Eukariah Grafftenhoffer

The black van pushed Grace Osgood’s car into the lane of opposing traffic. The front of her boat-of-an-automobile disintegrated the entire front portion of an oncoming Oldsmobile Omega driven by Eukariah Grafftenhoffer.
The safety air bag was damaged and removed after a previous accident, so there was nothing to stop the carnage inflicted on poor Eukariah. The rear end of Eukariah’s Omega went up from the sudden stop. While the front crumpled, a sliver of fender well sheared off like a spear and forced its way into the car’s dash vents, through the steering wheel, and into the left chest of Eukariah, shattering two ribs and collapsing the lung, before continuing on and puncturing the back of the seat, pinning the seat belted Eukariah in place. As if that weren’t enough, the firewall, under the dashboard, folded inward and down clamping his feet in place. As the metal firewall continued to buckle like cardboard into a V shape, it went forward and snapped both of his shin bones, then continued on until it finally stopped, resting against the lower part of the seat Eukariah was sitting in, separating the two ends of shinbones by at least four inches.
It’s amazing what can happen in less than three seconds.
“Oh, fuck!” Eukariah screamed through clenched teeth. “This is just my fucking luck!” He coughed and a spray of blood splattered the cracked windshield and dashboard.
It’s sad to say, but he was right. It was just his luck. The only luck Eukariah has ever had, has been bad. On second thought, that’s not entirely true. He did find a woman who loves him, Ezmerelda, who gave him twin boys, Thaddeus and Cliburn. But even his name, Eukariah Grafftenhoffer, trips and rolls off the lips like a drunken tongue twister. Eventually the bullies in school stopped picking on him because he was inflicting more damage to himself then they could cause. They even stopped making fun of his name and simply called him, WD. Short for Walking Disaster.
He was the kind of guy who was always in the wrong place at the wrong time; the guy who’d zig when he should’ve zagged; the guy who’d mean well but did poorly. Then there were the times he was just downright clumsy and devoid of any semblance of common sense. But it was just his luck to survive to have more bad things happen to him and to inflict more bad things unto others. He was, in fact, one of God’s little practical jokes, put upon this earth solely for His amusement. And, as horrific as some of these mishaps may appear, when viewed as a whole, as in when your life flashes before your eyes just before you die, they would seem to be both funny and sad at the same time.
So presented here for perusal is a sampling, a slice, of WD’s life up to this point. These events aren’t listed in any chronological order. Nor are they listed by severity of injury, either to himself or to others, by use of any type of scale. This is merely a smattering.

The birth of WD.

Eukariah stood, with his arms crossed against his chest, waiting to be picked for one of the teams in P.E. class. In Eukariah’s world there were two things that were absolute certainties in gym: one, he wouldn’t be chosen until almost as a last resort, just ahead of the nerds and total losers. It wasn’t because he fell into either one of these categories, it was because his reputation as a klutz had preceded him.
Here’s a couple of examples.
Everyone knows how rumors and stories get exaggerated and blown out of proportion as they spread from person to person, right? Take the baseball game incident as an example. This story went off in two directions. The man Eukariah hit with the baseball bat, when it slipped out of his hands as he was swinging at a pitch that was obviously low and away, was not hit in the head, nor did he suffer brain damage, nor is he currently living as a vegetable in a state run mental institution. And as far as the other rumor goes, the bat didn’t shatter his kneecap to the extent that he had to have his leg amputated, nor did he lose his job and family, nor was he forced to become a begging wino outside of Smitty’s Grill and Drinking Emporium. If the last part has any validity to it at all, it’s something that man did by choice. No, the truth is, it just broke his leg and he was in a cast for a few months. Now the only repercussion is it aches a bit when the weather is cold and damp.
And the rumors spread like wildfire about when he tripped on his shoelace and knocked over his science fair project. A nifty display using marbles to demonstrate the ease of moving heavy objects on a cushion of ball bearing type material, complete with graphs and charts, examples of practical uses, with mathematical calculations of weight distribution, density, inertia, mass in motion, resulting in what-does-this-have-to-do-with-the-price-of-eggs-in-Russia answers.
It was set up on a folding table. He had a large shallow pan with the bottom of it filled with marbles, on top of the marbles were objects of various sizes and weights. One could roll them effortlessly from one end to the other with their little fingers. He kept a bucket of marbles under the table. It seemed his display was very popular with the kids, who were constantly checking it out and swiping marbles when Eukariah wasn’t looking. So he was always adding more marbles to the display.
The trouble began when Eukariah got off his chair and stepped forward to tell some kids to put back some marbles they were stealing. His left shoe had come untied and his right foot landed on the lace, pinning his left foot down. When he tried to bring his left foot forward, it stopped abruptly and he was thrown headlong into his display.
Now this is where the rumor mill took over. There were not thousands injured. The science fair has never had thousands of people attend. As far as a semi-accurate body count is concerned, it would be safe to say there wasn’t much more than seventy-five…a hundred at the most. There was, for sure, a thousand marbles strewn out about the floor, between the ones in the display and the spilled bucket from underneath. And despite what anyone may have heard, no one died. The injuries were mostly broken bones and bad bruising, with a couple of minor concussions and back injuries.
It is sad to note that Eukariah was forever banned from any more science fairs.
However, the rumors of Eukariah’s reenactment of Ben Franklin’s kite in the lightning storm did run, pretty much, true to form. The kite did have some metal on the string and the gusting wind did whip the string right out of his hands, the difference between Ben’s and Eukariah’s, was the fact that Ben didn’t have to contend with high voltage power lines. Eukariah’s wet kite and string wrapped around the power lines and shorted them out. The resulting power outage that blackened nearly a quarter of the city took almost a full day to repair. It’s safe to say, everyone in town knew Eukariah Grafftenhoffer.

Now back to gym class.

The other absolute was, no matter what team Eukariah was chosen for, that team was going to be designated “skins”. Eukariah couldn’t figure out why he was given a gym shirt to begin with, it seems he spent every class topless. It’s been four months into the school year and he hasn’t even had to wash it yet. But in the glass-is-half-full world of Eukariah, he counted his blessings. After all, it was just his shirt that had to come off. He could just about imagine seeing himself always getting picked for the team that had to traipse around the gym in their jock straps.
Timmy Blickman was the designated equipment handler. He didn’t meet the minimum health requirements needed to survive gym class. But state law said it was necessary for him to take the class and at least warm a bench. He was a scrawny one hundred and ten pounds of pallid skin and gristle. The glasses he wore were so thick, that if he took them off he could be classified as a new species of bat. And the assistance he needed in breathing came in the form of the two inhalers he wore around his neck. One was to use, the other was for backup, kind of like that extra chute for a skydiver. He used that puffer so much that if it sprayed candy into his mouth instead of medication he would’ve been a diabetic.
Coach “Mad Dog” Maddigan nodded over to Blickman, who stood up on his matchstick legs and trotted around the corner where the supplies were kept. Mad Dog liked to keep certain exercises a surprise. Activities like wrestling, rope climbing and gymnastics had to have cumbersome floor pads and heavy equipment moved and positioned before class. If it was a contest that could be sprung upon the class, especially if it was an extremely physical and aggressive game, than all the better. Those were always the best kind to keep as secret as possible, just for the shock affect. He derived some sort of twisted perverse pleasure from seeing the looks of fear on their young impressionable faces. Today’s exercise had angst permeating it like stink on a hog farm.
Everyone waited and listened as Blickman, out of sight but not out of hearing, knocked over equipment and slid pads. They could hear him grunting and panting, followed by a couple of quick hits on one of his inhalers. Everyone waited…some better than others.
While they waited, sides were chosen. Through the use of hand gestures, slightly shaken fists, middle finger nose scratching, certain looks, slight head movements and good-ol-boy camaraderie, it seemed that the same guys were always on the same teams, as if the school system were preparing them for the real world. The teams were always the same uneven groups. The lucky and popular against the unlucky and geeky; the strong and good looking versus the weak and homely; the haves pitted against the have-nots; the shirts against the skins.
Everyone waited. The haves were cool, calm and fully dressed. The have-nots were half naked, trembling and as scared as a kid in a dentist’s waiting room with a mouth full of cavities.
Finally Blickman came around the corner awkwardly pushing a wooden rack that rolled on minuscule wheels that somehow displayed the ability of independent thought. The rack was built with several rows capable of holding different sizes of balls. Today they weren’t basketballs; they weren’t volleyballs; they weren’t soccer balls. Nay, these balls were harbingers of hurt; precursors of pain; mechanisms for melee, these were dodge balls!
The shirts were grinning from ear to ear while they sized up the skins for body bags. Eukariah saw several, rather large Neanderthals, shooting quick glances in his direction and from time to time a thumb would thrust up. His heart did a swan dive into his stomach. Their looks didn’t say body bag, they said coffin! And Eukariah’s was going to be a medium slim.
Coach Mad Dog blew his whistle. He pointed shirts to one end and the skins to the other end.
The rules were simple: Keep your eyes peeled and your body limber. Other than that, just hope your parents signed up for the optional student insurance coverage.
The skins spread out like they were going to infect each other with a deadly virus. Meanwhile, the shirts huddled together for a last minute strategy meeting. Coach blew his whistle again and the shirts fanned out in a blitzkrieg line.
Eukariah’s plan A was to hide behind “Two Ton” Torkelson. At a little shy of three hundred pounds, he was a behemoth. But his plan failed on two points: 1) everyone had planned to hide behind Two Ton, so before the last faint echo of the whistle had rebounded off the walls, there was a conga line formed immediately in back of him. And 2) he was the first one taken out by the shirts. All five opposing balls hit him at the same time. The sounds made by the balls slapping against Torkelson’s bare skin was reminiscent of five slabs of rump roast being slammed on a butcher’s cutting block. It’s rather unnerving to see a person with that much bulk, covered with five large red polka dots, bawling his eyes out.
Eukariah went to plan B. He zigzagged back and forth, front to back, always moving, always watching. What at first seemed like a feeble attempt at survival appeared to be working quite well. On an average day they could fit two games in a one hour class and that’s including shower time. The shirts usually made quick work of the skins. But today’s match seemed a little off kilter somehow. There was no doubt that the shirts were going to be victorious once again, but it seemed to Eukariah that the shots he had dodged so far didn’t have the normal zing to them. Of course you couldn’t convince some of his teammates of this; the ones with the twelve inch round red marks on their chests, backs and faces; the ones that got plastered so hard those red welts showed every dimple that was on the ball that hit them. There were also the chicken-shits, who wanted to avoid the inevitable and just stuck out their foot or arm in front of a missile, intended for someone else, with the sole intention of getting knocked out early, with as little pain as possible, so they could sit in the bleachers and relax. And strangely enough, there were even a couple of shirts knocked out. These were the borderline picks, not quite good enough for the first few round draft picks, but still too good for the skins team. They knew their place in the hierarchy. They were chosen to be blockers and martyrs for the first round picks.
Play progressed until there were only six players remaining, four players on the shirts team and two on the skins.
It’s hard to believe, but as much fun as everyone made of his name, Eukariah Grafftenhoffer had it made compared to the other remaining skins squad member, Randy Pecker.
Randy realized that he was in a unique position to move up the popularity ladder, at least one rung and just for one day. Eukariah was half hunched over in front of Randy and off to his right. Randy caught the attention of one of the shirt players and grinned at him and tipped his head in Eukariah’s direction. Randy cocked his arm back with a ball in his hand and fired a shot that hit Eukariah in his lower left side.
He let out a howl of agony and started to rub the red spot. He turned his head and gave Randy a dirty look.
Randy shrugged and said he was aiming at someone on the other side that was in front of him and the ball slipped out of his hand.
This appeased Eukariah. It was certainly a plausible excuse. In a match with this much physical exertion, the sweat was rolling off both of them. But just to be on the safe side, he decided to switch to Randy’s other side.
While changing from right court to left, someone fired a rubber rocket at him. Eukariah jumped up and did the splits in midair. The ball whizzed past him just below his crotch and gave a loud sickening smack against the back wall. Eukariah spun around and caught it on the rebound. He stood there with the ball in his hands. He was calculating who would be the easiest to hit. From time to time, he would fake a throw to see in what direction they would run.
That’s when the taunting started.
“Youuuuuuu-ka-riiiiiiiii-aaaaaaaaa,” someone chanted, “or should I say, youuuuuu-cry-errrrrrrrrr?”
The fuse on Eukariah’s temper had been lit.
Someone else cupped himself with his hand and shook it yelling, “Hey! Eukan Grabbenmyhossen anytime!” This got a big laugh, even from some of his teammates.
The fuse burned shorter.
“Come on, Grassenhopper. You gonna throw that ball or are you gonna pretend it’s your sister and marry it?”
Ignition!
While the offending shirt player was taking his bows, Eukariah reared back and let fly a blistering shot that should have broken the sound barrier. But, unlike Randy’s fake toss, this one really did slide out of Eukariah’s hand a bit off skew and pummeled Coach “Mad Dog” Maddigan square in the side of the head. The impact bent his neck enough to make the other side of his head touch his shoulder. The redness was almost instantaneous and in a couple of hours that wounded ear would be swollen to the size of a small satellite dish.
The gym fell as quiet as an algebra class after a heavy lunch. Of course, there were still some giggles that couldn’t be stifled. That snickering was from people who will someday have to explain to their grandchildren why grandpa still has to go to detention every day.
Eukariah saw his chance to even the sides a little more. He grabbed a loose ball and hurled a bolt of energized elastic at the biggest player on the opposing team, who was staring in a frozen awestruck stupor at the coach.
“Hey! Lard ass!” Eukariah yelled. When the poster child for steroids turned toward Eukariah, the ball slammed into his chest. He staggered back a few step with a look on his face that maybe he had missed something.
One down, three to go. Game on!
Three balls came at him. He dropped flat and the first ball sailed over him. He jumped up and kicked his feet up behind him, as he went up a second ball went under him. When his feet touched back down, he turned sharply and stepped aside out of the way of the third ball.
He quickly picked up a rebound and was about to fire when he was knocked forward by a blindsided shot to the back of his head. He spun around and Randy gave him another “sorry” shrug. Eukariah did a one eighty on his heels just in time to deflect a ball with the one he had in his hands.
In warding off the ball, the one he held was knocked out of his hands and bounced away. Eukariah ran after it, hoping to slide right past it and scoop it up. When he was within several feet of it he began his slide. But then his gym shoe hit the sweat spot where he had laid on the floor dodging that last flurry of attempts on his life. He fell forward in a series of somersaults. After one quick roll he abruptly hopped to his feet but his momentum was still in charge and he slammed into the wall, back first. He cracked the back of his head against the wall hard enough to see stars and he had the wind knocked out if him. He dropped to the floor like a medicine ball just as a ball whirled over him where his groin used to be.
He saw a loose ball and went for it. He picked it up and, still a little disoriented, whipped his arm back for a side arm toss. Eukariah didn’t know it but he was too close to his teammate, and ended up ramming his knuckles into the nose of Randy Pecker.
Blood ran down Randy’s upper lip like a faucet had been turned on. He instinctively put his hands up to his nose to try and curb the bleeding.
When he hit Randy’s nose, Eukariah dropped the ball he was intending to throw, so he quickly bent over to pick it up. Just then, another ball, intended for Eukariah, smacked Randy in the middle of his face. Talk about your bad news-worse news scenarios. The bad news was, it finished that nasty nose reconstruction that Eukariah had started. The worse news was, that meant that Randy was now out and Eukariah was on his own. When Eukariah stood back up, he took a step back and slipped in Randy’s blood puddle. His right leg slid away from him while his left leg stayed firmly planted. This resulted in a groin pull of almost biblical proportions. But on the lucky side, he managed to dodge another shot.
It’s said that in situations of extreme stress, adrenaline can kick in and make a person do some amazing things. Such must have been the case with Eukariah. He didn’t have a need to lift a ’56 Cadillac or run into a burning building, he just needed to get through this single game of dodgeball. To get through this one game where he’s lasted longer than he’s ever lasted before. To get through this one game and show the shirts that the skins aren’t always losers. To get through this one game unscathed and relish in the opportunity to be a hero. And it seems that his brain was more than happy to help by cranking out pain killing adrenaline by the gallons. Eukariah didn’t feel a twinge of discomfort from his splits.
But often times, in these types of situations, the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Eukariah stood up and went to grab a loose ball that was nearby. Within two steps he had scooped up the ball and went to take a third step and the pulled muscle decided it wasn’t going to take any more abuse and folded up shop right from under him.
Eukariah was in the forward swing of his throw when he started to collapse. But he did manage to sling an off balance toss that flew out into the middle of nowhere.
Unfortunately, there was one person standing out in the middle of nowhere at the time…Coach “Mad Dog” Maddigan. And one can only imagine how “Mad Dog” felt when he was pelted with another ball on the same mangled ear. Again his head dipped to one side from the contact.
Apparently, Eukariah wanted the coach’s ear to swell enough to make it look like the coach had two heads.
This time everybody howled with laughter. They weren’t laughing at the coach and his misfortune. No, they were laughing at the incredible lack of luck possessed by Eukariah. It was hard to believe that anyone could be so misguidedly gifted as to nearly give himself a concussion, a pulled groin muscle that had to be painful beyond endurance, break a teammate’s nose and still have the tenacity to hit the teacher in the side of the head, not once, but twice. And he was still raring to go. It was indeed a sight to behold.
Everyone huddled together in the bleachers and pointed down to the gym floor. They talked and joked with each other about how funny it was and hashed over each other’s opinions about the possible implications and ramifications. Several of the shirts players were sitting together in the bleachers commenting to each other about how much of a klutz Eukariah was. They swapped quick rumors about some of his past exploits, like the third base coach that now has brain damage and the thousands who were unwittingly battered at the science fair. They came to the conclusion that no one was safe around Eukariah Grafftenhoffer. It was obvious that he was a public nuisance. Wherever he went catastrophe and mayhem followed. He was a walking disaster. Yep, they agreed, he was a WD.
That’s when one of them yelled out, “Way to go WD!”
“Yeah, WD, nice shot!” chimed in another.
That was all it took. It didn’t take long before both benches were cheering and chanting, “WD…WD…WD…WD”. Three quarters of the room didn’t even know what WD stood for, they just wanted to join in on the excitement of it all.
The dodgeball game was called on account of injuries. The coach apparently didn’t think his ear could withstand another thumping. Blickman wasn’t too happy, he had to clean up all the blood. Pecker wasn’t very excited either, but then, he only got what he deserved. Eukariah was ecstatic. He survived a dodgeball game against the Goliaths and he had, without a doubt, gained their respect. In the locker room he was getting slaps on the back with a heartfelt, ’you’re too much WD’ thrown in, or a ’you really proved yourself today, WD’, or ’WD you’re in a class of your own’.
From that day on no one made fun of the name Eukariah Grafftenhoffer. They respectfully called him WD. Eukariah assumed that WD stood for “World-class Dodgeballer“.
Through word of mouth, and friends of friends, the nickname WD stuck to Eukariah like gum in a kid’s hair. And it followed him for the rest of his life. But even though he didn’t know for sure what the initials stood for, he wasn’t at all upset or unhappy about it. He was glad he no longer had to put up with the incessant mockery of his name.
WD had convinced himself that it stood for “Wonderful Dude“.

Although Eukariah didn’t officially get his nickname until high school, I’m using it here for the sake of brevity and the chance to save a little wear and tear on my typing fingers.

The roll top desk disaster.

WD was six years old and needed a pencil sharpener. Unfortunately, his mom was in the backyard hanging clothes out on the line and talking with the neighbor lady. So he decided not to bother her and thought he would look for one himself in his parents roll top desk. The kind with a hundred drawers and a thousand cubbyholes with a million little secrets in each one. The kind of desk where inquisitive little fingers could keep busy finding neat things hidden deep within all the crooks and crannies. And little WD did just that.
He found a large bottle of Elmer’s glue. He and his mom made stuff with it, sometimes when the weather was bad, but mostly around birthdays and holidays. Nothing exciting about glue, so he set it aside.
Next he found a stapler. He was familiar with the stapler. This was another item him and mom used to make stuff. But he also got into trouble with the stapler once. It took 283 staples to securely seal shut every page of dad’s newspaper. But it wasn’t until he decided to staple the sleeping cat’s ear and the resulting commotion that drew attention to what he was playing with. He thought it would be best not to go for a repeat performance, so he set that aside also.
His excited fingers probed into another drawer and discovered a “real” ink pen, the kind that sucks up the ink into the barrel. He pulled up a little on the lever and a bead of ink began to ball up on the end, so he let go real quick. It was loaded and ready to go. It had potential. He put it back in the drawer and made a mental note of its location for future reference.
Next he pulled out a box of paper clips. No fun there.
Here was something interesting, a roll of postage stamps. He took them out of the drawer to get a closer look at the picture on them when they slipped out of his hand and unrolled down to the floor. He checked out the front and back. He remembered seeing his dad lick the back and then put them on some paper. Maybe there was some kind of candy on them that he couldn’t see? So he tore one off, popped it in his mouth, and chewed it up. It didn’t seem to have much of a taste. Maybe that’s why dad only licked it and when the candy was gone he would get rid it by sticking it on the paper. So he tore off another and licked the back then stuck it on the top of the desk. It sort of tasted okay. Maybe it was an acquired taste. Maybe it took more than one. So he took the end of the roll and began to run it across his tongue like a conveyer belt until his tongue went dry. Nope, they didn’t taste any better. Maybe the taste would improve when he got older. He picked them up and put them in a heap on top of the desk beside his cat napping in the sunshine streaming in through the window.
His fingers clawed their way into the deepest recess of the drawer where even the brightest light has never been able to penetrate. His fingers encircled something small and square and hard. He brought his arm back out and clutched in his hand was a lighter! Now young WD had been told time and time again to never, ever, play with matches or lighters. If he did he could start a fire and get burned very badly. So this find was definitely a no-no. So naturally, he flicked it a couple of times. He didn’t see what the big deal was all about. It made some sparks (that was pretty neat) but no fire. He flicked it some more, only faster. Sparks were flying like crazy. He wanted to see if he could make it look like a Fourth of July sparkler. He held it in one hand and ran the palm of his other hand across the tiny wheel like he was fanning a six-shooter. He could hear the little scratch of flint on steel and the sparks did indeed shoot out like a welder on an I-beam. In little WD’s mind the James Gang died a thousand times over. No lawman west of the Mississippi had a faster draw or a truer aim. He did this until his hand got sore. Mom must have lied to him. He put it back in the drawer.
He tried another drawer and found some pictures. They were black and white with wavy edges. There was a man and a woman in the first picture he looked at and they looked kind of familiar but he wasn’t really sure who they were. They were wearing funny clothes. The man had on a suit and tie and was standing, holding a hat in his hand. The lady was sitting in a chair just in front of him, holding a bunch of flowers and wearing a white dress with a lot of beads on it. They didn’t look too happy to be there, neither one had any expression on their face. There were other pictures of them; they were holding a baby outside by an old car; standing on a beach in really funny swimsuits; a little kid on a wooden rocking horse with a Christmas tree in the background. WD began licking stamps and putting them on all the faces. When that job was complete, he put them back in the drawer.
The next find was a small notepad. Useless. He put it back.
Then suddenly there it was, the mother of all neat stuff, tucked away under some envelopes, a magnifying glass! WD was on cloud nine. A magnifying glass. How stupendous was that?
First he checked out the pictures on the stamps again. The pictures were made out of little dots, neat. He would look with the glass, then without, with the glass, then without. Then he zoomed in on one of the pictures of the young people he didn’t know. Next he checked out the hair on the resting cat. The cat’s hair looked as thick as ropes. He started to rub the fur back and forth as he peered wide-eyed through the lens. The cat took this as a sign of affection and began to purr contently, flipping the tip of his tail up and down on the desk.
Then he decided to give a close inspection to a scratch he got on his arm the week before. With the way WD had carried on when it happened one would’ve thought he’d lost his arm. As he checked it out the glass hovered from face to arm, then arm to face, then back again, in focus, then out of focus, jockeying for that prime viewing spot. He wasn’t quite satisfied with any of the results. Perhaps he needed more light?
He put his arm in the sunlight shining on the desk. The glass floated into a viewing position just above the injury, then a minor focusing adjustment, then…voila…success! Yep, just as he suspected, that slash should’ve had stitches. He studied every inch of the gaping laceration (it was pretty much healed already) with the intensity of a doctor doing brain surgery.
While he held the magnifying glass, motionless, over his fascinating disfigurement, he moved his head to look at it from a different angle. As his head cleared the glass, the sunlight shot through the lens and a pinpoint of light hit directly on the wound. It wasn’t five seconds before WD felt the burn. Jeez whiz! Was there no end to the marvels of this invention?!
Of course, he had to see what it could do to a plastic army guy. He was off like a shot, upstairs to his bedroom, to enlist the aid of an enemy volunteer for a dangerous mission.
The scenario was simple enough; the good guys (led by the military’s bravest general, WD) has invented the most powerful weapon in the world (the magnifying glass) and was using it on the bad guy (the plastic army man) to thwart them from accomplishing their goal of taking over the world.
The ultimate weapon was proving to be painstakingly slow in its mission to eradicate evil and WD’s arm was getting tired of holding it. So he devised a way to prop it up. Now he could move the bad guy around so he could feel the full force of the world’s deadliest weapon.
The war was going dandy. The enemy’s face was gone, his helmet sat securely on his shoulders, his weapon snaked through his hands like cooked spaghetti and his arms were stretched almost to the breaking point with his hands finally resting just above his ankles. WD had now trained the weapon on the poor soldier’s knees, with the hope of bending him into final submissive defeat.
The sun shone through the lens, where it was focused to a pinpoint beam of unrelenting power. Then…PLOOP! Victory!
Oh no! Some more enemy are advancing! They’re still trying to take over the world! They haven’t heard about what happened to their comrade at the hands of the bravest general in the US army, controlling the greatest weapon known to man! But they’ll find out about it soon enough and they’ll learn not to mess with us! Then WD was off like a saber jet, upstairs to get another enemy guy, leaving the death ray adjusted to optimal strength.
The cat was still lying contentedly in the sunshine with the tip of his tail flipping back and forth, brushing the stamps and moving them here and there. The sun shone through the magnifying glass, but with no plastic toy to block its path, it sent its pinpoint ray onto the pile of half licked, crumpled stamps.
WD came back into the room just as the stamps ignited. The cat’s tail made a sweep over the flames and joined the inferno. A look of horror etched itself on WD’s face as he ran across the room toward the melee. The cat had somehow managed a look of horror on his face also as he jumped off the desk, his tail burning like an Olympic torch. The cat began howling like a banshee and made a beeline for under the couch.
WD reached the desk just as the cat was making his exit (man did that stink). The stamps were now completely engulfed in flames. But what could he use to put out the fire? The ink pen, of course! He yanked the drawer open. Not paying attention to what he was doing, he jerked the drawer out so hard, it shook the desk enough to knock over the magnifying glass on its side, with its beam of destruction now aimed at a pile of bills and letters that were waiting to be paid and answered.
With pen in hand, WD (now the world’s bravest fire fighter) pulled back on the lever and shot a stream of ink across the desk towards the fire of the century. His parents will shower him with words of praise and thanks when they find out how he single-handedly saved the house from burning to the ground. But alas, the ink ran out before the flames did. What could he use next?
The glue! He grabbed the big bottle of Elmer’s glue and, with the strength of the world’s strongest man, he squeezed with all his might. The glue oozed out like a fine ribbon of toothpaste. But, like the ink, it wasn’t enough to finish the job either. As a matter of fact, it was starting to cook and put a bunch of black floating things in the air. Those were cool to watch but he had more pressing matters to attend to.
Suddenly, the smoking smoldering mail burst into flames! WD was in utter shock! Mortified! His vision of being heralded a hero was going up in…well, flames. His only hope of salvation now was to grab the drinking glass in the bathroom and fill it with toilet water. But WD had a bad experience with the toilet, other than the many times he fell in during the arduous period of potty-training. This particular episode had to do with the time when he was the world’s greatest sea captain, and his fleet of Lincoln log ships got trapped in the world’s strongest whirlpool. After the plumber, the new drainpipe, the new toilet, the yelling and the spanking, he was told to never…ever play in the toilet again. But this wasn’t really playing? Was it? Just to be safe, he decided to try and beat the fire out with the magnifying glass itself.
Just as WD was about to start pounding, the cat found no satisfaction or comfort under the couch and dashed out from underneath it and headed straight for the kitchen, leaving a stream of smoke trailing behind. But the cat was nice enough to leave a little something festering beneath the sofa.
WD heard a shriek from the kitchen and spun on his heels in the direction of the sound. His mom rounded the corner into the living room, almost on a run, and stopped dead in her tracks from shock. Two small piles of papers were burning on the desk and smoke was rolling out from under the sofa like a heavy fog. And there stood WD with the world’s ultimate weapon in his hand and a, I-don’t-know-how-this-started look on his face.
Compared to what happened to him for this little escapade, the toilet incident was like a trip to the circus.

Meeting the future Mrs. Grafftenhoffer.

WD had a date.
She was a stunning girl. Well, stunning by WD’s standards, anyway, she had a pulse. And she was perfect, since no girl in her right mind would touch him with a ten foot pole, given his reputation around school.
As a matter of fact, when WD went to his date’s house, to pick her up, her father answered the door. When he seen WD standing there a look of horror splashed across his face, like he was blindsided with a bucket of ice water, and his left hand instinctively went to the small of his back. He recognized WD from the science fair.
He didn’t invite him in. His house was underinsured.
As a loving parent, this was one of those hard decision moments. By letting his daughter go with this boy, he was putting her life in jeopardy, she may not survive, but on the other hand, given her looks, this may be the only date she will ever have, and he loved his daughter very much and wanted to see her happy. And she was happy, ecstatic even, looking forward to this day, singing (as best as she could anyway) the whole time she was getting ready. So, against his better judgment, he decided to let her go with WD.
He never took his eyes off WD as he called upstairs to his daughter. “Sweetie? Your date’s here.”
He almost lost his nerve when he said the word ’date’; his vocal cords suddenly shriveled up and he thought he was going to wretch. But he managed to choke the word out.
She came bounding down the stairs with an excited grin plastered on her face. She gave her father a quick peck on the cheek as she passed him and ran out of the door, waving goodbye. The smile never left her face.
That’s how her father wanted to remember her as he closed the door. Then he wondered how much it would cost to have an EMS crew follow her around for the day; they didn’t have to use their siren or lights, unless they had to of course; but just follow behind with a gurney and some emergency medical supplies; and maybe an airlift helicopter with a trauma surgeon and brain surgeon on standby. This date would bother him for the rest of the day.
Her name was California Hightower. A lovely girl of seventeen, five feet five inches tall and full of huggable energy, boundless in its exuberance and uncontrollably infectious. Everyone that looked at her had their attention drawn to her face. The natural strawberry blond hair, that framed her countenance, had been dyed a vibrant florescent glow-in-the-dark lime green, which highlighted her stunning eyes, one gray one brown, and those were magnified through glasses so dense that if scientists put them together they could use them to discover new planets. Her short beak nose was drawn, ever so slightly, to the right as a result of the four surgeries for her (now repaired) cleft palate. But those procedures also produced her cute as a bug’s ear one cheek dimple, that was currently being covered up by a dental retainer, with a wire as thick as chain link fencing, to correct an overbite that would make a horse jealous. She and WD had, roughly, the same chest measurements and she wore a top that showed off her flat stomach and appendectomy scar. She had on a pair of yellow shorts that went down to mid-thigh and miss matching knee high socks. And thanks to the extra three inches on the sole of her left shoe, her knees actually almost lined up.
WD, being the consummate gentleman, hurried to get in front of her, so he could open the door for her as she stepped up to the front passenger side door. He reached around her and quickly opened the door, ramming the bottom of the door into her shin. She grimaced a bit but didn’t say anything and got into the car. And, in his hurry to get this date on the road, he shut the door a tad too quickly and shoved the armrest into her hip before she was fully seated.
He went around the front of the car and slipped off the edge of the curb and fell in front of the car. He jumped up and waved his hands and said he was alright. Then he finished getting around the car and into the driver’s seat. He started the car, popped it into gear and off they went.
“Where we going?” Cali asked. WD kept it a secret up to this point.
“Wispy Pines Amusement Park,” WD replied, looking at her to see the reaction on her face.
Her face lit up. “Cool,” Cali said. “I heard they have a roller coaster there that makes half of the riders throw up, a quarter pee themselves and the last quarter do both. Are you up for it WD?”
“I am if you are,” WD said. “After all, WD does stand for Wildly Daring.”
Cali gave him a curious look and then started to say, “That’s not what…” then stopped.
WD looked at her with a smile on his face. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she replied, “I was just thinking out loud.”
“Oh, okay,” he said.
Silence filled the car for the next couple of miles. Then he looked at Cali. “I don’t think your dad likes me very much,” he said to her with a tinge of bewilderment in his voice.
“My dad doesn’t like anybody,” Cali replied, trying to reassure him. “Especially boys taking me out.” She didn’t know this for a fact since this was the first date she had ever been on.
WD was still looking at her instead of the road. “Wow, that’s got to be awkward. You ever say anything to him?” WD asked. “Your dad, I mean.”
“Squirrel,” Cali said.
“Squirrel?” WD repeated. “Why do you call your dad…”
“Squirrel!” Cali repeated louder as she pointed to the windshield.
“Squirrel?” WD said as he turned his head to look forward.
THUMP! THUMP!
“Never mind,” Cali said dryly, as she looked in the side mirror on her door to get a glimpse of the small brown furry pile of road kill swiftly fading behind them.
“Crap, sorry about that,” WD said, a bit embarrassed. “Do you think I should turn around and go back?”
Cali looked at him. “No, I’m pretty sure he’s buzzard bait. Might as well keep going. Besides, what were you going to do for him? Give him mouth to mouth and put him in a body cast?”
The rest of the ride to Wispy Pines was uneventful but filled with chit-chat and a verbal banter that pleased WD to no end. This was definitely a girl he could see himself spending a lot of time with.
By the time they arrived at the park, the parking lot was packed. Since it was a warm sunny summer day, it seemed the entire population of the northern hemisphere had the same idea. There were several empty spaces available in the next county that WD could’ve parked in but he didn’t want his date to get worn out before they even made it to the ticket gate. So he cruised up and down the rows until he found one that was, at least, in the same zip code.
WD pulled up to the space. The cars parked on either side had over-lapped the white space lines, curtailing the amount of space to park in. WD gave it a calculating glance. Then he began to slowly inch forward. He needed to pull in as straight as he could. This was achieved by see-sawing back and forth until the angle was perfect.
“You can’t fit in that space,” Cali said point blank.
“Sure I can,” WD replied, his driving ability impugned.
“No you can’t,” she said again.
The gauntlet had been thrown. “Bet you I can.”
“What do you want to bet?”
“If I can get into that space without touching the car on either side then you have to go on the Tunnel of Love ride with me.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll park in one of those spaces further out and I’ll carry you on my back to the ticket office and back when we leave.”
“You’re on!” she said, ready to ride this boy like a quarter horse in the Kentucky Derby.
WD was slow and methodical. Sweat popped out on his forehead. He could feel his damp fingers slither across the surface of the steering wheel, jockeying it this way and that. There wasn’t the slightest margin for error. WD wondered if a golf cart was parked in this space last.
But he worked at it until finally, “Like a glove,” he proclaimed with that perfect pinch of superiority seasoning in his voice. The car sat, door handle to door handle, between the cars on each side, with only inches separating them. He looked at Cali. “So, do you want to head to the Tunnel of Love first? Or do you have to work yourself up to it?” When he said the word ’love’, he drew it out like it had about nine extra O’s in it. And there was no disguising the excited smile on his face.
“Let’s go on the popular rides first. They’ll have the longest lines,” Cali said, trying to cool his jets. But, inside, she was just as anxious to go on that ride too.
They were looking forward to going on all the rides, but first they had to figure out how to get out of the car. The doors were now unusable. WD looked out of his window and then at Cali.
“We could probably climb out the windows to the top and then slide off the back,” WD suggested.
“Or,” Cali said coolly, “We could just open the hatchback and climb out the back.”
“Oh yeah,” WD said flushing a bit at his forgetfulness.
After they got out, they walked along the parking lot holding hands. WD was in heaven.
Cali looked at him, “It’s too bad you made it into that parking space. I was looking forward to jumping on you.” Her cheeks reddened when she realized what she had said. It was a miracle WD didn’t snap his neck with how fast he whipped his head around to look at her, a gleam of happy things to come in his eyes. “I mean on your back. I was looking forward to jumping on your back. I was hoping to ride you like a stallion.” Again she blushed. “Horse ride. I was looking forward to that horsy-back ride to the front gate. That’s all, nothing more.”
“We can still do that,” WD offered. “It wouldn’t bother me a bit.”
“That’s okay,” she replied, “we’re almost there.”
When they arrived at the front of the park to get their tickets, there was a girl in a summery park ranger outfit, carrying a camera. With her was a park mascot, Barney Beaver. The ranger was taking photos of excited happy park visitors with Barney before they entered the grounds. (In two hours, those happy visitors could go to any photo kiosk and, for a nominal fee, obtain a lasting souvenir of their fun filled day at the Wispy Pines Amusement Park.) They caught WD and Cali as they walked up to get in line to purchase their tickets.
The park ranger gave them her sales pitch, while Barney continued to high five nearby youngsters and pose for visitors who brought their own cameras.
WD and Cali conferred for a moment. They decided a picture with Barney would be the perfect memento of their first date. They told the ranger they would love to get their picture taken with Barney.
The ranger called Barney back over. Barney faced the ranger with Cali on his left and WD on his right. The ranger looked through her camera lens and motioned for WD and Cali to get closer to Barney. She also suggested that they strike some type of pose. Cali put her left hand on Barney’s lower chest and her right arm around his neck as she leaned into him and acted as if she were kissing his cheek while she put her left leg in a flirtatious bend. WD tried to mimic Cali‘s pose. He did a quarter turn toward Barney with his right arm on Barney’s upper arm and his left arm out of sight behind him. But he did turn his head toward Barney and acted like he was going to kiss his cheek also. Barney Beaver looked straight ahead toward the camera with his big buck teeth grin and his arms around both of their waists. Everyone was ready for the shot of a lifetime.
A second before the shutter button was pushed, WD decided to put his left arm around Barney’s neck also, on top of Cali’s. WD’s watch band scraped Cali’s arm. The sudden shot of pain made Cali automatically jerk her arm back while closing her hand in a fist of agony. When she closed her fist she, inadvertently, grabbed a clump of fur from Barney’s head piece. Then she pulled her arm back and made his head spin ninety degrees. It looked like he was staring right at WD. Cali lost her balance and began to fall down to the left in front of Barney, while pulling him down with her.
The shutter clicked.
WD, Cali and Barney dropped to the ground in a heap.
The ranger rushed over to help Cali back to her feet. WD got up on his own and stepped up to help Barney. WD didn’t notice that he had planted his foot on Barney’s big flat tail. As WD was pulling on Barney’s furry arm, trying to straighten him up, he was bending the poor man’s spine backward. Costume characters, according to company guidelines, weren’t allowed to make a sound, but Barney Beaver howled bloody murder and cursed like a longshoreman with Tourette.
Cali looked at the nasty scratch on her arm. A small trough in her skin had begun to fill with blood. She and the ranger looked over when Barney began to wail. The ranger told WD to move his foot and then she turned to help him with the beaver. Once on his feet, it sounded as if Barney Beaver was whimpering.
In two hours, WD and Cali will be able to go to any photo kiosk and, for a nominal fee, can pick up their lasting souvenir; a photo showing WD about to give Barney Beaver an uppercut while kissing him full on the mouth; Cali appears to be sniffing Barney Beaver’s armpit as she fondles his crotch; and Barney Beaver seems to be having fun with his furry paws on both of their butts. It’s a no-brainer, they’ll probably each get their own 8 X 10 color glossy.
As soon as they got into the park WD and Cali went to the infirmary to get her arm fixed up, Barney Beaver went home with a sprained back and Whimsy Woodchuck went out front with the camera ranger.
WD didn’t go into the first aid station with Cali. He waited outside and rested on a bench just outside the door. The bench sat in the shade and a refreshing breeze kept him cool and comfortable. Next to the bench was a drinking fountain.
The park infirmary was a very popular place. It seemed twice as many went in as what came out. WD stood up and got a long cool drink of water. A lot of kids, flushed and crying, were being drug along by parents who looked like they would be having more fun at a tax audit. Infants were carried, some sleeping, some wailing like air raid sirens. WD got up and took another long thirst quenching drink. He didn’t know if people were treated on a first come first served basis or if they took care of them by age, youngest and oldest first, or by severity of injury. For all WD knew, they could’ve called an ambulance for Cali and slipped her out of a back door and sent her to the hospital for stitches. Even though, to WD, her scrape didn’t look that bad. He got up and took another big helping from the drinking fountain. It was nice and relaxing sitting in the shade on the bench. Others took advantage of the respite and joined him on the seat. WD found out, from various conversations, what rides had the longest lines, which ones were air-conditioned, which ones had turnstile lines in the shade, good places to eat, best shows, and easiest arcade games. He got up and took a two hump camel filling turn at the water fountain. He looked at his watch, forty-five minutes. He dozed off. When he woke up he caught people taking pictures of him. He wiped off a string of drool running down his chin. He looked at the front of his shirt and noticed a wet stream ran all the way down to his belly. A park map in a display case was nearby and WD got up to check it out. He needed to find the closest restroom and to stay awake. Cali hadn’t come out yet. An hour and a half. He didn’t know if he could risk leaving to go to the restroom. He almost got another drink, since he was already up, but he had drunk enough water to bloat him to the point of being miserable; every time he moved his tonsils yelled “Surf’s up!”
He was just about to sit down when Cali came out. Her arm had a white gauze wrapping around it. The first thing she did was go to the drinking fountain.
WD winced.
She finished drinking and said, “They’re really nice in there. They put some cream on it and wrapped it up. They told me to be careful with it for a while, you know, try not to get it wet, that sort of stuff. What’ve you been doing?”
“Nothing, waiting on you, talking to people, drinking water.”
“I can tell. You dribbled some down the front of your shirt.”
He started to say, “Oh, that’s not…” Then thought it was better to let her think what she wanted.
“Let’s go to that roller coaster, the Heart Stopper!” Cali blurted out brimming with excitement.
“Okay by me.” WD said.
Being the newest, baddest, roller coaster in the park, the line was guaranteed to be the longest. And it didn’t disappoint. The cattle herding railings that turned at each end, so the line would constantly shuffle onward, were marked at intervals with how much longer it would be before you got your chance to die. When WD and Cali got in line, the sign read: From This Point You Will Be Too Old To Ride It Anyway! When they felt the ground shake, and heard the lucky riders screaming their heads off, every time the coaster came zipping by with its threatening swoosh of flying metal, they decided the wait would be worth it.
The line moved continuously, shuffling, innocently eavesdropping on the conversations of the death wish hopefuls beside them on either railing. WD and Cali had progressed about halfway. Their feet hurt, they were getting hungry, they were hot, their idle talk had worn itself threadbare, a bored irritability crept in and, for WD at least, the first stirrings of bladder distress.
And for two other riders, the wait had been long enough.
They started from the nether region, line jumpers, slipping between the horizontal metal bars; advancing one row at a time; pressing inward. They were in their early twenties, tattooed brutes, intimidating the weaker waiters. They worked their way up until they reached WD and Cali. They slipped in between them, separating them.
“Excuse me,” WD said to the guy closest to him, “she’s my date.” And he gave his head a flick in Cali’s direction.
She was looking at them.
“Is that so,” the man responded, as more of a factual recognition than a question, as he nudged his friend.
They looked at Cali.
“Is he your date?” The other one asked Cali with a sarcastic air.
“Yes he is,” she answered defiantly.
“Well, it’s obvious you two deserve each other,” the first one said and both of the bullies began to laugh.
The strangers around them began to take notice and watched the proceedings with great interest, thankful for the entertaining break in the monotony. When they heard the last comment, some of them chuckled.
WD decided to go around the line jumpers and get together with Cali. WD started to work his way past them. He squeezed against the railing with his back turned away from them.
“Where do you think you’re going, jerk?” The first man demanded of WD as he gave him a shove on the back.
Because of the railing, WD bent forward from the waist into the row of riders next to them. A man and woman were turned toward them, watching what was going on. WD’s face landed squarely on the woman’s chest, his nose buried in her cleavage.
“Hey!” the man with her shouted. And he grabbed the back of WD’s shirt and whipped him back up and out of his girlfriend’s bra.
WD’s body snapped back so quickly he slammed against the man who shoved him. The back of WD’s head smacked the bully’s nose, breaking it. Blood gushed and his hands instinctively went to his nose.
The second man saw what happened and balled up his fist. He reared his arm back for a swing at WD but Cali braced herself, by holding each guard rail, and kicked the second man in the small of his back. He fell forward and the crook of his arm was caught by the top railing. This turned him enough to make his face kiss the lower railing, breaking out his two front teeth. To keep from getting hit by the falling man, WD went backward, losing his balance, and landing against the people behind him, causing a ten person domino effect.
Bleeding profusely, the two line jumpers hurried back the way they came. Cheers went up all around. If they had waited a few seconds Cali could’ve given them directions to the first aid station.
While all this went on the line was still moving. There was a momentous surge of movement as the line tightened back up. When the first of the observers reached the front, they told the park workers about the incident. They couldn’t tell who was involved, but they heard there was puddles of blood that needed to be cleaned up somewhere in the line.
By the time WD and Cali made it to the head of the line, he knew he was in trouble. His stomach was bloated and churning from all the water he had drank and his bladder was distended and so full it could’ve hosted a regatta. But after two hours of waiting, they couldn’t leave the line now. They were going to make the second set of cars.
Each set of cars was comprised of seven separate compartments holding two riders each. WD and Cali would be the fifth couple in line after the next group of riders. The group of fourteen were let onto the loading platform and each pair scrambled to where they wanted to sit.
The next car pulled into the depot and stopped at an unloading platform first; then the empty cars came forward and stopped. The next set of riders climbed into their coffins of choice, the retaining bars came down, garbled instructions from a loud speaker were ignored and off they went.
The group that WD and Cali were in were let onto the loading platform. The first two cars and last two cars were taken right away. Cali ran to the middle car area, the number four slot. WD followed. They jittered nervously.
Cali’s was from excitement and anticipation. The thought in the back of every roller coaster rider’s mind is the possibility of the car jumping off the track or the rider being thrown from the car. Both scenarios added that little extra punch to the fun.
But WD’s was from restroom urgency. He began a minuscule dance, tightening his abdominal muscles, sucking in his gut in the hope of containing the flow, shifting his body weight back and forth from one foot to the other, the foot with no weight upon it hovered ever so slightly above the cement platform and the toes patted a nervous drum roll, anxiety etched his face.
“You nervous too?” Cali asked. She was also doing a discreet dance. So was everyone else on the platform if they had enough guts to admit it.
“Yeah, a little,” WD said. His need to pee had overridden his fear. “Look Cali, I hate to say this but I don’t…”
That was as far as he got before Cali interrupted him.
“You’re not backing out now! Not after waiting two hours! You’re getting on that ride with me and we’re going to have a blast! Do you hear me, WD? Just tell yourself it’s only a ride, it’s perfectly safe and just relax.”
The empty car pulled up and stopped in front of them, the security bar was standing straight up. Cali hopped in without a moment’s hesitation. Then she turned her head toward WD and glared at him.
“I guess I have no choice,” WD said with a dread in his voice. He thought maybe once he sits down the pressure will subside enough to get him through the ride.
He got in the car beside Cali. The retaining bar came down and locked into place, right against his bladder. Well, so much for relieving some of the strain. The butterflies in his stomach had turned to pterodactyls.
The train of cars lurched forward out of the depot and started up the first major hill; the hill that would give it the main gravitational force to make it through the rest of the course.
Up it went. Chink…chink…chink…chink…
WD’s stomach was churning, bubbling, roiling. The higher the car went, the more ashen his face became.
Chink…chink…chink…chink…
Cali already had both of her arms held straight above her head. An excited jittery smile was frozen on her face. Sunlight glinted off her retainer. She thought of this ride, this moment, all the way to the park. She decided long ago, she was going to go the entire course without touching the safety bar.
Chink…chink…chink…chink…
The chain links, pulling up the train, clicked off, like the second hand of a clock in an execution chamber, constant, unrelenting, perfectly measured and even, a metronome to the inevitable. The first car was just reaching the summit.
Chink…chink…chink…chink…
It eased over the brink. The second car was right behind.
Chink…chink…chink…chink…
The second car went over. The third had reached the apex.
Cali looked over at WD to see if he was as excited as she was. What she saw frightened her more than the ride ever could. WD had a grimace riveted on his white as a death shroud face; his brows were drawn together as if he were trying to figure out what he was going to do about a perplexing situation; his mouth was clamped shut to the point no lip, top or bottom, was visible; he gripped the bar so tight, it seemed his bones would rip through the skin covering his knuckles.
Chink…chink…chink…chink…
Their car reached the top. Being the middle car, after they went over, the majority of weight would be over and facing down, pulling the rest of the train over with it. Gravity will suck them to sixty miles per hour in four seconds.
The car went over and WD was looking straight down an eight story drop.
’Welcome to hell,’ he thought to himself. And they were gone.
By “they”, I mean, the train, their car, WD’s stomach contents and his bladder control. Most of the water WD drank, while sitting outside the first aid station, came out as a yellowish creamy fluid with breakfast bits added for texture and flavor. (You know the old saying: “Presentation is everything.”) It smeared across both of his cheeks and sprayed the riders in the three cars behind them. He turned his head toward Cali and the spew coming from his nose flipped and fluttered, like plastic streamers on a little girl’s bicycle handle bar.
Cali had a horrified expression on her face, a mixture of fear and revulsion. Her body was half turned in her seat, pressing as tightly as she could into the corner, trying to keep from being hit with liquid shrapnel.
By the time they hit the first sharp turn, the worst was over. The car whipped to the left and WD’s head flipped to the right, sending out a light spray of afterglow to the people walking along the causeway below. Then a sudden jerk to the right and WD’s head went left and Cali was the lucky recipient.
This exciting ride lasted one minute and forty-five seconds for WD and Cali. An eternity, if you ask the people in the cars behind them.
The train pulled into the unloading section. The happy riders in the first three cars got out screaming and laughing about how great the ride was. WD got out soaked and embarrassed. Cali got out wet and angry. The occupants of the last three cars disembarked, wiping their faces with their shirt hems or sleeves, depending upon their sex, scowls of disgust on every one of their faces.
A ride attendant started at car number one and walked up the line checking each car. When he got to the fourth car he yelled: “Mop in four! And five! And six! And seven! Jesus, what a mess!”
One of the nice things the park offers for the riders of this roller coaster, for a nominal fee of course, is a souvenir photo of the expressions on their faces as they drop down that first big hill. For WD and Cali, the photo will show WD doing an excellent rendition of an open fire hydrant, while Cali is doing a realistic imitation of the next victim in a slasher movie. The next three pictures of the cars behind them displayed the occupants shouting happily in the rain.
All of the angry riders that needed to clean up (Cali included) headed to the nearest restroom. WD hung back and then went to the next restroom. The front of his shirt was soaked and his pants were dripping, front and back, knees to waist.
When WD entered the restroom, it was busy. Some of the occupants took notice of his pants and then continued on with what they were doing. WD decided to use one of the open stalls and sit for a minute or two, to let the crowd dissipate a bit, and to give himself a chance to think and figure out how to get his clothes dry.
He went into the last stall and locked the door behind him. He dropped his trousers and underwear and sat on the toilet. As he sat, he gently fanned and blew on his britches. People came and went in a steady flow. Then he was hit with the urge to go number two. So he commenced to working at it.
The restroom patrons were treated to the sounds of someone in the last stall straining such hard grunts, it was quite possible he was in there giving birth. And in a way he was. These guttural rumblings were usually followed by a soft splash or a rousing chorus of a cappella butt music.
WD finally finished his business and began to wipe. He could hear the conversations of the others. They were talking about “some doofus”, on the Heart Stopper coaster, throwing up on hundreds of people. WD was stunned! What were the odds? Two people, on the same day, vomiting on the same ride? It had to be another person, because he had only hit seven, eight counting himself, and maybe a few more unknowing pedestrians, but that was it. The person they were talking about somehow managed to hit hundreds! Wow, WD could bet that guy was embarrassed!
The whole time WD was listening to the people talking, he was wiping and wiping and wiping, lost in his thoughts, daydreaming and wiping and wiping. By the time he was done, the toilet bowl was home to half a roll of toilet paper, as well as his own personal contributions.
That’s when he came up with a great idea.
He waited until there was no more talking. There were still others using the stall facilities but that was okay. WD pulled up his clothes and pushed down the flush handle. Then he left the stall quickly and went to one of the sinks. He had to hurry.
He took handfuls of water and splashed his hair, face and clothes, as fast as he could. He made sure he also got the bottom of his pant legs and his back.
As WD was finishing up his sprucing, the toilet he had used, and clogged, began to cascade over the rim and onto the floor. He left without noticing the impending flood he had caused. As he walked out the door, others were walking in. They gave WD an odd glace but didn’t make any comments. WD went to join Cali.
When she seen WD she was shocked. “What did you do? Fall in?” she asked.
“No. I knew I’d never get dry. So I decided to get completely wet and people would think I just got off the log ride. Pretty clever, don’t you think?” WD was proud of himself.
“Not bad, WD. And since you’re already wet, we might as well go on that ride next.”
“Okay. But I’m starting to get a little hungry. How about you?”
“After that last ride, I don’t know if I’m quite ready to eat just yet. But I am getting a bit hungry. Maybe after the log ride. But no roller coasters after lunch! I don’t want to see what recycled chili cheese fries look like!”
“Me neither,” WD replied. Then they headed for the log ride.
The log ride line wasn’t nearly as long as the coaster line. It didn’t take them long to get to the front. They sat in the front of the log. As it snapped and jerked through its course, water splashed them. When they came to the final hill, they both put their hands in the air as the log zipped down the flume. Air jets shot a stream of water straight up on each side of them. The log car hit the water at the bottom and a large wave rushed over the bow and soaked them. WD couldn’t have been happier for three reasons: Cali in a wet shirt, a reason why he was wet, and finally, (for a nominal fee) a souvenir photo. This photo showed their hands held triumphantly above a tidal wave.
They decided to pass on the picture and get something to eat instead.
There was a restaurant, not too far down the concourse, that had regular food and outside seating. So they could eat while they dried out. It was cafeteria style dining. They each got a tray and walked along an assembly line of food.
WD opted for fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans and a large lemonade with lots of ice. Cali got fried chicken, mac-n-cheese, a salad with ranch dressing and a small diet cola.
When they reached the cash register, WD pulled out his wallet and extracted twenty dollars. Cali waited behind him while he paid. When he was finished paying, he put his wallet back in his pocket and picked up his tray of food. Cali did the same. She turned to the left and started to take a step. WD turned to the right. Their trays collided.
Cali’s was knocked out of her hands. WD’s tipped down and everything slid off. His drink with the extra ice splattered across the floor in front of Cali. Her foot came down on a chunk of ice and went out from under her. She fell to one knee, her right hand went down to break her fall and landed on WD’s mashed potatoes. The hand slid forward and her face hit the floor. Her retainer saved her dental work.
She laid still for a long moment, face to the floor, mortified. The front of her was going to be covered in food and gunk. WD felt responsible and sorry for her. He knelt down beside her to help her up. She quietly, but sternly, asked him to please stay away from her for a couple of minutes. He got up and stepped back. His heart was broke and his feelings shattered. At that moment he felt so small he could’ve cried. A couple of workers helped her up and led her to the back so she could clean up in the employee’s restroom.
WD stepped off to the side while workers cleaned up the mess. Strangers walked by, some looked him up and down, some shook their heads in judgment, some grinned, but most only acted like he was invisible. And he wished he were. But this sort of thing, probably not to this scale though, must happen with a certain regularity, because the employees had the mess gone and back to normal in only a few minutes.
Cali returned from the back. She was now wearing a Whimsy Woodchuck T-shirt and walked with a slight limp. She walked to WD. He braced himself for the worst. She was certainly going to ask him to take her home.
“I’m alright,” she said with a soft calm in her voice, “my knee’s just a little sore. I’m sorry I pushed you away earlier. I was just hurt and embarrassed.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” WD responded quickly, “I should be the one apologizing. It was all my fault and I am so, so, sorry.”
She touched his arm and said, “That’s okay, WD, I should’ve expected it. We won’t let it ruin our date. Let’s get back in line and get something to eat.”
WD was relieved. She took it very well. He decided to try extra hard to make sure nothing else went wrong. But, as we all know, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
“By the way,” WD said with a grin, “I like your shirt.”
“Thanks,” Cali replied, “the guy washing dishes went and got it for me. Pretty cute, don’t you think?”
A pang of jealousy shot through him. “Yeah,” he said without elaborating.
They went back through the line and refilled a tray each. When they got to the register, Cali picked her’s up right away and moved to a safe distance from WD. The others in line moved their trays forward, filling the gap made by Cali, so the trays on the ledge were butted together end to end.
The attendant working the register said there was no charge because of the accident. WD thanked her and went to put his wallet back in his pocket when a little boy, about seven trays back, gave a sudden push and all the trays slid forward, pushing WD’s off the end and onto the floor.
The cleanup crew came out. WD went back to the end of the line. As he passed Cali, she said she was going to find a seat outside. WD nodded okay.
The third time at the register, as the worker was telling him there was still no charge, a pesky fly was about to land on his chicken. He made a quick sweep with his arm over his food to shoo it away. But it wasn’t high enough to clear the top of his soda cup. WD slapped it, knocking it over, soaking his food and splashing the register attendant. The worker stepped back for a second, daubing at herself with napkins. She looked at her shirt front, then at WD, then at her front, then at WD.
“Tell you what,” she said exasperated, “when you go back through the line, don’t stop at the register. When you have what you want. Just get out of line and keep going. I don’t care what you get. Just get it and go. Okay?”
“Got it,” WD replied, his feelings a tad hurt.
He went back to the end of the line while the attendant took care of the mess.
The last thing he got was his drink. He set it on his tray and stepped out of line. He looked at the girl tending the register and slightly raised the tray to make sure she seen him. She grinned and nodded to him. WD lowered his tray and started to walk to the outside seating area and Cali.
WD was looking at the food on the tray as he walked. He didn’t notice the man sitting at a table wearing a leg brace, or the fact that he had his leg sticking out from the side of the table into the aisle way.
When WD tripped on the leg, he pushed it further into the aisle, forcing the stranger sideways, pushing his ribs against the table. WD went sprawling head over heels, tossing his tray of food over two people sitting at the table behind the stranger with the bum leg. Those two instantly jumped up. The man behind bum leg pushed him (bum leg) even harder against the table edge. Bum leg bellowed with pain. The other person, who jumped up covered in food, fell back bumping the person behind them. That person was in the process of taking a bite of their food with their face over their plate. The bump pushed their face into their plate, pushing it forward enough to knock over their drink onto the person sitting across from them.
Employees came running from everywhere, like personal injury attorneys at a bus crash. Cali heard the commotion and didn’t even bother getting up. She knew who caused it and that he would be just fine. WD was like the drunk in an auto accident, he was the one who seemed to never be seriously injured.
The register girl helped WD back up. He looked around and seen the carnage.
The girl said, “Let’s try this, tell me what you had to eat and drink, tell me where you’re going to sit and I’ll bring it to you. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” WD said a little shaken, “I had chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans and a large lemonade. I’ll be sitting outside but I’m not sure where. I could be…”
“Don’t worry,” she interrupted, “I know what you look like. I’ll find you.”
WD went outside and found Cali patiently waiting for him with a napkin resting over her food.
“Wow, Cali, you should’ve seen what happened in there!” WD said with an excitement in his voice as he hitched his thumb toward the cafeteria door.
“I heard,” she replied. “Anyone hurt?”
“No. At least not fatally,” he said with a halfhearted chuckle.
“Was it your fault?” She asked, more like a mother than a girlfriend.
“Maybe once…or twice.”
“Where’s your food?”
“The girl at the cash register said she’d bring it to me.”
“Probably cheaper for the company,” Cali mumbled.
“What?” WD asked, not hearing what she said.
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
“I see your napkin is over your plate. You already eat?”
“No, I thought I’d wait for you.”
“That’s nice. Thank you.”
The girl came out with WD’s tray.
“Here you are,” she said as she placed the tray in front of him. “If you want anything else, there’s another restaurant a little ways that way.” And she pointed down the street.
“Thanks,” WD said, “We’ll remember that.”
She turned around and went back inside.
WD looked at Cali and smiled.
“Finally, we get to eat. I’m famished,” WD stated. His mouth was watering just looking at the food on his plate. He picked up the pepper so he could put some on his potatoes.
“Could I have the salt please, WD?” Cali asked.
“Sure,” he said as he handed her the shaker.
At the same time he went to pepper his potatoes, she went to salt her mac-n-cheese. The tops came off both shakers, leaving a pile of pepper on the former and a pile of salt on the latter. A practical joker had unscrewed the tops and placed them loosely back on.
“Crap!” WD yelled. People walking nearby looked at him. “I’ll go in and get us some more,” he offered.
Cali was laughing an unnatural sort of titter. “This just seems to be the way this day is going. Thanks, but no thanks. I just won’t eat the mac-n-cheese. If you want more potatoes, be my guest. But I’m not waiting any longer. And when I’m done eating, I’m going on some more rides.”
“I guess I don’t need the potatoes that bad.” WD said, a bit deflated.
A quick flip of a breeze whisked across their table, tossing a fine mist of pepper in their faces. Their noses burned and tickled, causing them to break out in sneezing fits. They coughed and hacked until tears rolled down their cheeks.
WD finally took a napkin and put his chicken on it and picked up his plate and threw it in the closest trash can. Their sneezing soon subsided and they finished eating and drinking their peppery meals in peace.
“Where to now?” WD asked as they left the eatery.
“No rides!” Cali was adamant.
“Want to try your hand at the arcades?” WD asked. “After all, WD does stand for Winning Devil,” he added with an air of self-flattery.
“I thought you said it stood for Wildly Daring?”
“That too,” he grinned.
They consulted a posted park map and off they went.
The arcade section of the park was teeming with suckers, just like WD, hoping to win some humongous stuffed animal for that someone special in their life. And for the opportunity to lug said animal with them the rest of the day throughout the park. For a nominal fee, one could try their skill at skeeball, ring toss, ball toss, shooting contests involving singular games with BB guns or competition style games with water pistols.
WD and Cali wanted to do something together. So they chose the water games first.
Simple enough games. They cost a dollar per game or six games for five. The water guns are mounted on a swivel stand. You aim at a target at the base of a climbing figure. The more water in the bull’s-eye, the faster the marker travels up the meter. The first one to the top wins, shutting off all the guns. The winner gets a choice of any number of cheap items, costing fractions of a cent to make in some child sweat shop in China.
WD gave the attendant ten bucks. Then he and Cali stepped up to their weapons of choice, with Cali on WD’s left. WD looked up and down the row of Annie Oakley and Wyatt Earp wannabes. They ranged in age from six or seven to about twelve or thirteen. The smaller sharpshooters had to stand on boxes, provided by the park, to even be able to reach their guns, much less aim them. WD and Cali towered over everyone.
He looked at the kid standing at the gun next to him. This snot nosed eleven year old had a small pile of winnings heaped in front of him. The total value of his stash probably came to, at least, seven cents and only cost him thirty bucks to win. But it isn’t about the trophy, it’s about the thrill of the hunt and the pride of the win.
The kid looked at WD with an, I’m-not-impressed expression on his face, and blew a chewing gum bubble at him until it popped. Then he worked all the gum back into his mouth and continued chewing.
WD leaned over to Cali and whispered in her ear, “It’s in the bag.”
“Ready on the firing line!” The attendant yelled, followed by a loud ringing bell.
All along the line itchy trigger fingers shot out streams of water to their respective targets and meter gauges began to climb.
WD was caught off guard and nervous. He was having a hard time getting the water into the microscopic pin hole of a bull’s-eye. His eyes kept darting to the progress of the other shooters and he became more frustrated. The game was rigged, WD surmised. There had to be some type of foot pedal the guy running the game could push on to cut down on the water pressure going to his gun. That’s it! They weren’t going to let him win because it would hurt the feelings of the smaller kids!
A loud ring interrupted his bitching to himself. The round was won by a nine year old girl, wearing pink leggings and a Barbie T-shirt, six spots down the line. She picked out a classy plastic cocktail ring. (Sure to make her the envy of all the stuffed animals at her next make believe tea party.) The worker delivered it to her and then went back to his work station and marked down on a sheet the prize he gave away.
While this was going on, WD was thinking, ’Okay, okay. I see how this game is played. Make sure the little kids win. But I saw how the aiming works on this gun. I got it now. The next game is mine.’ He looked at the boy next to him again and gave him a blank expression. The boy gave the same look right back along with another bubble.
“Ready on the firing line!” The attendant yelled again, followed by the ringing bell and the streams of water.
WD’s trigger finger jerked the lever back. With his left eye closed, he focused his right eye down the barrel. He followed the stream to its target. His eye roved over to bubble boy’s target to check on his progress. He looked over at Cali and she was laughing so hard her spray was flying everywhere.
That’s when it clicked for WD. He was putting too much pressure on himself to win something for Cali. It was, after all, only a game; another amusement at the amusement park. His scowls of determination was replaced with a big grin and he aimed his stream towards Cali’s target and water spout.
They started to have a battle and laughing. WD got so carried away and was having so much fun he thought maybe bubble boy would want to join in. So he turned his spray towards bubble boy’s target, diverting bubble boy’s stream.
Bubble boy didn’t want to play. This was serious business. He gave WD an angry look and then stomped on the side of his ankle, hard enough to make WD’s foot fold under.
The sudden loss of support on WD’s right side made him fall to that side. He still held onto his water gun, making it swivel to the left. The gun shot a steady stream in a drenching arc, spraying the attendant and all of his controls. It then continued on until it hit Cali, point blank, on the right side of her face, knocking off her glasses, rendering her as blind as a bat. Cali ducked to the left to avoid any more water, but she still held onto her gun too and it turned to the right. With Cali out of the way on the left, WD drenched everyone that was on the other side of her. And with WD out of the way on the right, Cali sprayed almost everyone that was to the right of him.
A loud ding stopped the hosing.
That round was won by a seven year old boy who wouldn’t have had a snowball’s chance in Hades if it weren’t for WD and Cali. He gave a high pitched shriek of joy. His mother, clapping proudly, kissed him and hugged him congratulations.
On his way down to the end of the line, to see what fabulous prize the little sharpshooter wanted, the attendant stopped at the space where WD was standing, wiping his face and gingerly testing his weight on his injured ankle. He handed WD his six dollars back and politely asked him to please take his friend (Cali) and find another game to play.
At first WD began to protest.
“It’s not my fault!” he said to the worker.
“It doesn’t matter,” the man said calmly trying to keep the situation as low key as possible.
“Yes it does,” WD continued.
“It’s okay, WD,” Cali said stepping in. “We can play something else.”
So they left. WD was still upset, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
They moseyed along the midway, holding hands as they considered which game to try their hands at next. They came to the arcade building and went inside.
This area displayed the pinball machines, skeeball and an assortment of games that dispensed tickets that could be redeemed for prizes. They opted for the skeeball game and went to the only two open machines, luckily they were side by side. They put their money in and the balls were released from the catch.
“Bet I get more tickets than you,” WD said to Cali.
“What’s the bet?” Cali replied, ready to hand WD a humiliating defeat.
“If you win more tickets than me, I’ll give you all my tickets. And if I win more tickets than you, then you have to give me yours.”
WD had no intentions of taking her winnings and, truth be known, he was probably going to give her his anyway.
“You’re on,” she said.
They each picked up a hard wooden ball and then poised for action.
“Go!” Cali exclaimed.
They both swung back, like stationary bowlers. Cali’s arm went forward and the ball slid out of her hand and up the alley to the scoring rings. WD’s just slid out of his hand and hit a man in the back who was helping his little boy at a Wack-A-Mole game behind him.
The man gave WD a nasty look.
“Sorry,” WD said sheepishly as he picked the ball up.
“You could’ve hit my kid,” the man admonished. “Watch what you’re doing.”
WD went back to his machine. He looked up at Cali’s score. It appeared he had some catching up to do and started bowling his butt off.
WD’s score began to climb but Cali’s was in the hundreds. Her tickets were rolling out of her machine and curling in a pile on the floor. WD didn’t pay any attention to his tickets. He gave Cali a little shove to throw her aim off. The ball ricocheted off the side wall and flew into the center bull’s-eye.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said, aggravated that it helped her. But he was closing in.
Cali threw her last ball. 565 was her final score.
WD still had three balls left. He was sitting at 540. Since she was done, he could relax, take his time, aim, and do whatever he needed to do to ensure victory. Cali just stood there, grinning at him. She was awfully calm for someone who was only 25 points away from defeat. All he had to do was avoid any ’no score’ slots. After that, the lowest scoring slot was worth ten points.
He tossed a ball. Too light. In his effort not to screw up, he under threw. It tumbled over the lip into the no score area. Two left.
Cali bent down, tore off her tickets and started to fold them up in rows of five.
WD threw his next ball. It rumbled up the path, flew off the ramp and landed in the upper left corner and dropped into the ten point slot.
Cali only smiled as she continued to fold.
Last ball. He had to have at least a twenty slot or higher to win. He shifted slightly to the right. He slowly pulled his arm back and gravity pulled it forward. His brain calculating the optimum angle and speed to release for the perfect roll. He let it go and executed a flawless follow through. The ball glided, no, floated, up the center of the alley. It hit the incline at the end and made a beautiful arc in the air and disappeared down the center hole. A bull’s-eye! Fifty points! 600 to 565. WD raised both of his arms in victory.
“I win,” Cali declared to WD’s astonishment.
“No you didn’t,” he protested, “look at the scores, 600 to 565. I won by thirty-five points.”
“The bet wasn’t who could score more points,” she reminded. “The bet was who could win more tickets. I have seventy-seven. How many do you have?”
WD looked down. Three. His machine had run out of tickets and it only dispensed three lousy tickets. He ripped them off and handed them to her.
“Congratulations.” he said.
They decided to go somewhere else and went up front to cash in their winnings. Well, her winnings, anyway.
Cali picked out a small pink plastic whistle. Fifty tickets. She gave WD the remaining thirty. He didn’t see anything he wanted. But the man he had hit in the back was at the counter with his son, so WD handed him the tickets instead.
As they walked toward the exit, Cali looked at her prize. “My very own rape whistle,” she said as she put it to her lips and gave it a blow.
Nothing.
She shook it and realized there was no ball in it.
She looked at WD with a coy grin on her face. “I’ll still keep it. I may have to use it in the Tunnel of Love.”
WD smiled back at her. “You just never know,” he said.
“Or maybe you’ll need it,” she added.
Suddenly WD couldn’t get there soon enough. But he still hadn’t won anything for her. That would have to take precedence over his hormones.
While walking along the concourse, WD spotted a booth in the center of the walkway, with huge stuffed animals hanging on all four sides. Ring Toss was prominently displayed in big bold letters.
“Let’s try that game,” he suggested to Cali.
“Okay,” she said, “you want to place a side bet?”
“No,” he responded, “you’re too good for me.”
They walked up to one of the four sides.
“Welcome to the ring toss,” the girl inside the booth said. “The game that couldn’t be easier, couldn’t be more vexing, couldn’t be more rewarding. Five rings for a dollar; any ring on any bottle wins a prize; the more rings placed the better the prize; all five rings on the same bottle wins the gargantuan animal of your choice.”
They played for close to an hour. They had accumulated a small stash of cheap prizes. But it was getting late and they were running out of money. WD plunked down one more dollar apiece. The girl put a stack of five rings in front of each of them.
They began tossing.
WD’s first toss went cleanly on the neck of a bottle. He tossed his second, aiming at the same bottle. It flew over the mark by several rows. It hit the top of another bottle and bounced back and landed on the same bottle as the first ring. The third ring landed on its edge, standing, between the first bottle and the one next to it. It teetered for a second and flopped over onto the bottle with the other two rings. WD threw his fourth ring at the same time Cali threw one of her’s. WD’s was way off the mark. It hit Cali’s in the air and they both flew in different directions. Cali’s went off the grid and landed on the floor. WD’s did a swan dive onto the same bottle as the other three. Cali watched it drop and let out a gasp. Everyone else at the booth stopped tossing to watch WD and his last ring. Several people passing by even stopped to watch the possible miracle. WD had become a bundle of nerves. He picked up his last ring. He took a couple of practice swings, like a pro golfer at the US Open.
“Here goes nothing,” he told Cali as he pulled his arm with the ring closer to his chest, ready to throw.
“You can do it,” she assured him.
“Yeah, you can do it,” a man said who was standing directly behind WD. As he said it, he leaned in to get a better view. He bumped WD’s arm just as he released the final toss.
The ring wobbled in the air. It hit the bottle tops near its target. It danced drunkenly around the tops, spinning an elliptical path across the bottle tops. As the spinning slowed, the wobble became more pronounced. Finally, it fell over and came to rest on the other four rings.
Cheers went up all around them. WD had an ear to ear smile on his face. Cali was also beaming.
He turned to her. “What animal would you like, my lady?” he asked her.
“I believe I would like the lion, please,” she calmly replied, as if she were picking out a ring at Tiffany’s.
They took turns lugging that overstuffed behemoth through the park. It didn’t take long for the major prize to become a major pain. They also took turns saying ’excuse me’ and ’pardon me’ to the couple hundred people they bumped, nudged, pushed and generally just inconvenienced. Several small children were left crying with skinned knees and sore butts thanks to their encounters with WD, Cali and Lou (the name Cali gave the lion). At one point, hot and sweaty, they stopped at a sidewalk vendor selling cotton candy. Cali held the lion while WD bought them each a treat. WD assumed Cali had put the lion down so she could take a little breather. He took the cone of spun sugar and handed it back to her without turning around. He then purchased his. When he turned toward Cali, she was standing there, holding this huge lion, with a cotton candy cone stuck to the side of her sweaty face; melted pink sugar ran down her neck. Livid, she dropped the toy and glared at WD.
They were both exhausted, their nerves shot, their patience reaching the breaking point.
For Cali, the cotton candy was the last straw. She peeled it off her face and let it drop to the ground. Then she headed for the nearest restroom to clean up.
WD picked it up and threw it in a nearby trash can. He felt uncomfortable about eating his so he waited for Cali to return.
When she got back he offered her his cotton candy. His face had a timid, I’m sorry, expression. She never acknowledged the candy, she only stared at WD. He held his breath. Her look was cold. If WD had exhaled in her direction he would’ve been able to see his breath. But to his surprise she took the candy. And threw it in the same trash can that he threw her’s.
“Let’s go to the Tunnel of Love and get this over with,” Cali said defeated.
The one ride they had both been looking forward to all day, now seemed like a dreaded chore. A ride they had promised to take together had now changed to an undesired commitment. Because of that parking space, it became a debt that had to be paid.
It was dark now. The moon had come out, the lights had come on and the bugs were everywhere. But it was still a warm humid night.
The line at the Tunnel of Love was sparse; mostly kids, WD’s and Cali’s age, looking for a little “sexcitement”, a bit of second base in the dark. Or old folks wanting a relaxing sit down ride in air-conditioning.
The “love” ride was a slow gentle water ride. Widely spaced flat bottom boats floated freely on a shallow trough of meandering water. Guard rails kept them from straying off course. Each boat had short sides with four bench seats that held two grown people (but three could squeeze in) with some room to spare. The ride moved continuously. As boats exited the building, they were pinched against a revolving platform. Riders got out of the boats to the right and new riders got in from the left. The riders walked across the platform and stepped into any boat they wanted. When the boat reached the end of the platform it was released and off it went to the opening on the side of the building the ride ran through. It was managed by a young girl in a ranger outfit, helping those that needed it.
Cali took no more turns carrying Lou. WD held it tight as they hurried along through the turnstiles until they reached the platform.
Cali stepped onto the turning floor. There was a slight jerk of acclimation and she headed to an empty boat and sat in the second seat.
When WD stepped on, the ranger hurried over to him.
“Do you need help with that?” she asked.
“No thanks,” he replied. Then he looked at her from around the lion and he caught his breath.
She had short sun faded brunette hair and her light tanned skin highlighted her chocolate milk colored eyes. She was eighteen, the same height as WD and one hundred and nineteen pounds compacted into a frame of pure fantasy.
“Are you sure? You can leave it here if you like and pick it back up when you’re done,” she offered.
Her voice sounded like an angel’s whisper. Well, what WD would have imagined how an angel’s whisper sounded. To a real man it probably would have sounded like sizzling bacon.
WD suddenly felt like he was being unfaithful to Cali. But he couldn’t help being attracted to this park ranger.
“Thanks,” he said leaning toward her to get a better look at her name badge, “EL, but I think I’ll keep it with me.”
“Okay,” she said and then pointed to the boat that Cali had gotten into.
EL followed him anyway. When WD got to the boat he set Lou down and got in next to Cali. The ranger put Lou next to WD. Then she went back to help an elderly couple into a different boat.
Three other couples got in the boat with WD and Cali, taking up the rest of the seats. By then it reached the end of the loading area and the ride began.
The boat floated toward a large heart painted on the side of a metal building the ride went through. Once inside, it was pitch dark but changed to black lights that emanated from displays on both sides of the stream and from the roof. No lights directly shone on the boat, so it was still difficult to distinguish anyone, unless they were in close proximity. Certain colors, being worn by riders, “glowed” in the lights, like disembodied phantoms, floating in their seats. Instrumental music crooned from speakers also hung from the ceiling. Forced in cool air swept the rider’s hair and moved the loose items on the displays.
The ride took six minutes from beginning to end, so time was of the essence. If a couple wanted to take advantage of the ambience, the stopwatch started when they floated through the heart.
The couple in the first seat snuggled together. He had his arm around his date’s neck and they began to smooch. Everything they wore that glowed floated eerily. Their kisses started out as small pecks and slowly increased in duration.
WD envied him. That’s what he wanted to do with Cali. He snuck a glance in her direction. She sat still, indignant, arms folded, as cold as the water they were floating on. Her lime green hair glowed like iridescent Spanish moss. Maybe, he thought, she was waiting on him to make the first move. After all, she’d been mentioning this ride just as much as he had. He decided to take a chance and put his arm around her. If she left his arm there, then she was softening and thinking about forgiving him. If she moved away or shrugged it off, then it was time to take her home. And it was going to be a long quiet ride.
The couple behind them had also gotten down to business. Theirs had become more physical, causing the girl’s purse to fall to the floor of the boat. She bent forward to pick it up just as WD swung his arm around to entice Cali.
WD’s hand slapped the girl’s face. She let out a yelp and sat back up, putting her hand over the injured spot.
“What is it?” her date asked concerned.
“That guy in front of us just slapped me!” she told him.
“Hey, asshole!” the girl’s date shouted at WD. “Watch what the hell you’re doing! Jerk!” Then he gave WD a shove.
WD’s arm was behind Cali by then but it wasn’t touching her yet. The shove pushed his arm against Cali, forcing her head forward unexpectedly. Cali thought the man behind them had pushed her. She spun around in her seat, mad as hell. This was another thing going wrong. The whole day was one accident or altercation after another.
“Don’t push me! I didn’t do anything to you!” Cali screamed at the guy behind her.
“Don’t yell at my boyfriend, bitch!” his date yelled back at Cali. “And your ugly ass boyfriend slapped me!”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Cali snarled.
WD’s heart shattered, like a clay pigeon at a skeet shoot.
“Really?” the guy behind her retorted. “Between his stupidity and your looks, you two are a match made in hell!” He put an extra emphasis on the word hell.
WD jumped up and turned around, ready to fight. He may not have been Cali’s boyfriend but he still felt obligated to defend her any way he could.
The boat started rocking.
Some guy in the last row yelled out, “Sit down before you tip us over!”
“Apologize to her!” WD demanded of the guy who belittled them.
Cali was pulling on WD’s shirt, trying to get him to sit down.
“Piss off! And take that stupid stuffed animal with you!” Then the guy stood up and reached forward and grabbed Lou the Lion and chucked him overboard.
The weight shift of the guy heaving the lion caused the boat to list. WD and the man (both standing) tipped in the direction of the tilt. The boat capsized. Everyone and everything hit the water. Screams, shrieks and swear words filled the air, followed by pandemonium. The water was only three feet deep but, in the dark, it might as well have been three fathoms.
Outside, EL heard the shouting begin. And it increased as she walked to the controls podium. She unclipped her walkie-talkie.
“Trouble in the tunnel. Send help,” EL said.
Just as she reached the controls area, she heard the splashes and shrieks. She slammed her hand down on the red emergency stop button.
The revolving platform stopped abruptly. Several people, walking to empty boats, lurched forward or fell down. The jets, that kept the water flowing in one direction, shut down. The florescent overhead lights came on, spotlighting eight people, waist deep, thrashing around, scrambling to find the things they lost. Other boats, now merely drifting, loaded with riders, who have now had their Tunnel of Love experience ruined, began to bang into the tipped over boat.
EL entered the building through a door used by employees. She stood on the edge of a platform that was invisible when the black lights were on. Less than twenty seconds later, she was joined by four more park rangers and a couple of wader wearing maintenance workers carrying flashlights.
With the light on, it was easy to find the sunken items. The visitors were helped out first, then the belongings were given to their respective owners as they were fished out. Once a couple was ready to go, a park ranger would lead them to a golf cart so they could be taken to the first aid station to be checked out to make sure no one was seriously injured. The maintenance workers righted the boat and led it to an off spur to be checked later for damage.
When the boat was being led off, there were only four people still left on the platform: WD, Cali, the ranger needed to take them to first aid and EL the ride operator.
WD sat with the soaked and sagging stuffed animal beside him. He felt dejected and alone. He was profoundly sorry for what happened but he knew there was nothing he could say that would undo what happened.
Cali was standing several feet away from WD. Then she walked over to stand in front of him and looked down at him.
He started to get up.
The jets started back up and the other passenger laden boats began to pass by on their way out.
“No,” Cali said with a razor edged voice. “I don’t want you to get up. Just sit there.” WD plopped back down, but he continued to look at her. “Let’s review how this date went. Shall we? We’ll start at the beginning: you banged my shin, hurt my hip, gouged my arm, threw up on me, spilled food all over me and then made me slip and fall in it, hurt the side of my face with a water jet gun, then bumped me, pushed me, knocked me down, stuck cotton candy to the side of my face, and finally, almost drown me in the Tunnel of Love.”
As Cali talked the anger seethed.
WD sat there, feeling foolish and ashamed. He knew the end was near. But he was born with a quenchless optimism; hope sprang eternal in the heart of Eukariah Grafftenhoffer and he wasn’t ready to give up on a possible future relationship with California Hightower just yet.
“But I won you this giant stuffed animal,” WD said meekly as he put his arm around it while looking up at her.
“Keep it,” Cali shot back with her tone rising several decibels, “consider it a going away present. I’ve had it! I can’t take any more of this date! I can’t take anymore of you! (‘You’ came out as a snarl.) When I leave here, I’m leaving alone. I’m going to call my dad and have him come and pick me up. (Cali had almost worked herself up to yelling mode. And the more she talked, the closer she moved her face toward WD. She was now only a yard from his face.) I don’t want to hear from you! I don’t want to see you! I don’t want to know if you still exist! And I can tell you what WD stands for!
It stands for WORST…DATE! EVER!”
The last three words were screamed mere inches from WD’s face.
Cali straightened back up and spun on her heels. She looked at the two park employees, who were trying their best to ignore this embarrassing personal display.
“Who’s taking me?” Cali demanded. The anger still focused.
“I’m supposed to take both of you,” the male ranger said softly, trying to calm her down. It didn’t work.
“He can walk for all I care. He’s not riding with me!” And out the door she stormed.
The ranger went over to EL. “I’ll be back to get him,” he said.
“That’s okay, I got him,” EL told him, “just get her out of here. And could you get on your radio and see if someone can come and take over the ride for me? I’m going to stay with him.” They both looked at WD, who was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest and his face buried against them.
“Sure. Wish me luck,” then he left.
EL went over to WD and squatted down in front of him. She cocked her head at a sideways angle trying to get him to look at her.
“I’m EL. Are you okay?” She asked softly.
“Yeah,” WD sighed.
“We have to get out of here so we can get the ride started again. Okay? Are you hurt?”
“Just my feelings,” he replied in a cracking voice.
“Can you follow me?” EL said standing back up and holding out her hand to help WD.
“Yeah,” he said but he didn’t take her hand. Instead he struggled on his own.
Once he was up, he grabbed one of the lion’s paws and drug it behind him as he followed EL to another door.
This door opened to a small break room used by the people working “the tunnel” and some of the nearby rides. The room was empty at the moment.
WD slumped into a chair. The wet lion assumed the same posture as it sat on the floor.
“Sorry about all that in there,” WD said, still feeling down on himself.
“That?” she replied. “Pooh. You weren’t the first and you won’t be the last. Usually boats get tipped by kids trying to be cool or funny. But not so much by people wanting to start world war three. What‘s your name?”
“Everybody calls me WD,” he replied. Glum dripped from every word.
EL still continued to try and perk him up and get him to talk.
“Is that your initials? WD? W. Wilbur? William? Whitey? I hope it doesn’t really stand for Worst.”
This made WD grin in spite of how he felt.
“No. Right now it stands for Woefully Depressed.” Then he reconsidered. “No, it’s not my initials. It’s just something everyone started calling me at school. That’s all. No one ever told me what it stands for, so I decide to make it fit whatever I want it to. My initials are E.G. And you don’t want to know what they stand for. What‘s EL stand for? Eleanor? Ellen?”
“Apparently, we have something in common. EL is my initials and you don’t want to know what they stand for either.”
They talked for a while. They got along like old friends. Relaxed. Open.
Someone finally came in on their break. So EL and WD left. He walked with her to the office so she could get reassigned to another ride. And they continued their conversation along the way.
Eventually they had to part ways. And WD went back to his car to leave.
The two cars he had parked so close to had left. But not before the two drivers had shattered several of his windows, busted out his headlights and taillights, kicked in his doors and ran scratches along the sides and hood.
But WD didn’t care. That’s what insurance was for. He had what he needed most at that time in his life. A smile on his face, a positive outlook for the future and the phone number of one, Ezmerelda Liechterschlitz.

Then there was the family camping catastrophe.

WD was tired of the same old, ready-made, prepaid, hotel grade vacation. He wanted something different. He wanted the kind of vacation where he, his wife Ezmerelda, and his thirteen year old twin boys, Thaddeus and Cliburn, could more closely bond as a family. He wanted something out of the ordinary; something that they would all enjoy and remember.
After weeks of scouring through web sites, he came upon a place called the Mother Nature Camping Experience. No phone, no pool, no restroom facilities, no modern amenities what so ever. Just raw nature waiting to be tamed. WD had decided to take his family on a weeklong trip to the wilds of Mother Nature. There is nothing like camping in the great outdoors to bond a family together tighter than sticky oatmeal. And besides, it was obvious that the initials WD stood for Woodsman Debonair.
Since they had never done this type of thing before, WD was at the mercy of the sales staff at the camping supply store. He ended up spending as much on those necessary supplies as he would’ve spent on a week’s stay at a Disney World penthouse suite. But it was money well spent in WD’s opinion. And now with the gear purchased, the arrangements made, and the directions plotted for WD, his wife and two sons, the trip was on!
It didn’t take them too long to get to their camping destination. That is after they picked up all of their gear down the quarter mile stretch of highway after the luggage carrier strap broke; and after they changed that flat tire; and after they had the car towed to an auto repair shop when the radiator hose burst; and after they got themselves unstuck from the mud because an Olds Omega wasn’t designed for trekking off-road. No, it didn’t take long at all. The projected six hour drive only took fifteen.
So what if they had to pitch their tent in the dark. So what if WD hit his foot with the hammer while pounding in a stake. So what if they left the tent flaps open as they carried in the sleeping gear and the tent filled up with mosquitoes. So what if they made their campsite at the bottom of a ravine next to a “creek” with severe storms forecasted for later in the week. They were going to bond and have the time of their lives.
WD woke up first the next morning. He was a little stiff and achy from sleeping on the hard ground but he figured that he would get used to it. But he didn’t like the itching from the seventy-some mosquito bites on his head, face, neck and arms. He didn’t spray himself with insect repellent like everyone else did. After all, pioneers didn’t use bug spray and they lived. Now, thanks to his insect blood drive, he had to live with the consequences. So he lathered himself with anti-itch cream and decided to make their campsite more livable.
WD was feeling kind of Daniel Boone-ish and tried to start the campfire by rubbing two sticks together, all this produced were blisters. He thought a magnifying glass would come in handy and a little grin perked up the corners of his mouth. He finally resorted to using a lighter. Truth be known, the lighter probably would have been Boone’s first choice too. Since they were roughing it, he thought he would use some creek water to make the coffee. But after seeing the litter and bugs floating in it, he chose to rough it with the bottled water they brought instead.
With the fire going and the coffee on, WD decided it was time for his morning constitutional. He licked his finger and held it up to determine which direction the breeze was coming from and then walked down wind. He found some privacy among a thicket of tall bushes with wide green and reddish leaves.
He didn’t think to buy a shovel to make some type of restroom facility. After all, it is biodegradable. Isn’t it? He also didn’t think to bring along any toilet paper with him. But that would’ve been littering. Besides, out here in the wilderness, toilet paper grows on trees. Well, in this case, it grows on tall bushes with big fat leaves. So WD stomped out a small spot, squatted down and proceeded to do his business. After he was done he reached over to the nearest plant, stripped off a couple handfuls of nature made Charmin and wiped. The feel of dewy wet leaves was refreshingly different. It was as if he were washing himself at the same time. He was quite amazed with how natural it felt to go to the restroom in the great outdoors.
When he arrived back at the camp everyone was up. WD told them about his location for the communal restroom. Of course, the boys had to go check it out right away. And of course, they couldn’t find it. They did, however, find a big thicket of poison sumac. So they ended up finding their own “potty” spot. Ezmerelda decided she’d hold it until they got back to civilization. It was a nice thought, but unrealistic. The “ladies” room was just down the trail a bit, second bush on the right. They all decided that the next camping trip would have manmade toilet facilities. Thus started the first full day of their camping experience.
After breakfast, the first order of business was to get rid of all the mosquitoes in the tent. Of course this can’t be considered complete until WD shoots himself in the face with the insect repellent and creates a fog so thick that it triggers an asthma attack. But with a half an hour of rest and a shot of inhaler, he was as good as new.
Then it was down to the creek with the boys for a little swimming. WD didn’t want the long drawn out, go-in-by-inches, shiver until your teeth chip, routine, so he just dove in. The only trouble was that it was just a tad shallower than he thought it would be. He scraped the rocky bottom and came up with a nice “strawberry” on his chest and stomach. But he shrugged it off because he didn’t want the boys to think that he was a pansy. Besides, it didn’t hurt that bad. So WD and the boys swam and played like river otters for more than three hours.
They went back to camp for some lunch. They were hungry enough to eat road kill. Instead Ezmerelda had fixed them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She offered to doctor WD’s diving wounds but he just waved her off. Those scrapes were a testament to his manliness, injuries sustained while taming the wilderness. The scars left behind will be like tattoos, permanent shrines to his defeat over nature. WD envisioned that, to his boys, he looked like he was ten feet tall. After all, doesn’t WD stand for “Whatta Dad”?
With lunch devoured everyone voted on blazing some trails, discovering the wonders of nature, breathing in the flora and fauna aromas of the forest, to break off the shackles of civilization and become one with nature, to bond in this unfettered paradise and to get some more firewood for the evening, whichever came first.
The hike had been quite relaxing and refreshing. WD and Ezmerelda walked along holding hands, while the twins ran around burning up stores of energy and throwing acorns at squirrels. The boys had run far enough ahead that Ezmerelda could no longer see them and they weren’t paying any attention to her calls to come back. So she went ahead to try and put a little slow down on their rambunctious behavior. WD was walking down a slanted part of the path when he lost his footing on some loose dirt and sticks. The good news is he kept himself from falling headlong down the trail by grabbing and hugging a pine tree. The bad news is he was covered in gooey sticky pine sap and everything stuck to him, like metal shavings on a magnet. After a while he managed to get so many leaves and twigs stuck to him that, if he stood still long enough, birds would have nested on him. And on their way back from the all afternoon jaunt, everyone carried an armload of firewood.
Back at camp the wood was set by the fire pit, which by now was just a pile of glowing embers. WD picked up a couple of chunks and began to build the fire back up for cooking supper. WD had volunteered to be the chef. This evening they would dine on hot dogs, baked beans, potato chips and watermelon. He had taken two forked tree branches and placed a thick stick on them about two feet above the flames. Two pots hung from the stick over the fire, one filled with water and hot dogs, the other waiting to be filled with baked beans.
Putting the cooking contraption together was no easy feat with his hands covered in pine goo. But that was nothing compared to trying to get rid of the hot dog wrappers. He would pull it off of one hand only to get it stuck to the other. He finally bent down and held one corner with his foot and yanked it free of his hand. But the transferred sap on the wrapper made it stick to his shoe. So he held another corner with his other foot and got it loose at last. Finally free from both shoes, he went to kick it in the fire to get rid of it, but sap made it stick to the toe of his shoe. As luck would have it, it went into the flames far enough to ignite. He hopped around for a few seconds with his foot afire before he managed to get it stomped out with his other foot.
The cans of beans were a pretty neat trick. WD would grab a can in his open palm with his fingers straight out. His sticky hand held it like glue. A slight twist and the can would break free of the outside wrapper but still be held by it. Once the wrapper was free and stuck to his hand, he could open the can with a can opener. The loose can would turn inside the wrapper that was plastered to his hand while his fingers were still as straight and stiff as popsicle sticks. Then he would dump the beans into the pot. After it was emptied, the can was pulled away from the paper sleeve and the paper was pulled off with the shoe. When he did this trick with the first can of beans, it was impressive. With the second can of beans it was still cool. But then came the third can. WD picked it up, his fingers splayed, his hand over the fire ready to open and pour. He gave the can a little twist and the wrapper broke.
The can fell right into the fire. The weight of the can made it sink amidst the flames and glowing coals.
He couldn’t just reach in and get it out without the risk of serious burns. He thought about kicking it out, but he still had half melted plastic wrap on his shoes. There were no sticks long enough within reach to scoot it out with. Then he heard a faint “tink”. It came from deep within the fire. He looked around in desperation (tunk). Then he spotted a small branch growing on the trunk of a tree at the edge of the clearing (tink, tink).
He grabbed the branch but it wouldn’t budge. He jerked a little harder, still nothing. One more time, with all his weight behind it. Success! The branch broke off and WD fell, dropped like a sack of lead, right on his tailbone. He got up and, with his legs spread and his knees locked, he hobbled as best he could back to the fire to get that can of beans (tink, tunk, tink, tink, tunk) out of that fire. It sounded like popcorn popping in an eight foot long, two inch pipe.
Just as WD reached forward with the stick, the can exploded, like a hand grenade, spraying hot beans and coals everywhere within a twenty foot radius.
The only clothes WD was wearing at the time was a T-shirt and shorts. His face, arms and legs looked like he had chicken pox with all of the little burn welts. WD could tell that everyone felt bad for him, because they said their stomachs were hurting and they had all been crying. Apparently, they were overwhelmed with the thought of what life would be like without dear old dad.
After dinner everyone sat around the campfire telling jokes and stories. Ezmerelda found that orange peel zest would dissolve the pine tar. And while she took care of WD the family bonded. Just like he hoped they would.
Day two arrived with the sun playing peek-a-boo through a sky that was mostly cloud cover. WD didn’t sleep very well. He couldn’t sleep on his stomach because of his scratches and bean burns and he couldn’t sleep on his back because he was sunburned from swimming and his tailbone ached. Plus his rear-end felt a little itchy and tender. And on top of all that, WD could have sworn that he heard every creature in the forest walking around and chattering in their campsite in the middle of the night. The next morning when WD emerged from the tent, there wasn’t a single bean to be found in the camp to clean up.
WD walked a little slower to his morning constitutional. His tailbone was still somewhat on the tender side. He was also hoping that the juicy green toilet paper he had been using would soothe his irritated backside. He was thinking that maybe he got something from the water the day before. It was odd that the discomfort was concentrated in that particular location. But who can say, there have been stranger things to happen. But he couldn’t dwell on that now. He had a full day of activities planned for everyone.
WD had purchased waders for everybody to wear fishing. That day, it looked like it wouldn’t be too sunny and the temperature felt like it had cooled down a couple of degrees. There was a gentle breeze from the west and you know how the saying goes; when the wind’s from the west, the fish bite the best. Yep, this was definitely going to be the perfect day to hook the big one.
They all waded out into the water, fishing gear in hand, and WD in the lead. The boys, of course, didn’t see why they had to wear waders; and Ezmerelda was as apprehensive as a bomb diffuser with the hick-ups. The water seemed to feel a little chillier and, if WD wasn’t mistaken, the current felt kind of stronger and the whole creek appeared to be wider. WD shrugged it off as being some kind of optical illusion. He thought it was all the better for fishing. He was stepping along, marveling at how the water had created a vacuum inside his waders. He felt the pressure and could see them wrinkling just below the water’s surface. He was paying so much attention to his waders that he unknowingly stepped beyond a drop-off and instantly dropped an extra ten feet underwater. The waders, that were so interesting just a second before, suddenly filled with water and held him to the bottom. He let go of his fishing gear and slipped his arms through the straps of his new two hundred pound swimsuit. Now free of his rubber anchor, WD kicked for the surface. He came up sputtering and coughing and noticed that his family was on their way to attempt a rescue. He held his arm up and, in-between chest clearing hacks and spitting out creek water, he told them that he was okay and to stay back. He swam back to shore and sat for a couple of minutes to get his heart rate back to normal and as much water out of his lungs as he could.
Since WD had lost all of his equipment in the freak accident, he announced that he would be the official master casting instructor and the official master baiter. Ezmerelda gave him a dirty look at this proclamation while giving a quick eye shift glance towards the twins. The boys just looked at each other and giggled. WD felt that his initials stood for World-class Demonstrator and proceeded to give his how-to course on casting (he learned it from that old Rock Hudson movie when he had to enter a fishing contest). WD did it a couple of times with flawless casts that reached almost to the center of the stream. With the training part of the job complete, he baited their hooks with juicy wriggling night crawlers.
WD promised twenty dollars to the one who caught the biggest fish. He reached into his soggy pant pocket, pulled out his dripping wallet, produced a drenched twenty dollar bill, balled it up in his fist and squeezed the water out of it, straightened it back out and slapped it to a rock on the shore to dry. The first (and last) Annual Grafftenhoffer Fishing Tournament had begun!
I believe it’s safe to say that the rest of the family didn’t take this contest as seriously as WD. Ezmerelda wouldn’t wade any deeper than half calf; she would cast out but never reel it back in until ordered by her husband; if there was any kind of tug or resistance on the line she would try to hand the pole off to anyone near her; and heaven forbid that the icky worm came anywhere within three feet of her.
The twins, on the other hand, were having a blast. Apparently, they must have had some little side bets going on, like: who could cast it the furthest; who could reel it in the fastest; which cast went the greater distance, the lighting quick 8:00-5:00-11:00 style cast or the I’m-gonna-knock-this-one-outta-the-park baseball swing sidearm cast; and the hardest trick shot of all, who can make their worm come off the hook in mid-air cast.
WD was kept hopping. He had to bait the twins hooks, tell his wife to reel it back in, bait the twins hooks, help his wife cast it back out, untangle the twins lines and bait the hooks, tell his wife to reel it back in, bait the twins hooks, help his wife remove a five inch sunfish from her line…and on ad nauseam.
It was while WD was trying to remove the sunfish, one of the boys attempted a cast to the other side of the stream with a really powerful sidearm swing and managed to hook WD in the ear. The barb ripped a half inch hole in his ear and hurt like hell. Luckily, Ezmerelda eventually got the bleeding to stop. But it did bring an abrupt end to the fishing tournament. Ezmerelda won with her sunfish.
Since they didn’t catch enough to have fresh fish for dinner that evening, they dined on cold meat sandwiches and s’mores. And as they retired to their sleeping bags later that evening, they were lulled to sleep by the sound of thunder far off in the distance.
Day three came early…very early…about 3:00 in the morning early. There was a flash of light, followed instantaneously by a crack of thunder so loud it made the ground shake! Everyone sat up like the pillows were spring loaded. Now WD’s ear hurt as much on the inside as it did on the outside. But it did, at least momentarily, take his mind off the fact that his ass felt like it had been marinated in a habanero and itching powder salsa, then run through a meat grinder.
Just seconds after the ear splitting repercussion, came the rain and hail. No, to simply say “the rain and hail” would be a gross understatement. It was a deluge! Noah would have pissed himself. The hail slammed against the top of the tent like ball bearings. They could see and hear the tent fabric ripping from the onslaught. And the side of the tent facing the creek was beginning to cave in. They had to get out of there fast. WD opened the flap and water rushed in. The stream had become a raging river and had overflowed its banks. It was attempting to wash the tent away along with everything and everyone in it.
With the flaps opened, they could see their only salvation; the only glimmer of hope in this life threatening situation, the Olds Omega, silhouetted in the lightning flashes, being pummeled and dinged by the hail. The front end pointed toward freedom and security and safety and indoor plumbing.
One more family bonding moment, they grabbed each other’s hands and bolted out of the tent like they were trying to outrun the slicing scythe of the grim reaper himself. Just as they reached the car, a blinding flash and crushing roar showed the tent being swept away by the rapidly rising tide.
They clambered into the car, now marred with a thousand little dents and the windows cracked. The hail on the roof sounded like a chorus of hammers. But they didn’t care; they made it; they were safe. A sweet sense of relief had enveloped them. But WD was still anxious to get them safely away from the swiftly rising water. He was visibly shaking as he stabbed the keys again and again at the ignition slot on the steering wheel column. Then Ezmerelda laid her hand gently on his arm and a sudden calm swept over him. The overwhelming urge to ram the car into drive and push the accelerator through the floorboard had dissipated along with his fear. She looked at him and said, very softly: “We’re okay now, let‘s go home”. WD released an easy breath, slid the key into the slot, gave it a turn and the car came to life. He put the transmission into low gear and eased the car back onto the trail and headed back out to civilization.
Camping was never mentioned again.

And what about the oil change calamity?

WD decided to save a couple of bucks by changing the oil in his Olds Omega, himself. Nothing to it, he thought. After all, WD did stand for “Wrench Demigod”.
First he went to the auto parts store and got some oil, an oil filter, an oil filter removal tool and a car creeper.
When he got back home, he backed up the driveway so he was facing the street. He jacked up the front of the car (He didn’t think to buy jack stands when he was at the store. He’ll remember to get them the next time he changes his oil.). He laid down on his back on the creeper, with a drain bucket and crescent wrench, and rolled underneath his car.
He adjusted the wrench for the drain plug in the oil pan. He gave a little pull on the wrench, thinking it would turn right away. But of course it didn’t. His hand slipped off the end of the wrench and the back of his arm smacked against the still hot exhaust pipe, putting a nice two inch wide burn across his arm. After a lifetime of accidents, WD had quite possibly orated every possible combination of expletive known to the English speaking world. Sometimes he would throw in some of the few foreign swear words that he knew, just to give his cursing an international flair. The extremely painful burn from the exhaust pipe called for a new combination of words that, due to length restrictions, cannot be put into print, Needless to say, the drain plug bolt was pretty snug.
The second attempt to loosen the bolt wasn’t any great success either. He gripped the wrench in his right hand like he was holding onto a roller coaster safety bar for dear life. He jerked the handle quickly with all of the strength in his one arm and the wrench spun on the bolt, rounding off all of the corners on the head of the bolt. And, as with the first try, the wrench flew off and his knuckles scrapped the sharp edge of another bolt and put his arm against the exhaust pipe again for a second two inch stripe just above the other one.
WD wheeled out from under the car, madder than a scalded cat. He went to his toolbox and fished out his vise grips and a hammer. No stinking bolt was going to get the best of Eukariah Grafftenhoffer!
He scooted back under, armed to the teeth and loaded for bear. He adjusted the vise grips to death lock and he had to use both hands to squeeze the handle closed on the bolt. That sucker wasn’t going nowhere! He turned his creeper to get the optimum swing leverage for the hammer, then he wailed away with all his might. Of course, that sucker did go somewhere. It flew out from under the car with the sheared off head of the bolt still stuck in its unrelenting jaws. Apparently, WD stands for “Whad-I Do?!”
The solution to this new wrinkle was obvious; he had to drill out the old bolt and go back to the auto parts store for a new one. That seemed simple enough.
He dug a drill bit out of his toolbox that was the same diameter as the broken bolt. Next he found an extension cord and got his electric drill. Then he locked the bit into the drill chuck. With a few quick deft flicks of the trigger to make sure the bit was tight and that the drill was spinning in the right direction, he was ready to go.
The drill bit wasn’t as sharp as WD would have liked it to be, but it was doing the job okay. He applied some pressure to the drill and soon small curlicue shavings of hot metal fell from the spiraling bit as it burrowed into the severed bolt. WD had no idea how long the bolt shaft was. But he maintained a steady pressure and squiggly bits of shavings continued to rain down from the deepening hole. WD’s arm was beginning to get tired, so he decided on a little more oomph, a little more push, a little more git-er-done, a little more…TOO MUCH PRESSURE!…ITS THROUGH!
Oil spewed out of the hole and all over the drill. The oil ran into the drill, shorting it out and giving WD a jolt of electricity, making him drop it like a hot potato, right on his chin. The shorted out drill then popped the circuit breaker. The oil was still uncomfortably warm as it cascaded onto his chest and belly. He was getting covered in it. It ran down his arm and into his armpit. It splattered off his chest and onto his neck and face. He was drenched in hot black motor oil. But at least he didn’t squeak as he wheeled out from under the car as fast as he could. He grabbed the drain bucket, sliding it underneath the car, to catch any oil that didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to soak him.
While that finished draining, WD cleaned himself up as best he could. He changed his shirt and made a list of things he had to get; a new drain plug and some oil absorbent at the auto parts store; a tap and die set to rethread the drilled out plug hole and a new drill at the hardware store.
He flipped on the tripped circuit breaker. Then he hopped in his wife’s car (The foam rubber in her seat had no trouble soaking in the oil still held in the waist band of WD’s pants.) and off he went.
By the time he had gotten back, the oil had finished draining. There was only about two quarts in the bucket. That meant around four quarts had fallen on WD, giving him that healthy sheen, or was part of the stream that was meandering down his driveway. Oh well, some floor dry will take care of the spill.
He rolled back under the car and tapped the threads. That went without any major setbacks. WD was surprised. However, the new bolt was giving him fits as he tried to screw it in. It seemed to start off okay but then it would jam up. He wondered, if perhaps, there was still a bit of the old bolt left in the threads. No, that couldn’t be it. He had tapped all new threads in it. Maybe, there was some resistance between the new bolt and threads. WD got his socket wrench and slowly, but forcefully, screwed it in place.
With that done, he took his new oil filter tool and changed the oil filter. It was a snap. It was a snap, that is, after he disconnected the transmission linkage because he kept snagging his shirtsleeve on it, and he scratched his arm on it a couple of times, enough to make it bleed a bit and once on one of his burn blisters, causing it to pop and seep. It was easy enough to unhook it. And to put it back on all he had to do was reverse what he did in the first place. Right?
He put the new filter on, reconnected the linkage and rolled out from under the car. All that was left to do was lower the car back down, put six cans of new oil in and then fire that puppy up. WD was now working like a well-oiled machine (pardon the pun). The car was dropped, the new cans were drained and the key was in the ignition, just itching to be turned. He held the key between his thumb and index finger and gave his wrist a little twist. The engine came to life and began to softly hum. He got out of the car and leaned over the fender and held a flashlight to look down at the oil filter to make sure that everything was okay. It was, at least from that vantage point. The car never sounded better. WD got down on one knee to look underneath with his light. The car may have been purring like a contented kitten but it was pissing out oil like a cow over a flat rock. Suddenly the red oil light blinked on the dashboard and the alarm began to ding out its two cents worth. WD reached in and shut the car off. He looked back under and saw that it was leaking from the dratted drain plug. He mulled it over in his brain for a second or two and came to the conclusion that the bolt must have been cross-threaded.
He jacked the car back up. Rolled back under on the creeper. With a lot of slow work and effort, he managed to get the bolt back out without snapping the head off. When he inspected the bolt, he noticed that the threads were too damaged to repair. Then he rethreaded the hole again. He rolled out from under it again. Then he got back in his wife’s car and went back to the auto store to get some more oil and another drain pan bolt.
Upon returning, he rolled back under and carefully screwed the new bolt in. He finger turned it as far in as it would go. There wasn’t a single twinge of resistance. He snugged it down with a crescent wrench. Gently…ever so gently. He didn’t want to make another trip to the store. He was afraid that with one more trip, they would make him go through a new hire orientation and fill out W-4 forms for the IRS.
He lowered the car and refilled it with the new oil. He crossed his fingers and toes for luck and turned the key to start the engine. Normally WD had the patience of a saint, but this ordeal was beginning to wear it a little bit thin. Fifteen seconds passed. WD was looking underneath, nothing. Then half a minute, he was looking in over the engine compartment, nothing. Then a full minute ticked off the clock and not a drop of oil in sight. He did another once more around the horn look for any problems, still dry as a bone.
Finally it could be shouted from the roof top…SUCCESS!
WD climbed inside his softly thrumming metal steed. He decided to take it for a test spin around the block to make sure everything was alright. He put his foot on the brake pedal and pressed it down to the floorboard. He took the gearshift in his hand and popped it into drive. He took his foot off the brake and moved it over to the gas. He gave it a little goose and the car just sat there and revved the engine.
Now what! He thought. Can anything else possibly go wrong? Well…yes, of course it can.
He put the car in neutral and it lurched forward. He slammed his foot on the brake and turned the car off. Crap, the transmission linkage was messed up. So much for just reversing what he did when he unhooked it.
This time WD jacked up the back of the car so the rear tires were off the ground. He wanted to be able to put the car in gear to see if he had them hooked up right. He laid down on his creeper again and wheeled himself under. Once he was underneath he paused for a moment trying to remember how it went together in the first place. He just couldn’t quite picture it. Oh well, there couldn’t be that many combinations. Could there?
So he disconnected them, changed them around, hooked them back up and wheeled out from under it. He went to sit up and ran his head right into the bottom of the car door he had left open. Cussing and rubbing his head, he reached in and started the car and pushed on the brake pedal with his left hand and put the gearshift into drive with his right. He looked at the back tires and saw that they were turning in reverse. He turned it off, went back under, disconnected, rearranged, reconnected, wheeled back out, sat back up and hit his head again. Cussing and rubbing, he reached in and started the car, left hand brake, right hand shifter; he put it in reverse and the tires never moved.
Once again, he put the transmission in neutral and shut the car off, went under, disconnected, rearranged, reconnected, rolled out, bumped his head, cursed, reached in, left hand brake, started the car, right hand shifter, put it in reverse and the tires went forward.
WD was finally pissed. He rubbed the, now sizable, goose egg bump on the top of his head. Every touch shot a hot poker of pain to his nerve endings. When he brought his hand down, there was blood on his fingertips. WD had reached his boiling point; his last nerve had frayed and snapped; he had reached the limit of his endurance. They say: “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Now you can add the addendum: “Or a luckless nitwit who tries to change his own oil.”
With the car still running, the transmission in reverse and the tires still turning forward, WD kicked the offending car door shut as hard as he could. The car swayed drunkenly on the jack.
All thoughts of his injured noggin scattered, as WD foresaw the possible consequences of his temper tantrum and lurched forward to try and steady the car. But it was a case of too-little-too-late. The delicate balance of weight distribution on the single jack had shifted to the negative. The jack tipped and gravity took over.
The tires hit the cement driveway. There was a little bounce, a little chirp of excitement, a little wisp of smoke that smelled like an overheated sweeper belt, a little strip of black rubber residue as a souvenir and off the car went, down the driveway and across the street to visit the neighbors.
The car took off like a battering ram on a mission. Hell bent for leather, as they say in the old western movies. Clearly, the car was hauling ass, but WD’s brain was registering it all in Sam Peckenpah slow motion. When he returned from his last trip to the auto parts store, he decided to park his wife’s car in the street instead of the driveway. He blocked part of the driveway but left enough room for him to get past it when he took it out on his test drive. This was one of those bad news, good news, bad news deals. The bad news was, he wasn’t inside the car steering it. The passenger fender of his car caught the rear bumper of his wife’s car. The impact shattered his headlight and crumpled the fender, while it tore off one side of her bumper. The good news was, it deflected his car enough (it was still going forward) to keep it from careening through the neighbor’s front yard and doing an extreme makeover on their house. The bad news was, it had regained some of its momentum, like a hurricane passing over warm water again, and it ran headlong into a sixty foot Birch tree. The bumper went in and triggered the airbag to deploy, thereby saving the life of the invisible driver. Limbs and leaves rained from the tree just before it gave a splintering crack from a rotted spot on the trunk and fell on another neighbor’s attached two car garage, wiping out a corner of the garage and its roof.
WD’s car was paid for and not as new as his wife’s car. And he considered himself a very safe driver, so he only carried PLPD insurance on his car. Now, would he be better to turn this in under his car insurance or his homeowner’s insurance? It didn’t matter, look at how much money he saved by changing his own oil.

On this particular day, July 11th, WD was on his way to talk to with his insurance agent about filing a claim. Something to do with extensive water damage to his home after WD tried to fix a leak in the plumbing. After all, WD did stand for “What Drip?” He cringed at the thought of what his insurance premiums would probably go up to after this lapse in judgement.
Now, as he tried to breathe through one bruised lung; the pain in his legs almost beyond human endurance; his body trying to expel the blood in his lungs with coughs that showered crimson like a paint sprayer; and his brain didn’t have enough sense or kindness to at least make him pass out, Eukariah Grafftenhoffer realized WD stood for “Waiting Death”.
And he wasn’t far off the mark.