I'm Going to Be Famous (10 page)

CHAPTER 23

“I believe in you.”

—
M
ICHELLE
A
NGIER

Standing before me are my chimpanzees. I see them, thousands of them. They've come to visit the Banana King. Each chimpanzee holds a banana in his hand. As I raise my giant banana above my banana-crowned head, the chimpanzees shriek with delight and do back flips. The time has come. We are ready to begin the Banana Festival.

“Pssst, Arlo …”

Slowly I peel the giant banana. Slowly the thousands of chimpanzees peel their bananas.

“Arlo, wake up.”

And I, the Banana King, give the official signal—with a wave of my hand we begin.

“Arlo! Wake up. You're sleepwalking.”

“Huh?”

“Wake up,” John says. “It's eleven-thirty at night. You should be in bed, not parading around out here in the living room with a banana in your hand and a sheet over your shoulders.”

I take a look at myself. Sure enough, I'm standing in the middle of the living room with a banana in my hand and a sheet over my shoulders. John and Michelle are sitting on the couch staring at me.

“Sorry,” I apologize, “I thought you were chimpanzees.”

Michelle laughs softly.

John looks at me. “No, not the last time I checked. I'm John, your big brother. And this is Michelle, who already thinks I've got a strange family. Do you have to rub it in?”

The TV is on. They've been watching the late-night monster movie—
Godzilla Meets King Kong.

“Sorry, John. Sorry, Michelle. I didn't mean to—”

“It's OK, Arlo,” Michelle says. “I knew I could count on you for a little entertainment.” She looks at John and smiles.

I'm not sure how to take that statement. Entertainment?

“Good
night,
Arlo,” John says.

I think he's telling me to vacate the living room.

“Oh, yeah, good night, John. Good night, Michelle,” I say with a yawn, then start to turn toward my room.

“Oh, Arlo …”

“What, Michelle?”

She smiles at me. “Good luck tomorrow with your world-record attempt. I'm betting on you.”

Wow!

“You are? Really?” I ask.

“Yep. You can do it. I believe in you.”

“Gee … thanks, Michelle,” I stammer, feeling a little embarrassed.

She believes in me. Michelle believes in me. I
knew
she was smart. She's got “sparkle.”

I'm back in bed now. I feel good. I feel
great.
Someone important believes that I can break the world record for eating bananas. And she's almost an adult. This is wonderful.

But what if I
can't
do it? I ate five bananas in forty-three seconds today at Ben's garage. As good as it was for me, it still isn't good enough.

Michelle believes in me, though. Dad doesn't. I'm not sure about Mom. And John sure doesn't. Mrs. Caldwell and Murray the Nerd and a lot of kids at school don't believe I can do it. And worst of all, Laura doesn't. Laura McNeil, the most beautiful girl at Lincoln Elementary School, doesn't believe in me. I'm sure she doesn't. She doesn't even want to talk to me.

But Michelle does. I've got to remember that. Think positive—the Positive Brain Approach. And remember, Arlo Moore, you
can
do it.

CHAPTER 24

“Gazonk!”

—
K
ERRY
M
OORE

This is probably the most dangerous thing I've ever done. We're all here: Ben, Kerry, Mike, John, me, and even Michelle. We're here even though we're not supposed to be. We're here even though everybody said we can't. And we're here in Ben's garage to witness history being made, to see fame come to Seagrove, Oregon, and hopefully to watch at least one of us claim our rightful place in the
Guinness Book of World Records
(except John, who is here to collect on his bet).

“OK, Mike, you drew the queen of diamonds,” Ben says. “That means you go first.”

“Aw, c'mon, Ben,” Mike pleads, “not me. Not
first
.”

Ben looks at me, up at the ceiling, and back at Mike. “Look, we agreed that whoever got the queen would go first. Then whoever got the king would go second, and the ace would go last. You drew the queen. You go first.”

Mike lets out a long sigh. “Aw … OK. I guess it's fair,” he admits, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to another. “But why can't Arlo go first? This was his idea to begin with.”

“
Mike,
we agreed,” Ben reminds him.

“OK, OK … I'll go first. Who's got the ice cream?”

Ben has the ice cream in the big chest freezer they keep in their garage. The freezer is full of frozen beans, peas, corn, orange juice, chicken, beef, and fish. When you open it, an icy fog rises slowly up and around your head. It's like watching the creature of the black lagoon rise out of the murky swamp. Down in the back corner of the freezer are hidden three quarts of Lucerne Old-Fashioned Vanilla Ice Cream. “Pure and natural” it says on the carton. Mike says that if he's going to die from eating too much ice cream, he wants to go naturally.

Ben rises out of the murky swamp with the three quarts. That's three pounds, six ounces of ice cream. The same amount Tony Dowdeswell ate in 50.04 seconds.

Mike has done his warm-up exercises: jumping jacks and toe touches. He's now sitting in front of a card table. We are gathered around. I've “borrowed” Dad's stopwatch. Ben has it set on zero, point zero, zero.

“OK, Mike, this is it,” Ben says solemnly. “You have fifty seconds to eat all that ice cream.”

This is just like the Olympics. I can feel the tension in the air before the first big event. Thousands of spectators jam the stadium. Millions watch breathlessly on satellite TV.

Mike has a calm look on his face. He is sitting dead-still. He has his favorite spoon in his right hand, held like a flag in a parade.

Ben starts the countdown. “Take your mark …”

The three quarts of Lucerne Old-Fashioned Vanilla Ice Cream are lined up before him. He is staring at them. I'll bet he's planning his strategy.

“Get set ….”

Kerry is in her cheerleader's position. We all take a deep breath. This is
it.

“Go!” Ben shouts and clicks the stopwatch on.

Mike isn't moving.

“Go, Mike! Go, go, go!” Kerry screams.

Mike still isn't moving.

“Shisk, boom, bah! Go, Mike! Eat, eat, eat!” yells cheerleader Kerry.

Mike
still
isn't moving.

“You're wasting valuable time,” yells Ben. “Start eating!”

Mike is now looking at me. He hasn't moved. His spoon is still in his right hand, shining bright, clean, and unused.

“I can't do it, Arlo. You were right,” he says in a trembling voice.

Ben has stopped the stopwatch.

“But Mike,” I plead, “you trained so hard. You've got to try. At least give it a chance.”

“I just can't, Arlo. I tried last night. I only ate two quarts. My head hurt so bad, I thought it was going to split wide open. I just can't do it anymore. I'm sorry.”

Silence.

“You've worked hard,” Kerry finally says. “That's all that matters. Ice cream is just not the best food for you to eat, that's all.”

We all turn and look at Kerry.

“You think so? Really, Kerry?” Mike asks.

“Sure,” she says with a wave of her hand. “You should pick a food that doesn't hurt your head—like pancakes or grapes, or … peanuts. Yeah, peanuts!”

Mike's eyes have lit up like a Halloween pumpkin's.

“You know, you're right, Kerry,” he exclaims. “Peanuts! I love peanuts! Why didn't I think of that before?”

I'm getting fidgety. I must get this show back on the road. “OK, Kerry, it's your turn to try for your world record. Mike can try peanuts some other time.”

“Good idea, Arlo. Let's get ready,” Kerry bubbles. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, in the center ring … I will perform at seed-spitting!”

The
Guinness Book of World Records
says that the record for spitting a melon seed under WCWSSA (World Championship Watermelon Seed Spitting Association) rules is sixty-five feet, four inches. This was done by John Wilkinson in Luling, Texas, on June 28, 1980.

Kerry forgot to write the WCWSSA for a set of their rules. She says you just spit, that's all. And if it goes far enough, you win. Period.

“OK, you guys, I'm ready,” she says.

My curly-headed sister is standing on the spitting line. She's got on Dad's huge boots with the toe cut off to twelve inches exactly. “My spitting clompers,” she calls them. She's so pumped up for this, she's bouncing around like a set of rubber lips.

“Calm down, Kerry,” John says. “This is a spitting record you're going for, not a pogo stick contest.”

“I know, I know,” she assures us. “I'm just getting my energy concentrated. You know, all bundled up into a little power pack. I'm putting it in my throat. Then
pow,
I let it go at exactly the same time I spit.
Zing,
I break the world record.”

“Oh, I see,” John says, not at all convinced.

And I'm afraid I'm not convinced either. The garage door is open. I can see down the driveway and out onto the street. Mike has his dad's big measuring tape stretched out to the curb. And way out there, about one-third of the way across Holmes Road, I see Ben. He says he's standing on the line that is sixty-five feet, four inches from the line Kerry is standing on. That's how far she has to spit. It's a
long
way.

“Give me the seeds, Arlo,” Kerry says.

“Oh, yeah. Here you go—three watermelon seeds, just like we agreed. You have three chances to beat the record.”

“No problem, no problem, Arlo,” she assures me, still bouncing in place.

Right … no problem.

“You ready, Ben?” I shout toward the road.

The distant voice returns. “Yep, fire away.”

Kerry is concentrating now. She's building up her power pack. Slowly she arches her body. She tilts her head back and puckers her mouth. She looks like an archery bow with big lips. Her eyes squint. She takes a deep breath, and …
ptui,
she snaps forward like a band of steel.

“Twenty-seven feet, nine and one-half inches,” Mike yells from halfway down the driveway.

“Good spit, Kerry,” I say. “Let it happen, now. Shift into high gear.”

“Right, Arlo. No problem, no problem.”

Kerry is dancing around like a boxer in the ring. She's all concentrated power pack.

“Ready for number two!” shouts Ben.

“Ready for number two!” relays Mike.

Kerry is on the line again. “I'm ready for number two, you guys. Stand back.”

Once again, Kerry arches her body, puckers her lips, and tilts her head back. John, Michelle, and I stand back.

“Do it, Kerry,” Michelle whispers.

“Sssh,” says John.

Kerry is taking a deep breath. She moans, squints, and …
ptui,
seed number two leaves the launch pad.
Zing,
out the garage door. We hold our breath and wait.

“Thirty-three feet, one inch,” Mike reports from the driveway.

“Good, Kerry,” I yell. “That was your best yet. You can do it. Let it all go. Don't hold back. Concentrate!”

I'm getting excited. She's really been working at this. What form. What power. Look out,
Guinness Book of World Records!

“Ready for number three!” shouts Ben.

“Ready for number three!” screams Mike, a little too loud. “C'mon, Kerry, you can do it.”

“Give me a second, Arlo. I need to bring forth the power of gazonk.”

“The power of what?” I ask.

“Gazonk.”

Kerry is dancing around like our dog, Pork-chop, when he ate a bee. She's shaking her head and bouncing on her toes.

“What's the power of gazonk?” we all want to know.

“Spit power,” she says. “Concentrated spit power. It's all in the gazonk. I saved it till last. It's my secret helper. Seeds number one and two were just warm-ups. This is it. I can feel it.”

I think her hair is getting frizzier.

“OK, Kerry,” I say. “Whatever helps. We're ready for number three.”

John, Michelle, and I are now backed against Ben's garage wall. Kerry needs lots of room. Bouncing and boxing, she slowly circles up to the line.

“Go, Kerry,” Michelle whispers and crosses her fingers. I notice John crosses his fingers, too.

“Good luck, sis,” he and I both say at the same time.

Standing with her twelve-inch boots on the line, Kerry arches her back for the third time. If she arched back any farther, I think she'd fall over backward. Maybe those heavy boots hold her to the floor. Her eyes squint, lips pucker, and head tilts. An ear-bonking scream starts low and comes from deep inside my curly-headed, superspitting sister. Watermelon seed number three leaves Ben's garage with a thunderous
gazonk. Zing,
and it's gone.

CHAPTER 25

“I can, I can, I can, I can …”

—A
RLO
M
OORE

Watermelon seed number three almost hit Mike Snead. He was thirty-nine feet from the line. It then hit the pavement and bounced once. It skidded to a halt exactly forty-two feet, fourteen and three-quarter inches from where Kerry gazonked it.

We stood in the garage door and looked at Mike, Ben, and watermelon seed number three. And they (except for ol' number three) looked back. Kerry spoke first.

“Not bad, huh, Arlo?”

Not bad was an understatement.

“It may not be a world record,” she continued, “but you're looking at the best watermelon-seed-spitter in Seagrove, Oregon, aren't you, John?”