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.”