The Fourth Stall Part III Read online

  Staples furrowed his mean eyebrows.

  “What gives, man? Isn’t that supposed to be your thing?” he practically shouted.

  It was the first real glimpse he’d shown of what I knew he really was deep down. And I took a step back, deciding whether or not to either book it now or see if I couldn’t distract him somehow first and then make my getaway.

  “Well, yeah, but no, I mean, not anymore. I told you, I’m retired.”

  Staples grabbed the front of his forehead like he had a headache. I could tell he was trying to stay under control. It dawned on me how close I probably was to getting my left eye punched out the back of my head by this monster.

  “Besides,” I added quickly, “she doesn’t even go to my school, does she? I mean, I kind of specialized in stuff at my school itself.”

  “No, she doesn’t go to your school,” he said flatly. “But I didn’t either, did I? Yet you still somehow managed that problem okay, didn’t you?”

  He had a point. And it was pretty awkward to stand there listening to him talk about how I had taken him down the year before. I’d crumbled his independent empire and now here I was saying that I wasn’t really capable of doing such things.

  “Well, that’s kind of why I’m retired—every time I get involved, it only seems to make things worse. It always ends badly for someone.”

  “Didn’t I hear that you just saved your school recently? That doesn’t sound like it ended badly to me,” Staples said. “Sounds like you won, as usual.”

  “It’s not about ‘winning,’ Staples; it was about solving problems and making money. And I was creating more problems than I was solving at the end, and also spending more money than I was making. Besides, I’m kind of in the same boat as you: I need to keep my nose clean. The Suits are kind of watching me, you know?”

  As I said this, I nodded my head toward a car that was parked just down the street from us. Staples turned and looked. The plain gray sedan that had been parked there since Staples and I had started talking suddenly pulled out and peeled past us and down the street before turning a corner and heading out of sight.

  As the car had driven past, the gleam off Mr. Dickerson’s bald head had shined like a sniper’s scope reflecting the sunlight.

  Staples gave me a look.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “it’s insane. He’s been following me every day after school. I mean, they’re really paranoid. But it’s hard to blame them. I’ve found out the hard way that businesses like mine usually lead only to trouble in the end. That’s why I’m out.”

  Staples looked like he was about to protest, but in the end he just nodded.

  “Don’t you remember what you said to me the last time we spoke?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I offered to help you get back on your feet . . . but that was a year ago. Things have changed.”

  “I guess they have,” he said, sounding defeated. “Well, I suppose there’s no point in me even telling you what exactly I wanted help with then, even though it was something that would have been right up your alley.”

  I was surprised at how easily he was giving up. I mean, he really could have forced me to help him if he’d wanted to. And now that he was giving up, I was kind of curious as to what exactly he thought I could do to help out his situation with his sister. But I knew better: if I started asking questions, then that’d be it; I’d be sucked right back into the life I was trying to avoid.

  “I really am sorry, Staples. But you saw Dickerson. . . . The Suits are on me like glue stuck to the teeth of a second grader right now.”

  Staples didn’t say anything else. He just nodded and turned to leave. And then without looking back, just like that, my old nightmare was gone. And I was still in one piece, which was why it was weird that I suddenly felt so horrible, guilty almost.

  I know I said before that me getting pulled back into the Business all started with the visit from Staples. So okay, I admit it. Maybe Staples didn’t exactly pull me back into my business directly, at least not that day, but the whole incident should have been the first sign that something was off.

  If I’d seen the warning lights right then, maybe I could have avoided some of the insanity that followed. Stuff like swimming pools full of blood, guts, and body parts, and crazy third-grade Japanese assassins with precise, near-deadly hit man skills. The sort of stuff that happens only in terrible made-for-TV movies on Disney starring whatever teen pop-star happens to be popular that month. If I’d known what was going to happen, maybe I would have stolen a car, swung by Vince’s place, and gotten us both the heck out of town before it could.

  But I hadn’t seen Staples’s visit as that kind of sign. So instead I just walked home.

  I called Vince the minute I walked in the door.

  “Guess who paid me a visit today?” I said.

  “Joe Blanton’s mom?”

  “Come on, Vince, I’m being serious.”

  “Me, too! I mean, I would pay you a visit, too, if you mailed me a bunch of snake skins stapled to a picture of my son.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. Of course I hadn’t mailed Joe Blanton’s mom anything, especially not a bunch of snake skins stapled to a picture of Joe Blanton. Last week I’d made a Joe Blanton joke so harsh that Vince had been joking about it ever since, about how I’d basically just desecrated the Blanton family name or something.

  “Whatever, Vince. I’m kind of over Joe Blanton.”

  “How could you?” he nearly screeched. Joe Blanton was this pitcher we’d been cracking jokes about for the past year.

  “Well, he only used to drive me crazy because he would dominate the Cubs even though he stinks, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that pretty much all pitchers dominate the Cubs. Even triple-A pitchers look like aces against them. I bet even Bobby Lovelace would no-hit them. It’s not a Joe Blanton thing; it’s a Cubs thing.”

  Bobby Lovelace was this kid who had pitched on our Little League team three years ago. He was epically bad. He’s the only pitcher in history (at any level of baseball) never to record a single out in six starts. Why our coach ran him out there to start six games that season will forever be a mystery. Even Bobby himself didn’t want to start any games after that first one, in which he allowed an unbelievable fourteen earned runs before finally getting the hook. All totaled he gave up sixty-three earned runs in six starts without getting an out. And, seriously, right now even he could probably dominate the Cubs’ lineup.

  Vince was quiet on the other end. It had been a particularly rough season for us this year. The Cubs were 57–81 so far, pretty much the laughingstock of the league, being that they had one of the top five highest payrolls. And just when we thought the curse couldn’t get much worse, too.

  “Yeah,” Vince finally said, and left it at that.

  “So, want to guess who it really was who asked me for help today?” I asked.

  “Well, if I asked my grandma, she’d probably say it was Don Pablo, the little pirate monkey who likes to throw fish heads at birds down at the pier.”

  I gave him a moment to laugh at this (it was pretty funny) and then I dropped it on him.

  “Staples.”

  There was a long silence. Vince usually processed information quickly, but I guessed this had really surprised him.

  “That Staples?” he said after a while.

  “How many kids named Staples do you know?”

  “What did he want? How are you even still alive?”

  I went over the exchange I’d had with Staples just thirty minutes before.

  “Maybe you should have at least found out what specifically he wanted,” Vince said at the end.

  “I know, but if I got that far into it, then the next thing you know, we’d have found ourselves in the middle of another mess involving rabid wolves, zombie classmates, and a nuclear bomb with a faulty fuse. Right?”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Vince said. “When exactly did this business get so dangerous? I mean, remember the days when the
hardest part was figuring out how to get kids answer keys to quizzes?”

  “Right, I know,” I said. “That’s what has kept me so motivated to stay out, even with kids harassing me daily for help.”

  “Well, either way, I guess I’m glad you’re still alive after running into Staples . . . even though it’s so weird that he let it all go so easily. But at least now I get to stump you and crown myself champion of the Cubs universe once and for all.”

  “Bring it on,” I said. Sometimes, a Cubs trivia challenge is the only thing that can take our minds off things like Staples returning to town.

  “In honor of their miserable season this year, what are the most games the Cubs have ever lost in one season in franchise history?”

  “Why would I want to sit around thinking about the worst seasons they’ve ever had? There are too many to count!”

  “Exactly,” Vince said smugly.

  “But asking this means you’ve been thinking about it.”

  “Well, yeah,” he said, sounding like he was starting to realize how depressing it was.

  “The truth is,” I said, “I’ve been wondering that, too, since they might beat that record this year. The answer is one hundred three losses, and they did it twice in the sixties.”

  “They suck,” Vince said.

  Then we both laughed. Of course we acted negatively and said stuff like that, but we both also knew that, come Spring Training next season, we’d naively believe, like we did every year, that they had a real shot to finally end the curse that season.

  “You still coming over later to play video games?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said, and then we hung up.

  The next day three more kids came to me for help with their problems. Well, two came asking for help. The third came bearing an offer. But I’ll get to that in a little bit.

  The first kid approached Vince and me as we were walking to our homeroom. We were passing the hallway that we normally would have taken to my old office each morning. Both of our heads turned as we passed, thinking about the past six years spent in the East Wing boys’ bathroom. Since the school year had begun, we’d pretty much avoided our old office in the East Wing. In fact, now that I was in seventh grade and in a different part of the school, I pretty much avoided the East Wing altogether, like most kids usually did unless they were coming to see me for help. It was a good place for an office because there wasn’t much of anything in that part of the school at all.

  “Do you think the school has done anything with it?” Vince nodded toward our old offices.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But what would they do, make it a museum? I mean, it’s still just a nonfunctioning bathroom; there are not a lot of options.”

  “Well, my grandma always says, ‘Your options are only as limited as the chocolate ice cream that you store inside of your skull. Give me some of that ice cream!’ She shouts and then tries to twist the top of my head open like it was some kind of jar.”

  I laughed. She’d actually tried to do this to me once, too. At first it had been terrifying—a crazy old lady trying to pop off the top of your head so she can eat the chocolate ice cream she thinks is inside of it—but she was so weak that after a few seconds it just kind of started to tickle, which made me laugh, and then his grandma laughed, too, and then she forgot what she’d even been trying to do in the first place.

  Just then I noticed another kid had started walking next to Vince and me.

  “Hey, Nick,” I said, nodding to the newcomer.

  “Mac, Vince. I got to talk to you guys,” Nick said.

  “What’s up?” I asked, even though I knew what was coming.

  He shrugged and made one of his faces. “Well, first, I lost my iPhone. And my bike frame got scratched. Plus, I heard from this one kid that the Dolphins might trade away their star linebacker for a measly fourth-round pick, but they’ll probably be terrible anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter. Then I broke Brandon Decker’s new glasses by accident when I tripped in the lunchroom and spilled my food all over the kids at his table. Oh, and my pet turtle died yesterday.”

  Now, you might hear this and feel bad for Nick. Like, how much tragedy could befall a kid in a week, right? But that’s the thing about Nick: this was pretty normal for him. He hadn’t earned the nickname Eeyore for nothing. In fact, he seemed to be more positive than usual today. Whenever you asked him how he was doing, he’d launch into an answer so depressing, a black cloud would form around your head and you’d feel like you were drowning in bad news. Plus, he always talked really slowly and sadly, just like Eeyore, the donkey from those old Winnie the Pooh cartoons. I kind of always imagined Nick to have a trombone player following him around playing depressing and dubious baritones. Eeyore used to be a pretty frequent customer of mine, but in recent years he’d stopped coming because, no matter what I did to fix his problems, he always came up with new ones caused by my solutions. I’d have been offended by anybody else complaining so much about my solutions, but everybody knew that’s just how he was.

  “Rough week,” I said.

  Eeyore shrugged slowly. Cue a few blats from a trombone.

  “It’s been better than last week,” he said. “Last week I had a splinter in my finger all week that got infected. Then I had a toothache and my mom’s car had a flat tire on the way home from the dentist and we had to walk like three miles, which gave me blisters on both feet. I went outside the next day and got some gravel stuck in my shoe, and I hate taking off my shoes because one time I took them off for like two minutes and someone stole one of them. So then the gravel got stuck in my blister and it hurt all day. The blisters just now are starting to go away, but I ruined my favorite socks the day they popped. Plus, my favorite TV show got canceled. Then at dinner on Friday my sister sneezed on my food, and I’m pretty sure she got me sick. And I lost my favorite lucky penny.” Blaaaah-Ruuump.

  Vince stifled a laugh. That was really the only way to react to Eeyore: humor. If you let him get to you, you ran the risk of slipping into a depression-induced coma from which you’d probably awaken thirty years later to find a strange world where the Cubs have moved to Wyoming (yuck!) and a racist house cat named Neil has been elected president.

  “Anyway,” Eeyore continued, “can you help me?”

  I took a deep breath in preparation for my usual speech about being retired, but he must have been able to tell what I was going to say because he interrupted before I could even get started.

  “Please, Mac? I’ll pay you in advance for everything. I mean, thinking about all these problems is giving me a headache. Plus, my eyes already hurt from this lighting,” Eeyore said while trying to shield his eyes with his hand. “Where do they get such bright lights? Don’t they know we’ll all get cancer from standing under these things? Not to mention the eyestrain, I mean, my uncle lost vision in one eye from staring at his computer screen too long every day at work. Now he just sits at home all day in the dark and drinks gross tea, which is tea that is too cold to be hot tea and too warm to be iced tea. And his car rolled into the river behind his house last week, too.” Blaaaah-Ruuump.

  He knew my weak spot: payment up front. But before I could open my mouth, Vince jabbed me with his elbow as we walked—a painful reminder of how these things had spiraled out of control in the first place: not knowing when to say no.

  “Look, I’m sorry, Eeyore, but I can’t help. It’s just too dangerous for me now. If I help one kid out, then I’ll have to help others and then, well . . .”

  He nodded in defeat. “Yeah, I figured you’d say no. Would this change your mind?” He took out a crumpled wad of cash and held it out to me. “Like I said: payment up front.”

  I looked at the cash in his outstretched hand. There must have been at least fifty bucks there. That was a lot of dough. Then I glanced at Vince. He was also staring at the money, his eyes glistening like glazed hams.

  “I’ve been saving all summer. I need your help,” Eeyore said. “Please.”


  I looked at Vince again; this time he was looking back. He shook his head slightly. I knew he was right.

  “What time is it? We have to get to homeroom,” I said, picking up the pace, hoping Eeyore would get the hint.

  “I don’t know,” Eeyore said. “I try not to look at clocks much; you know they say that staring at clocks too often can cause cancer, right? Plus, I read this article online that said keeping track of time too frequently can lead to stroke, heart disease, and early onset diabetes and can also accelerate the development of Alzheimer’s disease. Not only that, but I had this kitty clock once that fell off the wall and smashed my Xbox into seven pieces. And that was on my birthday, which is also the same day John Lennon died.” Blaaaah-Ruuump.

  “Yeah, well, what doesn’t cause cancer these days?” I joked. I know it’s not cool to joke about something as horrible as cancer. My grandma had died of cancer a few years ago, so I really do know how crappy it can be. But it was all I could do to keep from slipping into a depression coma

  “I know, exactly. Life is a war zone, Mac,” Eeyore said somberly.

  But he’d gotten the hint because then he just nodded in defeat and veered off away from us toward his own homeroom classroom. I looked at Vince, and we both sighed and shook our heads as we headed into our homeroom. Homeroom was the only class we had together that year.

  The second kid to ask me for help that day did so almost as soon as we took our seats in homeroom. I hoped eventually kids would start giving up because there’s only so much a guy can take.

  Vince and I sat down next to each other, and then the kid in front of us turned around so violently, his desk almost tipped over.

  “Mac, Vince, I need your guys’ help!” he practically shouted.

  It was JJ Molina. He was known to overreact to stuff. Melodramatic, I thought, is what I heard an eighth grader call him once. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, though; whenever I heard that word, for some reason all I could think about was snooty actors wearing skinny jeans and drinking Mello Yellow. But just the same the word did seem pretty fitting for JJ just from the sound of it. He was always worked up about something.