John John nods.

  “Tell him your vision, Tom John,” says

  Mr. Jenkins. “And maybe the two of you can

  reach a middle ground.”

  “May I use your whiteboard?” he asks.

  “Sure,” says Mr. Jenkins.

  “Well, to be as laconic as possible, I see

  the film like this,” he says as he begins

  walking toward the board.

  “I object!” I answer, rising to my feet.

  “Object to what?” asks Mr. Jenkins.

  “To the word ‘laconic.’ I think it means

  ‘insulting.’”

  “No, Timmy,” says Mr. Jenkins. “It

  means ‘brief.’”

  “We’ll see,” I answer. “Because I’m pretty

  sure it will be insulting.”

  “Please sit back down,” says Mr. Jenkins.

  I sit back down.

  Tom John John writes on the board.

  “So basically,” he says, “I see the film like

  this.”

  I fall out of my chair.

  “Timmy,” says Mr. Jenkins, “please sit in

  your chair and stay there.”

  I sit back in my chair.

  “And there are two paramours vying for

  his love,” continues Tom John John. “One of

  whom is Corrina Corrina.”

  I fall out of my chair again.

  “Well, now, that’s horrific,” I cry from

  the floor. “And I don’t even know what a

  paramour is.”

  “It’s someone you’re having a romantic

  relationship with,” says Tom John John.

  “Oh, good God,” I mutter, wanting to fall

  again but already on the floor.

  “All right, enough, Timmy,” says Mr.

  Jenkins. “You and Tom John are just going

  to have to work it out. Explain your

  respective visions and agree on something.”

  “Fine,” I answer. “Can I write on the

  whiteboard, too?”

  “Sure,” replies Mr. Jenkins.

  “Okay,” I say. “Here is my vision for the

  film.”

  “That’s not really a vision,” interrupts

  Tom John John.

  “It’s a very visionary vision,” I reply.

  “No,” he argues. “A vision for a film has

  a compelling plot, good characters, surprising

  twists, and a solid ending.”

  “Fine,” I answer, writing on the board

  again. “Here is my vision.”

  “He expects me to work closely with Corrina

  Corrina!” I shout to Rollo Tookus on

  our walk home from school. “And have her

  be my girlfriend!”

  “It’ll be fine,” says Rollo. “The important

  thing is that we all try to get a good grade.”

  “Who cares about stupid grades!?”

  “I do,” says Rollo Tookus. “Because

  I want to get into Stanfurd. And get a good

  job. And not have to sell oranges by the side

  of the highway.”

  “Rollo, do I need to recite what that girl

  has done to me?”

  “No. Please. You don’t.”

  But I do.

  So here you go:

  Corrina Corrina was once the head of

  her own detective agency, the Corrina

  Corrina Intelligence Agency (CCIA).

  It was corrupt, horrid, wretched, godfor-

  saken, and bad.

  It was also unfair, as her father was

  wealthy, and she exploited his vast resources

  to create a high-tech detective lab in her

  extravagant downtown headquarters.

  And yet, despite all these advantages, my

  agency still crushed her like a Corrina Corrina

  butterfly on the windshield of life.

  So she quit the detective business.

  Which was wise.

  Because she was always a criminal at

  heart, her crimes too numerous to list.

  Though I will try:

  Stealing Segways.¹

  Getting me kicked out of school.²

  Looting school treasuries.³

  Kidnapping my best friend.

  4

  Spying on me in my vacation abode.

  5

  1. See Timmy Failure, Book 1

  2. See Timmy Failure, Book 2

  3. See Timmy Failure, Book 4

  4. See Timmy Failure, Book 5

  5. See Timmy Failure, Book 6

  And whenever I present this litany of

  offenses, Rollo feels compelled to add the

  following:

  “Don’t leave out that time you kissed

  her.”

  6

  “Listen to me,” I say to Rollo Tookus as

  we stop on a street corner for the light. “I’m

  making this film my way. And as my best

  friend, you’re gonna help.”

  “Not if it affects my grade,” he answers.

  “Even if it affects your grade!” I tell him.

  But before I can argue, I see a polar bear

  fleeing.
/>
  6. DON’T see Timmy Failure, Book 3. Because it’s a

  big lie. And it didn’t happen.

  “Why are you getting on a bus?” I ask my polar

  bear, Total.

  He holds out a sheet of paper.

  “Someone found your brother!” I exclaim.

  “It’s gotta be your brother! He shares all of

  your character flaws.”

  Total nods. The bus doors spring open.

  “But you can’t take the bus to Russia,” I

  tell him. “There’s a big ocean in between.”

  “You gonna board?” asks the bus driver.

  I look at the driver briefly and then turn

  back to my polar bear.

  “You don’t even know where in Russia he

  is,” I say to Total. “It’s a big place. And it has

  people with big hats.”

  “Hey!” yells the bus driver. “You

  boarding or not?”

  “No,” I tell him. “He was just confused.”

  “Who was confused?” he asks.

  “Never mind,” I tell him. “You’re

  interrupting a very personal conversation.”

  The driver just stares at me, then pushes

  the button that closes the automatic doors.

  I watch as the bus roars off.

  When I turn back to Total, he is sitting on

  the bus-stop bench, his tiny suitcase resting at

  his feet.

  And he is sad.

  “And were you just gonna leave without

  saying good-bye to me?” I ask him. “That’s

  not very businesslike.”

  I sit on the bench beside him.

  “Besides, there are protocols for this kind

  of thing. Retirement parties. Gold watches.”

  I look at his wrist. It is much too big for

  a watch. Not to mention that he can’t tell time.

  “Well, maybe not a watch. But a party

  all the same.”