The Fat Man (5 page)

“More bull,” Rosebud called out after me. “You’re a regular rodeo cowboy.”

“No,” I said, as I headed out the door. “I’m a regular misfit.”

As I said it, I knew what I was going to do next.

T
he only way to get to the Island of Misfit Toys was by boat, and the only boat was a slow one,
The Scrooge
. Tiny Tim was the skipper, so the barge literally limped through the water. I’m not kicking the kid with a crutch; that was Tim’s joke. Not too many ventured out to Misfit Isle and Tiny was starved for company. When he got a passenger for a crossing, Tiny Tim made the most of it. “We’ll limp over to the island as quickly as we can,” he’d say, giving the motor a gasp of fuel. “But Uncle Scrooge doesn’t like me to waste fuel skipping across the water. Costs too much money. I fear a leopard can’t change all of his spots.” Then Tiny would settle in and ask you a million questions, do tricks with his crutch, anything for a little companionship. Tiny Tim was lonely, forgotten except when Christmas needed a sad, saintly cherub to tug at the heartstrings, but then folks moved on. Uncle Eb’s comeuppance was where the scenery got chewed and the gimp tended to slow down the hamming. Tiny Tim was constantly being pushed to the side. Still, he seemed to take it in stride.

“Gumdrop, it is oh so nice to see you,” Tiny said. “It truly is.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” I said. “How are you doing, Tiny? How’s the boat business?”

“Oh, it is splendid!” he said. “As good a job as I could ever hope for, and much more than I deserve. Despite his grumbling, Uncle Scrooge really is very kind to give me this ship to captain.”

“Seems to me a good kid like you deserves something with a little more dignity,” I said. “You’re the poster child for the Nice List.”

“You are too kind, Gumdrop,” Tim said. “But I really don’t mind. In fact, with my withered leg and common crutch, I feel a true kinship with the Misfits. They too are crooked and broken, but, on the inside, giving and true of heart. A crust of love’s bread is what we seek. If others are not able to share a crumb, at least we can share it with each other. It is an honor, truly, to do so with my Misfit friends.”

“Tim, you’re as good as gold.”

“Now, now, you will make me blush,” Tiny said. “So what brings you out to Misfit Isle?”

“I was thinking about seeing if they had any room,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sure they’d be glad for the company, yes indeed,” Tiny said. “But you are perfectly normal. It appears all your appendages are appropriately aligned.”

“Maybe I just don’t fit in at home,” I said.

“I am sure you are loved more than you can possibly know.”

“Always cheering the other guy up, aren’t you Tiny,” I said. “Are there any more of you? Do you ever get mad? Fed up? Ever want to take that stick you’re leaning on and smack someone’s kisser?”

My little speech embarrassed Tiny. He turned red and stared quietly out at the sea. “You must not think such things,” Tiny said after a while. “If I were to have such a mean and hard heart, I would not deserve my many blessings. I would inherit Uncle Scrooge’s other fate. I would belong to the ranks of Pottersville.”

I laughed. “I could not ever imagine Tiny Tim in Pottersville, kiddo. Though your stick would come in handy when it came to cleaning someone’s clock.”

Tim turned away from me again.

“Sorry Tim,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” We rode the rest of the way to Misfit Isle in silence.

It’s not that the Misfit citizens were not hospitable or good company, but they were a moody bunch, especially where elves were concerned, so you never knew when your welcome would be worn out. At the end of the day, elves were responsible for the Misfits. The Misfits were there because some elf botched a design or a production plan, or simply came up with a really lame idea for a toy that the kids never cottoned to. When Santa saw that a toy could not be used, could not be loved, he would not deliver it on Christmas Eve, hurting a Misfit’s feelings plenty. The island was home to thousands of toys that weren’t up to snuff. Most were toy experiments, but sometimes dozens of botched toys were made before production was stopped. These “families” of toys tended to create their own neighborhoods on Misfit Isle, so they could easily share clothes and accessories. The one-offs were the free spirits of the island, the beatniks. They were the happier toys because they didn’t round too many corners and see wrecked versions of themselves. In the beginning, Santa tried to let the Misfits live with everybody else in Kringle Town, but it was tough. Regular toys mocked the Misfits and made them feel like second-class citizens. Every few months, the Misfits would get fed up with the teasing and the stares and strike back at toys or even, out of frustration, at elves. Santa tried to pacify them in every way, but it got to where toys and elves and other folks in Kringle Town could not walk down certain streets at night safely, so Santa opened Misfit Isle. Santa thought he was creating a place where the Misfits could escape the teasing from other toys and have a better life. The Misfits saw it as banishment because an elf was stupid or incompetent. Santa hurt the Misfits’ feelings, and the bitter seed took root. All in all though, life on the island was pretty good and most of the Misfits forgave, but didn’t necessarily forget. You never knew when they would get prickly and strike back. You didn’t want to be around then. When a toy has nothing to lose, he can be dangerous. I guess that goes for all of us too.

Still, I had friends there.

Sherlock Stetson and his Cow-Frau, Zsa Zsa, were a couple of toy disasters, but they were good eggs. A long time ago, cowboy and detective toys were all the rage, for both little boys and girls. One demented elf—Argyle Harmony, I think it was—got it into his pointy head to create a man and wife cowpoke sleuthing team, so little boys and girls could play together. Sherlock Stetson and Zsa Zsa were born. Unfortunately, something went squirrelly in the works, and Sherlock and Zsa Zsa came up short. For a master detective, Sherlock Stetson was kind of dim; he couldn’t find a cow in a stampede. He had no talent for mysteries; most problems required him to lie down and take a nap. His dazed look and clueless phrases when you pulled his drawstring (
“Dern, if that clue had been a stampede, I’d be daid!”
) did not inspire children to play with him, and the half-ten-gallon/half-deerstalker cap adorned with bull horns made him look like an imbecile from a very bad opera. It didn’t help that Sherlock Stetson also drooled. I think he was supposed to be able to spit “baccy juice,” but his pucker had a sputter and the result was that Sherlock looked like he needed to be wheeled off to the dayroom for crafts.

Zsa Zsa Schnitzel was supposed to be Sherlock’s funny and bright better half, firing up beans and kraut by the campfire to fuel Papa’s deductive thoughts and rides to the rescue. However, because Sherlock’s brain batteries were not included, she ended up having to take the crime-solving reins, and she didn’t like the extra chores. Zsa Zsa was bitter about taking second billing to a husband she didn’t want. “I vant to vatch zee crows eat zee brain outen his head,” she’d say to anyone who’d listen. “If I have to solven another crime for him, I vill slit my throat wit a spur!” We elves did a little research and found that kids didn’t want to play with the pair because the toys reminded them too much of their parents, minus the six-guns, lassos and language that would make the men of Tombstone gasp. Argyle tried to make them more appealing by giving the couple horses (Pudd and Clobber), but the result only made Sherlock and Zsa Zsa look like the sorry Horse-couple of the Apocalypse. Sherlock Stetson, Zsa Zsa and the rest of their bunkhouse buddies were banished to Misfit Isle without getting a real shot at playtime with kids, and that hurt them a little, I think. Well, it hurt Zsa Zsa. Sherlock forgot. Anyway, Sherlock Stetson and Zsa Zsa were permanent residents of Misfit Isle and my best friends there.

Years ago, Sherlock Stetson and Zsa Zsa helped me transition some Misfits who were going to be new to the island and we formed a good friendship. Even with the threats, the gouging, the broken crockery and the broken English, I enjoyed their company. I could count on Sherlock for a friendly face and simple advice, and Zsa Zsa was always good for a great meal and a kick in the pants.

I took a wobbly toy trolley car from the docks to the heart of Misfitville. The place hadn’t changed much. Once you got past the shock of seeing toys with missing parts or too many parts, it looked like most any place in the world, except maybe this one was in need of some kind of telethon. Goo-spewing baby dolls cried in door stoops ignored by anatomically incorrect Malibu Sues who were watching their soldier and astronaut boyfriends put some “automatic kung-fu arm action” to the engine blocks of various broken vehicles. A few of them gave me the stink eye as I cruised by, but I felt safe. In the state I was in, I was one of them.

It took a few minutes for Sherlock to answer the door. Zsa Zsa screamed from the deep bowels of the bunkhouse, “Go answerin’ zee door, you nincompoop!” A few minutes later, she said, “Zee
front
door, kraut for brains! Go to zee
front
!” I heard Sherlock pass by the front door a couple of times before he finally got a clue that he should open it. He seemed glad to have done so when he finally swung the door open and saw me standing there. “Why Lemondrop Coat, what a surprise,” he said.

“Hiya, Sherlock. It’s Gumdrop Coal, you remember me?”

“Why sure, Smallpox Cope, how could I forget you? C’mon in!” he said, leading me into the bunkhouse with a friendly hug. “It’s been forever since we seen you last. I’m sure pleased you came to see us. Zsa Zsa will be so happy that you’re here. I sometimes reckon she finds my company a mite tiresome.”

As if on cue, Zsa Zsa burst into the hall from the kitchen. “Vhere in zee tarnation did you put zee eggs?! Were you trying to hatchen zem again?” she hollered, but stopped short when she saw me. Her eyes flashed red for a half a second and I thought I had picked the wrong day to be an elf. But then a sly smile snaked across her face. “Vell, if it isn’t Gumdrop Coal!”

“No, it’s Porkchop Hole, sweetie,” Sherlock corrected her.

“Shut uppen before I kick you in zee chaps,” Zsa Zsa snapped. “I been listening datz you had some trouble, my vittle Gumdrop,” she said to me. “A vittle trouble. It is good zat you come to talk to Zsa Zsa. I vill fix. Kitchen.”

Those were marching orders, so I obeyed and followed her into a room of uncommonly good smells. Sherlock showed up a few minutes later, having forgotten to follow us. When he was glad to see me all over again, Zsa Zsa shoved a sausage in his mouth. “Quiet, idiot. Me and my vittle Gumdrop has to talk smart!” she barked.

“I can’t believe the news about me getting canned traveled so fast,” I said. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“It is large deal,” Zsa Zsa said. “Now you are out vit Santa? Like a Misfit? Vhy? Zee fat man love the bad kinder, but can’t find a place in his heart for Misfit Toys!”

“It seems that Candy Cane has a better way of handling things,” I said. “And maybe he does, I don’t know.”

Zsa Zsa huffed. She began kneading a roll of dough like she was trying to tear the hide off an animal. “Candy Cane is impressive, yes,” she said. “But me think he is not so smart to get my vittle Gumdrop fired. Are you sure you did not make Santa mad?”

“Not that I know of,” I said. “I mean, Santa’s always been a little uncomfortable with the idea of the Coal Patrol. He doesn’t like to leave anyone out.”

“Zat is not true,” Zsa Zsa said, strangling the dough. “This island is full of toys he left out.”

“Sorry, I meant kids.”

“I know what you meant,” Zsa Zsa said. “But it is not fair what he did to us, not fair. Misfit Toys vould be loved by some children if only Santa didn’t spoil zem so vit perfect toys.” She slammed the dough down, making sure it was dead. “What do you tink zis Candy Cane vill do?”