Jack's Black Book (14 page)

“That's right,” said Mrs. Pagoda. “It's taxation without representation for pets.”

I looked down at the nervous Pomeranian. I could just imagine it yapping, “Give me liberty or give me death!” ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for its species.

Before I left I asked Frankie, “How come I don't see you at school?”

“Are you at Sunrise?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I took some tests and they said I was too smart and sent me to Nova,” he said. “Did big-headed Mr. Ploof give you the tests?”

“Yeah,” I said. I was embarrassed to tell him my scores
but I did anyway. “They said I was average and kept me.”

“Don't sweat it,” he said. “The same thing happened to Gary. They said he was just average, too.”

Great, I thought. Gary Pagoda and I are on the same level. “One more thing,” I said to Frankie. “What's Gary listening to on his little tape recorder?”

“That's his self-help therapy,” he replied. “Whenever he gets wired up and angry he has to listen to a therapy tape to calm him down.”

“Well, it didn't work,” I said.

At dinner that night I told everyone I had gone over to visit the Pagodas. “I'm going to be part of the democratic process,” I said. “Mr. Pagoda wants me to help him beat Mr. Woody.”

“He needs more than help,” Dad said. “He needs a miracle.”

“Well, he's pretty confident,” I said. “He said he's going to take the anti-pet-tax issue all the way to the White House.”

“Yeah,” Betsy chimed in. “And they'll rename it the doghouse.”

“I wish you all wouldn't be so cynical,” I said. “I'm working for positive change, and you all are so negative.”

“A Pagoda in the White House is
not
positive change,” Dad said.

“Yeah,” said Betsy. “If you want positive change, you should just stop hanging around them.”

“Or get plastic surgery,” Pete added.

I stood up. ‘Just wait,” I said. “You'll all want to visit me when I'm living next to the White House.”

“Sure,” said Betsy. “There's always a line in front of the outhouse.”

I turned and walked back to my room. Every time I try to do something positive, I thought, my family tries to run me down. Well, I'll show them. I'm going to be on the Pagodas' winning team.

On my first day back at Sunrise I had seen Gary in my shop class. He was so much bigger than the other kids he looked like a second teacher. I had successfully avoided him for a month, but after he had seen me at his house he came over to my shop bench.

“Aren't you three years older than me?” I asked.

“Yeah, but back when I was a juvenile delinquent I failed a few years in a row, so now I'm making up for it. Let's be shop buddies,” he said. “My hypnotherapist said I should stop hanging around
bad influences”
—he nodded toward the guys I had seen him with earlier—“and should be with nicer guys.”

“What's a hypnotherapist?” I asked.

“It's a lady who hypnotizes me, then when I'm zonked out she plugs thoughts into my brain with a tape that repeats positive ideas like ‘Never hurt people' and ‘Play by
the rules' and ‘Cheaters never prosper'—soft stuff like that. And then when I pop out of my trance I behave better.”

I was certain that if I had a therapist she would want me to stay away from guys like Gary Pagoda.

“Come on,” Gary said. “Lighten up. I know I've been a psychopath in the past but everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Okay,” I said. I figured if I really believed in positive change, then it was possible that Gary Pagoda was no longer a killer just looking for a victim.

He stuck out his giant calloused hand. “Buddies,” he said. “Now shake on it.”

I looked him in the eye. He needed a shave. He had a gold tooth. I glanced down at his outstretched hand. L-O-V-E was tattooed across his knuckles. His left hand spelled out H-A-T-E.

“Okay,” I said. I took a deep breath and shook his LOVE hand.

“Awesome,” he said. “This is really a breakthrough for me. You're the first non-criminal friend I've ever had.”

“Didn't you have nice friends when you were in kindergarten?” I asked.

He thought about it, then replied. “That's one thing I've never been able to figure out. Did I turn them into bad kids, or did they turn me into a bad kid?”

“I guess if I turn into a criminal we'll know,” I ventured to say. I was still afraid to say something too funny around him in case he lost his sense of humor and took offense.

“You know what you're going to be doing later?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Passing out voter leaflets with me.”

“I have some other things to catch up on,” I replied.

He gave me a stern look and aimed his chin toward me as if lining me up for a punch. “We're buddies now,” he said. “Blood brothers.” Then he punched me in the shoulder. “My therapist said she wanted me to spend more time with nice kids. And you're it!”

Why didn't the therapist just tell him to get a nice pet? Or maybe he'd already gone through that stage and the pet didn't survive.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll be over once I do my homework.”

“Skip the homework,” he said.

“I'm trying to be a good influence,” I stressed, and slowly stepped back. I didn't want to make any sudden moves and get him riled up. He might have needed a few more sessions with the hypnotherapist. I was thinking that I needed to get an old pocket watch and if he started to lose it I could wave it in front of his eyes and calm him down.

“You can do homework tomorrow,” he insisted. “Today I'm in charge.”

I felt as if I had been kidnapped by a lunatic stalker.

“As soon as I get home I'll ride my bike over,” I said. “I promise.”

“Forget the bike,” he replied. “I'll pick you up in the motor home.”

“That giant thing?”

He nodded. “Hey, I've had that motor home up to a hundred and twenty,” he said. “If it had wings I'd fly it around like a bomber.”

I gave him the address. He read it. “You guys sure have gone downhill since moving away from us,” he remarked.

Not far enough, I thought.

By the time I got home from school I forgot all about my fear of Gary Pagoda, and instead felt proud that he had chosen me to be a good influence on him. Dad had always said I led Pete astray and gave him a lot of really bad advice as an older brother. And Betsy claimed I was so lousy at running my own life that I should be legally prevented from making any decisions for myself. So when Gary picked me to be his buddy and help him be a better person I felt as though
I
was a better person. And I felt smart. Maybe I'll become a therapist, I thought. I could go around helping people be nicer to themselves and each other, kind of like a Johnny Apple-seed of positive change.

I'd just been home for a minute and was standing in front of the open refrigerator drinking out of the milk carton when Betsy yelled out from the living room, “Hey! Does anyone here have a friend who drives the Goodyear blimp?”

“That's for me,” I yelled back. “It's Gary Pagoda.”

Betsy was so shocked she put her book down and ran into the kitchen. “
You
are hanging around with Gary Pagoda?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “He's a pretty mellow guy since he got some therapy.”

“Right!” she scoffed. “Therapy for him is eating puppies like you for breakfast.”

“No way,” I said. “I'm killing him with kindness.”

“Well, watch he just doesn't kill you the old-fashioned way—with a knife through your neck.”

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and dashed out the front door before she started to make sense to me. After all, if his hypnotherapy wore off, I'd be his first victim.

The motor home couldn't even fit in the driveway so he was parked on the street.

“Hurry up,” he yelled from the driver's-side window when he caught sight of me. “Dad gave me a list of things to do as long as your arm.”

I opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat. It was so high up I felt as if I were sitting on top our house. “What's our first stop?” I asked.

“Old-age homes,” he replied, and pointed to a list on the console between us. “Dad's political consultant says if we get the retirement vote we'll kick butt. On election day I'll drive all those ancient wrinkle rats down to the polls and make 'em vote Pagoda, or else I'll threaten to drop 'em off out in the Everglades.” He laughed a cruel laugh.

“Now, is that nice?” I asked, sounding a lot like my mom.

“You're right,” he said, and popped me one on the shoulder. “I won't threaten any of 'em. I was just fooling around.”

“Well, that's how trouble begins,” I said, again sounding just like my mom. I took a deep breath, and figured it was time to change the subject before I drove him crazy. When I saw a tattoo of a rattlesnake around his wrist, I said, “I'd love a tattoo.” That was a mistake.

“Yeah,” he said, and took another bite of his teriyaki-flavored Slim Jim. “Let's screw the leaflets until later. I know the best tattoo artist in the South.” He pulled a U-turn and we almost tipped over. When he straightened out the wheel he clipped the fender of a parked car. Then he just kept going.

“You know what my favorite show is on TV?” he asked, while picking up speed.

I tightened my seat belt as I thought of the most violent show. “Roller derby?”

“Nay,” he said. “Demolition derby. I love watching those cars smash into each other like bumper cars. When we used to steal cars we'd play demolition derby where we'd drive down the street and sideswipe parked cars. It was awesome.”

“Did the police ever catch you?” I asked.

“Sure they did,” he said. “Heck, they knew it was us. I mean, how many guys do you know that are as crazy as I am?”

No one came to mind. No one even got close.

“See what I mean,” he said. “The police knew there were no other nuts like me in this town.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Dania,” he replied. “All the bikers go to this one awesome guy, Savage Sam.”

“I don't have any money,” I said. “We can do this some other time.”

He waved me off. “Don't sweat it,” he said. “I owe you ten bucks for starters, and you can pay me the difference later.”

When we arrived at the tattoo parlor Gary pulled up onto the front yard, which was nothing but packed dirt and weeds. A big motorcycle with a skull and crossbones painted on the gas tank was chained to a dead palm tree. We climbed down and stood before the black door of a little tilted house.

Before we could ring the doorbell a tall, nasty-looking guy in black leather pants, no shirt, a handlebar mustache, and a bald head stepped out onto the porch. “Hey, Pagoda, you loser!” he yelled. “They finally let you out of the can. Come on in. You're in luck. One of my appointments canceled, so I have time for a job. Now, what is it you are after?”

Gary pointed at me. “Here's your next victim,” he said.

“Well, kid,” Savage Sam the Tattoo Man asked. “You got any ideas?” He stood in front of me as if he were some kind of tattoo menu.

I was stunned. He had the strangest tattoos. Over his
heart, he had a tattoo of a heart with a nail driven into it. Over his lungs, he had a tattoo of lungs filled with green smoke. Over his liver, he had a liver inside a large martini glass. He reminded me of one of those plastic anatomy models in school. The kind where you can see through their clear skin and examine all the organs. Only Sam was a model of organs gone bad. He even had a brain tattooed on his bald head, with a little turned-off light bulb in the middle.

“Well,” Sam said again. “What's your big idea?”

I'd rather have gone home and cleaned the toilet, or washed dishes, or pulled weeds. That was my idea. Anything but what I was doing. I kept thinking that it was my job to be a good influence on Gary. And if I was doing my job I'd just take a deep breath and say, “I changed my mind.” But I knew Gary would just groan and get all grumpy, and Savage Sam would roll his eyes like I was some dumb kid and say, “Wuss. Chicken. Loser. Don't waste my time.” Then he'd throw me out the front door.

So I said, “Yeah, I have an idea. In memory of my dead dog, I want a little dog tattooed on the tip of my big toe. The smallest dog ever, like a dog so small it could fit next to Abraham Lincoln's feet on the back of a penny. A dog about the size of a flea, so that if my dad saw it he would think it was a piece of dirt.”

Savage looked back at Gary. “So you brought me a challenge,” he said, grinning and nodding his dead-brained head.

“I told you I had smart friends,” Gary replied, giving me the double thumbs-up.

“Awesome,” Savage said as he picked up his high-speed drill and revved it a few times. “I'm up for it, dude.” He turned to me. “Take off your shoe and sock.”

I did. He studied my toe for a minute. “I'll do my best to keep it small,” he said. But judging by the giant teeth tattooed on the outside of his face, the thick arteries climbing up his neck, and a full-size 3-D backbone over his backbone, I didn't think the word “small” was in Sam's vocabulary.

First, he washed my toe with one of those hand wipes you get in restaurants after you eat a lobster. Then he put on a rubber glove. When he turned on the tattoo gun the needle whined like a dental drill, and when he pressed it against my toe it felt the same way, only worse. There was no novocaine. Gary held my foot down on the mat and I bit down on a rawhide dog-chew toy as Savage Sam drew on me. I didn't dare wiggle my toe, for otherwise I figured BeauBeau's face would have a scratch line across it like when you just goof around with an Etch-A-Sketch.