Timmy Failure: The Cat Stole My Pants Read online

  parts of the rental house.”

  “Will you please keep your voice down?”

  I whisper to Emilio. “My mother is sitting

  right in front of you. And this journey is pain-

  ful enough already.”

  And it’s true.

  For we are touring the island on the pain-

  fully slow Tooty Toot Train.

  And at the very moment Emilio and I

  should be using our newfound wealth to climb

  to the top of the lighthouse and find my would-

  be assailant, we are being paraded through the

  town at a paltry two miles per hour.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” I yell to

  the engineer. “I’m like a sitting duck back

  here.”

  “Timmy!” my mother says, glaring back at

  me. “Enough.”

  “And to our left,” says the train engineer,

  “we have a museum dedicated to all the many

  shipwreck treasures found off the coast of Key

  West through the years, the most famous being

  in 1985, when the wreck of a Spanish galleon

  was found, yielding an estimated four hundred

  million dollars in gold and silver.”

  “Ooooh,” says Emilio. “That’s incredible.”

  “It’s hardly incredible,” I tell Emilio. “It’s

  boring. All history is boring.”

  And as I say it, I think of my summer

  school history class.

  And how hard my polar bear must be

  working at this very moment to complete my

  book report.

  Mercifully, the Tooty Toot Train finally

  stops near a palm-tree-shrouded restaurant

  with a large brick courtyard. Everyone gets

  off.

  “Good, it’s over,” I announce, hopping off.

  “Now me and Emilio have to go.”

  “Nope,” says Dave, guiding me toward the

  restaurant. “You’re gonna come in here and

  eat dinner with us.”

  I turn to my mother. “Does he get to tell

  me that?”

  “Yes,” she says, always taking the wrong

  side in these disputes.

  “Well, that’s odd,” I tell her. “Because it

  really feels like your boyfriend is impinging

  on my personal freedoms.”

  “Husband,” she says.

  “So you allege,” I answer. “I think the

  important point here is for us to give Dave

  some personal boundaries. You know, like

  how he doesn’t get to tell me what to do.”

  My mother drags me through the court-

  yard to one of the outdoor tables.

  “You will sit down and you will eat,” she

  says. “You’re embarrassing yourself in front

  of Emilio.”

  Emilio says nothing.

  “I really should have fled to Cuba,” I mut-

  ter. “I understand they have more personal

  freedom there.”

  “What did you just say?” asks my mother.

  Anxiety-ridden, Emilio begins rearrang-

  ing his silverware. “The salad fork should

  always go on the outside of the dinner fork,”

  he announces.

  “Tell me what you just said,” my mother

  says to me, her voice rising.

  “And the dinner fork,” continues Emilio,

  “always goes to the right of the plate.”

  “Emilio,” says Dave. “Enough with the

  forks.”

  “Then may I please be excused to use the

  restroom?” says Emilio. “I really need to wash

  my hands.”

  Dave nods.

  “I need to use the restroom, too,” I add.

  “After you tell your mother what you

  said,” says Dave.

  I stare at him.

  “I didn’t say anything, Dave.”

  The restaurant feels suddenly quiet.

  “Now may I please use the restroom?” I

  ask. “We were on that train forever.”

  Dave stares at my mother. My mother says

  nothing.

  “Go,” says Dave.

  So I walk through the courtyard to the

  bathroom.

  And when I get there, I see Emilio coming

  out of the women’s room.

  “The men’s room was occupied,” says

  Emilio. “I didn’t think anyone would mind.”

  But the men’s room is now free.

  And so I go inside.

  And see a wall of graffiti on the stall door.

  Each etching more nonsensical than the last.

  Until I spot one item in the center of the

  door.

  That is all too sensical.

  “How dare he mock my nautical skills,” I tell

  Emilio Empanada as he lies on his bed read-

  ing The Donkey’s Kiss Is More Powerful Than

  His Kick.

  “It’s malicious,” says Emilio.

  “And I look nothing like that,” I add.

  “You don’t,” he answers.

  “The important thing now is to not get

  rattled,” I tell my unpaid intern. “Because

  that’s what my nemesis wants.”

  “Yes,” says Emilio. “I imagine that’s what

  he or she wants. So what do we do next?”

  “Well, if the stupid lighthouse hadn’t been

  closed, we would have rushed there. But that

  will have to wait until morning.”

  “And until then?” asks Emilio.

  “We keep the doors locked and our detec-

  tive minds sharp,” I tell him. “Tomorrow is

  the biggest day of our lives.”

  “I’ll keep sharp by reading this romance

  novel,” says Emilio. “The Donkey’s Kiss is

  quite intellectually stimulating.”

  “And I’ll keep sharp by adding a few chap-

  ters to my bestseller,” I tell him. “The pub-

  lic’s demand for these books appears to be

  insatiable.”

  Emilio says nothing.

  In fact, I’ve already written a new scenario

  inspired by the events of tonight. “It’s both

  instructive and riveting.”

  “Oh,” replies Emilio.

  “You may once again read it without

  charge,” I tell him. “Though tips would be

  welcome.”

  He puts his romance novel down and

  reads.

  “Couldn’t the man have just lied?” asks

  Emilio Empanada.

  “No,” I answer. “Not a man in a white

  cap.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Oh, my goodness,” I answer, rather

  stunned. “I had no idea you were such a nov-

  ice. Haven’t you ever seen a western? You

  know, with good guys and bad guys?”

  “I guess,” says Emilio.

  “Then you know the good guy always

  wears a white hat.”

  “Oh,” he answers.

  I turn off his bedside lamp.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “You’re not sharp,” I tell him. “You need

  sleep. We can’t have you with this impaired

  judgment tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Good night.”

  “Good night, unpaid intern.”

  We are up at dawn and on our way to the

  lighthouse.

  Menaced by more chickens.

  “Look what you’ve done,” I tell Emilio

  Empanada.

  “What’s wrong with chi
ckens?”

  “They could be spies.”

  “I think they’re just chickens,” says

  Emilio.

  “Anything with two eyes and a mouth can

  be a spy,” I explain to my unpaid intern.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know,” I say, stop-

  ping suddenly on the sidewalk. “Like why is

  there a long line of people waiting for the light-

  house at nine thirty in the morning?”

  “I don’t think these people are going to

  the lighthouse,” says Emilio. “I think they’re

  going to that big house across the street.”

  He points to a two-story house with lime-

  green shutters.

  “Whose house is that?”

  “Some famous author.”

  “Oh, goodness. I can think of nothing more

  boring than talking to an author.”

  “I think he’s dead,” replies Emilio.

  “Well, now that could be interesting. Does

  he say much?”

  “No, he’s not there. He’s dead.”

  “Well, then let’s hurry and get in line for

  the lighthouse before they figure that out.”

  So we walk up to the lighthouse.

  But there is no line.

  And no Lighthouse Larry.

  “Who are you?” I ask the boy beating on

  bongos.

  “Billy,” he says. “Who are you?”

  “We’re two guests who wish to enter your

  lighthouse,” I answer. “We have the necessary

  funds.”

  “It’s not my lighthouse,” he says. “I’m just

  sitting here till my dad gets back with our

  conch fritters.”

  “Larry,” I say.

  “You know my dad?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I answer. “We are in

  the midst of bitter, protracted litigation.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means I was mauled by one of your

  attack chickens.”

  Billy laughs.

  “That’s very callous of you, Billy. Please

  just take our money so we can get on with

  our business. I’m a detective and this is my

  unpaid intern,” I say, pointing to Emilio.

  “And we have no time for your mirth-filled

  mockery.”

  “Detective?” says Billy. “Like cops and

  robbers? Can I play?”

  Before I can react, I am struck in the face

  by a thick jet of water.

  “Oh, good God!” I cry, falling to the ground.

  “It’s just a squirt gun,” says Bongo Billy.

  “I’m dying,” I answer.

  “You’re fine,” offers my unpaid intern.

  “I regret that I have but one life to give

  for my detective business,” I announce as I

  breathe my last.

  “You’re kind of weird,” says Bongo Billy,

  banging once again on his bongos.

  “Play Chopin’s Funeral March if you know

  it,” I gasp. “It’s my final request. Though I’m

  not sure it’s particularly suited for the bongo.”

  “Here,” says Bongo Billy, handing me a

  plump pink water balloon. “You can hit me

  with this. Then we’ll be even.”

  “Absurd,” I announce, miraculously cured

  by an act of providence. “Then you will sue

  me, as I am suing your father.”

  I rise like Lazarus brought forth from the

  grave.

  “But I will accept your plump pink water

  balloon in the spirit of compromise with which

  it is offered.”

  I cradle the balloon like it is a newborn

  chicken.

  And Emilio cradles a newborn chicken

  like it is a newborn chicken.

  And we storm our tower of destiny.

  I race up the eighty-eight stairs of the spiral

  staircase until I reach the top of the lighthouse.

  And leaping out onto the observation deck, I

  see everything on this frontier island of doom.

  Like the blue sea and the cruise ships.

  And the steeples and the palm trees.

  And the white roofs and the people.

  Each more suspicious than the last.

  Like the man in the Speedo.

  And the baby on the head.

  And the chicken on the chickens.

  And as I quickly scan the frond-shrouded

  streets to find our rental house, I am confi-

  dent that from here I will spot my nemesis.

  Running. Crouching. Hiding.

  Screaming.

  There is someone screaming.

  “TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMM-

  MMY!”

  I pop my head back inside the lighthouse.

  “Emilio?”

  “YES!” His voice echoes up from the

  curved white walls. “I’ve been yelling forever.

  I’m stuck!”

  “Stuck how?”

  “Halfway up the staircase. I can’t move.”

  “What do you mean you can’t move? Are

  your legs broken or something?”

  “No, my legs aren’t broken. I just started

  running up the stairs and then I looked down

  and now I can’t move.”

  “You’re scared? At the most pivotal

  moment of our investigation, you’re scared?”

  “Maybe,” he says, his voice echoing

  through the lighthouse. “Okay, more than

  maybe.”

  “Well, just grab the railing and move up

  here slowly. I’m on the trail of a killer!”

  “I can’t!” he yells. “I’m with Edward

  Higglebottom the Third.”

  “Who the heck is that?”

  “My baby chicken. I just named him. And

  I need both my hands to hold him.”

  “Who brings a baby chicken to a criminal

  pursuit?” I cry out. “It’s very unprofessional!”

  “I just found him walking around outside.

  He was all by himself. No mother or father or

  anything. Please, Timmy. I just need your help

  going back down the stairs.”

  “Emilio Empanada! I am in the most strate-

  gically advantageous spot on this entire island

  and I am holding a plump pink water balloon.

  If I can just get two uninterrupted minutes, I

  will find my nemesis and stun him with this

  watery projectile.”

  I hear nothing in reply, so I leap back

  onto the observation deck and raise my plump

  pink water balloon high overhead and search

  for assassins.

  And as I do, a rumbling echo rises back up

  the lighthouse.

  “TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMM-

  MMY!”

  “Oh, good gosh,” I mutter, “I give up.” I

  lay the plump pink water balloon on the obser-

  vation deck, then hop back inside and descend

  the staircase.

  And save Emilio Empanada from himself.

  On the way back from the lighthouse, we are

  once again escorted.

  Though this time not by chickens.

  “Is this your son?” asks the man who has

  walked us home.

  “Yes,” says my mother, poking her head

  out the front door. “Is something wrong?”

  “He pelted me with a water balloon from

  the top of the Key West lighthouse.”

  My mother looks at me. />
  “I placed the balloon on the observation

  deck,” I explain. “It then rolled off and struck

  Speedo Steve.”

  “My name is Ron, not Steve,” says Speedo

  Steve. “And I find it hard to believe it was an

  accident.”

  “And why is that?” asks my mother. “If I

  may ask.”

  “Because the whole way home, your son

  was saying, ‘Ye got what ye deserve, ye Speedo-

  wearing fiend.’”

  “I deny that,” I tell my mother. “I do not

  talk like a pirate.”

  “He was talking like a pirate,” says Speedo

  Steve.

  “His memory of events is compromised,” I

  tell my mother. “For by his own admission, he

  was struck in the head by a water balloon. My

  guess is that he is drifting in and out of con-

  sciousness. He doesn’t even know his name.”

  “My name is Ron,” says Speedo Steve.

  “Timmy, did you hit this man with a water

  balloon on purpose?” asks my mother.

  “Preposterous,” I say, shaking my head.

  She turns to Emilio.

  “Emilio, did Timmy do it on purpose?”

  “Avast!” I object. “You would take the

  word of an unpaid intern over that of your

  son?”

  “Emilio, did he do it on purpose?” she

  repeats.

  “I wouldn’t know,” answers Emilio.

  “Honest. I was stuck in the lighthouse, hold-

  ing Edward Higglebottom the Third.”

  “Who?” asks my confused mother.

  He holds up his baby chicken.

  “That settles it,” I tell my mother. “There

  are no witnesses and thus it is the word of

  your beloved son, Timmy, versus that of the

  unseemly Speedo Steve.”

  “Ron,” he says. “For the last time, Ron.”

  “And before you believe a word that he

  says,” I add, “consider how the man is dressed.

  It is an affront to good taste and decency.”

  “Okay, Timmy, that’s enough,” says my