Puppet Wrangler Read online

  You’d swear I’d just called his mother a hairless mole rat or something. He was so insulted.

  “Oh nice!” he said. “I remind you of those…zombies, do I?!” He got this crazy look on his face. All he needed was some froth coming out of his mouth and an axe and he’d have made the perfect “Puppet from Hell.” “Do I look…to you…like some foam-head who can’t function until someone sticks a hand up my bum?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. But it was obviously something that meant a lot to him. (That’s what the family counselor said when Bess kicked out the window in her office.)

  “Do I look like I’m moving my mecs?!?” He put his hands up in the air like “I’m not doing anything!” and then crossed and uncrossed his eyes until I was worried he might get sick.

  “Do you see Jimmy’s hand anywhere down here?” He pointed his rear end in my direction and bent over.

  Right over. So his head was coming up between his legs and he could get a good close look up his own empty bum.

  He went, “Gee…I don’t see anything!” like he was all surprised or something. He whipped himself back up straight, then turned around, really full of himself, like one of those TV lawyers who’s just won his case.

  “If you think those plastic dolls can do this on their own, you’re crazy. They’re just puppets!”

  He was having a good little laugh at what a moron I was when I asked the obvious question.

  “Then what are you?”

  He stopped chuckling and tried to give me a “Can-you-believe-this-kid?” look, but I knew I had him. I didn’t say anything. I just waited. After a while, he shrugged.

  “Okay, I’m a puppet too. But I’m different. In case you haven’t noticed…” Big pause. “I’m alive. It’s not much of a life, I admit, playing Bitsie the Bonehead all day, then spending all night watching TV or finishing Jimmy’s crossword puzzle—but hey! It’s my life.”

  Gee, how sad was that. Even the old people at the Mayflower Rest Home get bingo on Saturday nights.

  “Don’t you have any friends? Someone to hang out with?” Suddenly, it was like I was his guidance counselor or something.

  “You’re my one and only, baby! No one knows about my special little talents but you. And I didn’t even mean that to happen. As you know.”

  “Why not tell people?”

  “Why? Miss Hide-Under-the-Bed-with-my-Best-Friends-the-Dust-Bunnies has to ask why? Because I don’t want the hassle. Can you imagine what would happen if anyone ever found out about me? Everyone would want a piece of me.”

  Like he’s so special or something.

  “They’d all be trying to make money off me. Then I wouldn’t even be able to live the crummy little life I have now. I’d be spending my entire life in front of the camera instead of just eight to four, Monday through Friday, with an hour off for lunch and two fifteen minute coffee breaks.

  If you think I’d want that, you’re dreaming, kid.”

  That made me laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” he said.

  “It’s just funny to be dreaming about dreaming,” I said, wondering if they covered that in my dream book. It probably meant I was dead or insane or something.

  He gave me one of those “puh-leese” sighs.

  “You’re not dreaming.”

  “Yes, I am.” I kind of laughed.

  “No, you aren’t.”

  “Am too.” He was starting to bug me.

  “Are not.” He was serious.

  “Am too.”

  “Are not.”

  “Am too.”

  “Are not.”

  “Am too!” I shouldn’t have screamed, but I’d had it.

  I don’t know why. It just wasn’t funny anymore.

  “Okay, I’ll prove it,” he said.

  “Go ahead.” I tried to say that the way Bess would have.

  Like “You and what army?”

  Bitsie was enjoying this. He knew I couldn’t back down.

  If it were just a dream, what was there to be afraid of? So he goes, “Take your index finger…Yup. That’s the one. With the long nail…”

  “Okay.”

  “And shove it up your nose…That-a-girl…Farther… farther…Get it right up there…”

  “Ouch!”

  I couldn’t do it anymore. It hurt. And it was grossing me out too.

  “See?” he went. “I told you you weren’t dreaming. You wouldn’t even have felt that in a dream. Proof positive: I’m as alive as you are!”

  I wanted to argue with him, but there was nothing I could say. That guy in my brain started running around again, asking if anyone knew what was going on. Nobody had a clue. (In fact, they were all getting out of there as fast as they could. None of my brain cells wanted to stick around to find out what weird thing was going to happen next.)

  I started to get really freaked out. I felt cold. And scared. I couldn’t catch my breath. There had to be an explanation.

  Think. Think. Think. Think. Think. Think. Think.

  11

  JUST SO YOU KNOW

  PART II.

  I want to stop here a second and make sure this is clear.

  I’m not prone to “flights of fancy” (Mum’s term) or “hysteria” (Dad’s). That’s why I’m a “blessing” (Mum, Dad and most of the neighbors). They could always count on me to be “reasonable” and “no trouble.” They know that one day I’ll grow up to be a scientist or a librarian or some other boring thing that won’t involve bailing me out of jail or apologizing to a whole bunch of people all the time. They don’t say so—but I know they were kind of happy that my language arts assignments were always so blah. People with “vivid imaginations” write funny stories and commit crimes or come up with other ways to make their parents’ lives miserable.

  What I’m trying to say is that I’m not the type to believe that a hunk of foam rubber with eight fingers and a bright yellow Albert Einstein hairdo would talk to me. It just would never cross my mind.

  So I knew there had to be a logical explanation for what seemed to be happening now. I told myself that, with the possible exception of Bess, there was a reason for everything.

  There had to be. I knew it.

  I just had to focus. Stop panting and focus. I could see for myself that a puppeteer wasn’t behind this. There were no electrical cords or wires coming out of Bitsie, so he wasn’t a robot. We were definitely alone. And Candid Camera skits don’t go on this long.

  I ruled out any obvious trick I could think of. So maybe there was something about me that was making this happen.

  But what? What did I do differently that day—other than, like, everything, that is?

  Something must have happened. Did I hit my head? Did I inhale poisonous fumes? Was it something I ate?

  Of course!

  Why didn’t I think of that before?

  12

  I’M TRYING

  TO BE REASONABLE HERE.

  “I’m hallucinating. You don’t exist!” I was so excited. “There was something in the pop! Or …or…or I overdosed on sugar! No, no, no! Of course!” I punched the air like one of those yahoo football players. “Kathleen’s face cream! I ate Kathleen’s face cream!”

  It all made perfect sense—even if you didn’t know Kathleen. Just think about it. The brain is all wrinkly. It dawned on me that those wrinkles probably had something to do with logic or sanity or something and if you did something to make them disappear—like eat anti-wrinkle cream, for instance—your mind went haywire. All of a sudden it just seemed so obvious.

  You wouldn’t believe how relieved I was. I just slumped against the wall and started laughing. Laughing, you know, the way you do when you think you lost your mother’s watch and tear the whole house to shreds looking for it and then suddenly remember you put it back in her jewelry box before you went out and it was never lost at all.

  All that panic for nothing. Even Bitsie’s so-called proof of his existence didn’t hold up once I thought a
bout it logically.

  “You’re a hallucination—but the finger up my nose was real. That’s why I could feel it!”

  I figured that was the end of that.

  Wrong.

  Bitsie wasn’t laughing. His eyes had gone blank, like buttons or something. His eyelids were half shut and he’d pulled his lips into this tight little “o.” It was all very dramatic. I couldn’t help thinking what amazing things they can do with puppets these days—or hallucinations for that matter. With that look I knew right away Bitsie was majorly p.o.ed.

  People often act mad when they’re really hurt. That much I remembered from our little family counseling sessions. And I could understand why Bitsie would be mad at me. I always hated it when Bess acted like I didn’t exist. There aren’t many things more insulting than that. Call me stupid, ugly or smelly and it hurts—but at least it’s a pretty good sign that you noticed me. Even sniffing in disgust is better than having someone look right through you. (Maybe not—but you get my point. There’s stuff you can spray on—or wash off—to smell better. What can you do to exist better?)

  Anyway, I felt for Bitsie. I wasn’t trying to be mean. I was just trying to figure out what the heck was going on. I was all ready to apologize to him—real or not—when he did the most irritating thing. Classic Bitsie.

  Out of nowhere, he just threw one foot onto my shoulder, yanked himself up by my nostrils and sat on my head. My grunting and squealing didn’t seem to bother him a bit. He just sat there bouncing his puffy blue feet off my shoulders.

  I was ripped. Sure, I might have hurt him—unintentionally—but I didn’t use his nostrils for monkey rings. I would have biffed him right off except I remembered how much

  Zola said he cost to make. What with bus repairs and legal bills, my parents didn’t need another expense right then.

  So I took a long slow breath in through my poor bleeding nose. (Another little family counseling trick. Helps you stay calm.) I had no other choice. I told myself he was a person too, with feelings just like mine. (Okay, he wasn’t a person, but I decided to leave figuring out what he was for another time.)

  I let the breath out through my mouth.

  “Fine,” I said. “You have proved you exist. I just don’t know how.”

  I guess that was good enough for him. He grabbed me by the ears and did a back flip off my head. I was supposed to be impressed, but there was no way! It’s not like he had bones or muscles or anything that could actually get hurt. Any puppet who really wanted to could have done it just as well.

  “Why are you hung up about ‘how’?” he said, using the sharp end of Jimmy’s pencil to unstick his left eyeball.

  “What can’t they make these days? They’ve got cars that tell you which direction to go. T-shirts that know if you’re getting enough vitamins.”

  “Yeah. But there’s a reason someone would make those things! They actually help people!”

  I shouldn’t have said that. It just slipped out. It was like I was telling Bitsie he existed but didn’t count. I thought he was going to give me that look again, but he surprised me.

  He laughed.

  “Yeah. I’ve got the same problem with that theory.

  There’s not really much point to being me—at least as far as I can see.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  We both sort of smiled and looked away. We weren’t mad at each other anymore, but neither of us was about to admit it.

  “So got any other theories?” I said, figuring his mood had improved.

  “Whaddya mean? About ‘how the Incredible Bitsie came to be’? I don’t know! How did you come to be?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was ready for this. But hey, I wasn’t ready for a talking puppet. He’d just have to brace himself.

  “Well, basically, the female body produces eggs and the male body produces…”

  I didn’t have time to finish.

  “Stop! Stop! Please! I’ve seen the Health Channel!” He made a “don’t-make-me-gag” face. “You people look at puppets like we’re the weirdos! At least we’re not oozing fluids all over the place.”

  “Hey, you asked!”

  “That’s not what I meant. I was talking about the bigger picture. Not where did you come from. But where did the first egg and…whatever…come from.”

  I hate thinking about things like that. Mum and Dad fell in love, had Bess and then had me. That I can understand—though the part about having another kid after Bess always throws me a bit.

  But trying to figure out how the whole thing started, how the first person started—that’s too big. It’s like swimming in the middle of the ocean. You could paddle around forever and ever and never reach the place you’re trying to get to.

  “Well?” he said, all smart-alecky again.

  “I don’t know. Some higher being made them I guess.

  God or something.”

  “And so why couldn’t He…”

  “Let’s say She…” I can be obnoxious too.

  “Okay, why couldn’t She have made a talking puppet?

  It’s not the strangest thing She came up with. She made platypuses. She made those hairless cats, not to mention people who actually find them cute. Hey…She made your Aunt Kathleen!”

  We both laughed.

  “Good point,” I said. “So is that really what you think happened? Some god made you?”

  Bitsie sighed. “Who cares?!? We can sit around here figuring out the meaning of life—or we can go out and actually try to live one.”

  On one hand, that sounded pretty good—in an Oprah Winfrey kind of way. (I could tell Bitsie was really proud of it too. Like he was Mr. Inspirational or something.) On the other hand, it sounded a lot like the type of thing Bess does.

  By which I mean scary and/or illegal.

  There was a long pause (by Bitsie standards, anyway). I figured he’d said everything he was going to say.

  Oh, right. Like that would ever happen.

  “Anyway, in answer to your question, I do have three theories about how I came to be. One: I’m a freak of nature. Sort of the five-legged frog of the puppet world.

  Don’t look so shocked! I’m perfectly fine with that. If that’s who I am, that’s who I am. Theory two: I’m a figment of your imagination.”

  Oh boy, that made me mad. I practically attacked him.

  “What?! You just spent all this time bullying me into believing you’re real, and now you’re telling me I just made you up!”

  Bitsie rolled his eyes at me, which, frankly, no figment of my imagination would ever have the nerve to do. My imagination was the one thing I had any control over. Or at least I used to.

  “Hey, it’s just a theory. I thought you’d be pleased. If you ask me, as figments go, I’m way more interesting than your little under-the-bed world. Think of me as a sign you’re improving!”

  That was just mean and there was no way I was going to ask the little know-it-all creep what his third theory was.

  As if I’d have to.

  “Theory three: You’re a figment of my imagination. That’s the theory I like best because it means I don’t have to waste anymore time talking about this crap.” He gave me a phony smile and turned away.

  Fine.

  Jerk.

  Neither of us said anything for a long time. Bitsie sat flicking his mecs. I cracked my knuckles. After a while it made me laugh. I couldn’t help it. It was so obvious we were both just trying to bug each other.

  Bitsie snorted too. I knew he was thinking exactly the same thing. He gave his eye mec a major yank and his eyeballs started bouncing around in his head like bingo markers. It was hilarious.

  He may not be real. And he’s definitely irritating.

  But right then I knew he was my friend.

  13

  HE GROWS ON YOU.

  We just goofed around for another hour or two. Bitsie even let me try puppeteering. It meant sticking my hand up his bum, but it was still a lot of fun.

  Bits
ie checked the time and made sure the night watchman wouldn’t be around for a while. Then he hooked everything up for me. The camera. The sound. The lights. Everything. (For a puppet, he’s pretty smart.) We crawled under the set and he put Jimmy’s sweatband11 around my forehead. It had this little tiny microphone attached to it. And I mean “tiny,” like halfway between a Tic-Tac and a jelly bean. Sort of like a Cherry Nib but black and not as fat. I guess you could say it was more like a Licorice Nib but rounded at the end.

  Anyway, you get the idea.

  Bitsie taped a script on the wall in front of me, then turned on one of the televisions—though, of course, when I called it a television he made this big deal about it being a “monitor.” A Mon-I-Tor, as in “you idiot.” He was shaking his head and snorting as if I’d called it a donut or a bicycle or something. It sure looked like a TV to me. How was I to know it only played back what the camera was recording? I thought the puppeteers were under there watching Seinfeld or something when they weren’t busy.

  I’m not even going to tell you what Bitsie said to that. He a had good laugh at my expense, then finally pulled himself together enough to explain that the puppeteers watch the monitor so they can see what their puppets are doing.

  Bitsie attached these two metal rods to his hands and climbed up onto the set. I stayed underneath and put my right hand over my head, through the set and up his bum.

  He suddenly started screaming like he was in terrible pain.

  I yanked my arm out as fast as I could. I didn’t know what I’d done.

  Nothing of course.

  Bitsie was just doing that to bug me. He couldn’t feel a thing. I mean, he’s a puppet after all! I was sort of embarrassed I even fell for it. How stupid was that?

  When he finally stopped laughing enough that he could stand up, I tried again. I put my right hand up his body and into his head. My fingers were on the top part of his mouth and my thumb was on the bottom. That made him talk in a funny voice, sort of the way you do when the dentist has her hand in your mouth. He told me to take the cord that was hanging out of his insides with my left hand. There was this little springy thing at the end of it that looked exactly like the gizmo Dad has on his camera. The one he uses to snap family pictures when he wants to be in the photo too.