I Totally Funniest: A Middle School Story Page 8

  “Yeah. I’m sad to go.” I open my arms to take in all the people camping out on cots. “I’m gonna miss all this.”

  Yes, I’m being sarcastic.

  And a little mean-spirited.

  That’s the dark side of comedy. When you use it as a weapon to defend yourself, you can also injure innocent bystanders.

  In fact, once, not too long ago, I made a vow that I would never, ever tell a joke if it hurt somebody other than me.

  But that was before I made it to the Final Four.

  And all the coolest kids at school wanted me to make them laugh.

  And Chatty Patty reminded me how not funny I am.

  And Uncle Frankie needed a million bucks to reopen his diner and buy a new jukebox.

  Mrs. Smiley sighs and looks sadder than I’ve ever seen a Smiley, which is saying something.

  “We’re very disappointed in you, Jamie,” she says.

  “I know. Excuse me.”

  I roll off to the restrooms to be by myself and stare at someone else who’s seriously disappointed in my behavior today.

  Me.

  Chapter 55

  STINKING UP THE BATHROOM

  My smartphone has a flashlight app.

  So I flick it on and pretend I’m out in Hollywood, basking in the spotlight, even though I’m in the high school locker room, gacking in the stench of a thousand soggy sweat socks.

  Before I fly off to Hollywood for the finals, I have to make sure I’m ready to rock.

  I need my best material. Nothing but my A-game.

  No more lame wheelchair jokes. To win this thing, I need primo Jamie Grimm-o.

  Too bad I’ve got absolutely nothing. It’s zip, zero, nada time again.

  I turn away from the mirrors and stare at all the doors to the toilet stalls. I can’t even come up with a single decent knock-knock joke.

  Nothing’s working. Nothing’s funny.

  Except the idea that I ever thought I could be a big-time comedian. That’s hilarious. Which reminds me of the only joke I can remember right now: “People laughed at me when I told them I was going to be a comedian. Well, they’re not laughing now.”

  Totally dejected, I roll out of the locker room and head for my cot.

  As I drift off to sleep, I squeeze my eyes tight and say a silent prayer: “Um, God, it’s me again. Jamie Grimm. Uh, sir, if you haven’t given up on me already—and to tell the truth, I wouldn’t blame you if you had—can you throw me a bone, here? A funny bone? Just one joke? Maybe something about you and Moses golfing up in heaven with your son? Or how about something zany at the Pearly Gates with Saint Peter?”

  I wait.

  All I hear are snores and creaking cots.

  Seems God is all out of fresh material for me, too.

  So I ask Him for one last favor.

  “Please tell Mom and Dad and little Jenny that I’m sorry for turning into an egomaniacal bonehead. I think I need to apologize to you, too, sir. I’m sorry I took this gift you gave me and blew it. I really, truly am. And if you ever give me another gift, I promise—I’ll take better care of it. Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter 56

  WAKE-UP CALL

  The next morning, I wake up to somebody screaming my name.

  “Jamie Grimm? Mr. Jamie Grimm!”

  To stop him from shouting (and rhyming), I wave at him.

  “Wow!” he hollers. “You’re that Jamie Grimm!”

  Now everybody in the whole shelter is awake.

  I figure they hate me for ruining their sleep (and for being the kind of nitwit twit who goes to an ice-cream-and-cake party when they’re all eating government-surplus cheese and baked beans out of tin cans).

  But, surprise—these people don’t hate me. They see the limo driver and figure out what’s going on.

  “Go get ’em, Jamie!” somebody shouts.

  “Make ’em laugh, Jamie!” hollers somebody else. “Tell ’em that joke you told us the other night!”

  “You funny!”

  Now applause starts up. A smattering of claps at first, but it builds into a thunderous ovation. People are on their feet. Kids are banging empty bean cans against the metal frames of their beds.

  The cheering and chanting builds.

  “I won’t let you guys down!” I promise.

  And this time I mean it.

  I transfer myself into the limo and we head off for Uncle Frankie’s diner. He’s been sleeping at his restaurant ever since the storm. “Just so I can keep my eye on things,” he says. “Not that there are too many things left for me to keep an eye on anymore.”

  The diner looks so sad. And it used to rival Disney World as the happiest place on earth.

  But Uncle Frankie soldiers on.

  “Tomorrow’s a bright new day, kiddo. Just like it always is.”

  Chapter 57

  SWIMMING WITH THE HOLLYWOOD SHARKS

  There’s an even bigger limousine waiting for us when we reach LAX, which is what they call the airport out in Los Angeles.

  “Courtesy of Mr. Max Weasley and all the talent agents at WWW eager to work with you, Mr. Grimm,” says the limo driver. He even clicks his heels for extra emphasis.

  “Who’s this Weasley character?” Uncle Frankie asks while the driver hauls our luggage to the trunk.

  “A big-shot Hollywood talent agent,” I tell him. “We met when I did The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon.”

  “He a good guy?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “He sent you a limo, didn’t he?” says the driver, who’s finished loading our bags. “I’d say that makes him a swell guy, wouldn’t you?”

  Uncle Frankie peers at the driver. “I guess we can go hear him out. No harm in that.”

  “I’m told there will be a tray of baked goods awaiting your arrival,” says the driver. “Including those brownies that taste like chocolate chip cookies.”

  “They call those blondies,” I say.

  “Oooh,” says Uncle Frankie. “I like blondes. Let’s roll.”

  We head for the West Star Building, home to the WWW (Weasley, Weeble & Weezer) Talent Agency.

  “Grimm baby! How are you, bubelah?”

  Max Weasley greets us in a conference room filled with high-powered agents, all of them wearing sleek suits and hip, chunky glasses. There are trays of pastries on the table. Uncle Frankie grabs a blondie.

  “Flight okay, Jamie baby?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Just a little jet-lagged,” adds Uncle Frankie.

  Max Weasley pushes a button on an intercom box. “Helga? Send in a cappuccino, a double espresso, and a toffee nut, vanilla soy, no whip, extra foam, two-pump mocha for me.”

  “You want a soda, Jamie?” says one of the other agents. “We could get you a soda. We could get you a whole soda machine.” He pushes the intercom button. “Mary? Have Fred down in maintenance grab a hand truck and roll the Coke machine into conference room C. Unless you prefer Pepsi, Jamie?”

  “Er, that’s okay,” I say, wondering why everyone in LA is so weird. “I’m not all that thirsty.”

  “But are you hungry?” says Weasley, shooting me a wink.

  “Grab a blondie,” suggests Uncle Frankie. “They’re good. Very chewy.”

  “I’m talking about the real hunger,” says Max Weasley, slapping his stomach. “The fire in your belly. The hunger for fame and fortune! Gang? Show this wonderful wunderkind what we’ve already got lined up for him the second he signs on the dotted line.” He snaps his fingers. One by one, the junior agents flip up presentations mounted on foam board.

  They bombard us with one unbelievably amazing promise after another.

  It gets me thinking. What would I do or want if it were up to me? What would I promise myself?

  “So, Jamie baby?” Max Weasley’s gruff voice snaps me out of my daydream. “You ready to sign up with WWW?”

  I’m about to shout YES when Uncle Frankie holds up his hand.

  “I’m Jamie’s legal
guardian while he’s out here. He needs to sleep on it.”

  “You’re his uncle Frankie, am I right?” says Max Weasley.

  “That’s right.”

  “Former yo-yo champion of Brooklyn?”

  “The same.”

  “Guys?” Max Weasley snaps his fingers again.

  Now all the agents hold up posters detailing their plans for Uncle Frankie. His own yo-yo show on the Home Hobby Network. A fast-food chain called Yo-Yo’s where all the food is round and comes with a string so you never lose it. Yo-Yo’s string cheese. Yo-Yo’s yogurt.

  Uncle Frankie smiles. “Nice try, guys. But, like I said, Jamie needs to sleep on it.”

  Chapter 58

  SLEEPING LIKE A BABY: CRYING AND SCREAMING ALL NIGHT

  That night I actually do sleep.

  And since we’re in Hollywood, my dream features a movie. It’s running backward and it’s all about me.

  Me eating cake and ice cream with the supercool kids back in Long Beach.

  Me ignoring Gaynor and Pierce in the cafeteria. And in the library. And on the way home.

  Me kissing Judy Nazemetz on national TV even though I know Gilda Gold is watching.

  Me with such a big head, Goodyear hires me to fly over football games.

  Me telling nothing but wheelchair jokes so everybody will feel sorry for me.

  And then, since this is a dream and the movie is running in reverse, I finally see its title.

  There’s no one else in the movie theater. Just me.

  I can’t blame everybody for walking out on my life story. I just wish I could join them.

  Early the next morning, there’s a knock on my hotel room door.

  More like a banging. Somebody with a sledgehammer fist is pounding on it hard. It definitely wakes me up.

  “Yes?” I mumble groggily as I pull myself across the bed toward my wheelchair.

  “It’s your bodyguard, Crip. Let me in. Or else!”

  Chapter 59

  A LITTLE NY IN LA

  The TV people wanted us to be in the studio audience cheering for you,” says Stevie as he swaggers into my room. “So they flew us out, first class. But I am not, repeat, NOT, holding up some kind of dorky sign like those families you always see in the crowd on American Idol.”

  “I brought you some fresh, homemade oat gruel,” says Mrs. Smiley, handing me a Tupperware bowl. “You’ll need a good breakfast tomorrow to be good and funny for the show.”

  “Had a heck of a time getting the oat gruel past security,” adds Mr. Smiley. I nod. I’ve had Mrs. Smiley’s oat glop every morning for many a month. It is a potentially lethal weapon.

  “We brought a security dog, too,” says Stevie, my bodyguard. “In case I need backup.”

  Ol’ Smiler comes plodding into the room. He sniffs the closet and drags out the fancy hotel bathrobe. After nosing it around in circles on the floor to make a comfy dog bed, he flops down to take a nap. Guess the six-hour flight in a doggy crate wore him out.

  Stevie’s little brother and sister made the trip, too.

  Wow. Since Uncle Frankie flew out to Los Angeles with me and the Smileys are here now, my whole family (except for second cousins once removed, whatever those are) will be in the audience for the finals.

  I’m not in this thing alone. I guess I never really have been, have I?

  For the first time since forever, I feel great. I’m a new man! Just like Ebenezer Scrooge waking up on Christmas morning. I know my life doesn’t have to end up miserably. How it turns out is up to me. I can be a changed man if I just, you know, make a few changes.

  Like not acting like a jerk, for starters.

  Around ten AM Hollywood time, I prop open my laptop, hook up with the hotel’s Wi-Fi network, and make a quick Skype call to my friends back at Long Beach Middle School. It’s three hours later in New York, so I know they’ll be in the library.

  Pierce always has his smartphone up and running (in stealthy silent mode, of course), so I Skype with him and Gaynor. I want to tell them both how sorry I am for continuing to act like an idiot even after I promised I would quit acting idiotical.

  When we’re all cool again, Gaynor and Pierce run down the hall to find Gilda so she and I can have a little face time, too.

  “I’m sorry” are the first words out of my mouth.

  “What?” says Gilda. “You don’t say hello anymore?”

  And, since Gilda and I first bonded over old Marx Brothers movies, I answer her question by singing a quick verse of Groucho Marx’s classic “Hooray for Captain Spaulding” song from the 1930 movie Animal Crackers.

  “Hello, I must be going. I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going.

  I’m glad I came, but just the same, I must be going. La la.”

  And then I wiggle my eyebrows, Groucho-style.

  Gilda is grinning.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Gilda. I take a deep breath before I say what I need to say. I know I’m going to sound stupid, but real friends don’t hold that against you. “It’s no excuse, but, well, I think I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Oh, let’s see. Failing on the biggest stage in the universe. Losing the Super Bowl of kid comedians. Whiffing in the World Series of yuks. What if I’m not funny? What if I really am just a big jerk on wheels?”

  “So write your act around that. How a nice kid became a cocky, totally obnoxious, fame-crazy comic.”

  I nod. And think. And nod some more.

  “Gee. I kinda love that idea.”

  “I know,” says Gilda. “I’m a genius.”

  “You’re not getting cocky, are you?”

  “No, Jamie. That’s your department.”

  “Correction,” I say. “That was my department.”

  Now we both laugh.

  You know what? Laughing at myself feels good.

  Really, really good.

  Chapter 60

  STRESS REHEARSAL

  Fired up, I head off to the Nokia Theatre with Uncle Frankie.

  That’s right. The final round of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest will take place in the same ginormous, seven-thousand-seat auditorium where they hold the American Idol finals and the American Music Awards.

  Chatty Patty Dombrowski and Antony Guerrero are there with their adult chaperones. One looks like Patty’s mom, the other like Antony’s dad.

  Patty also has what they call an entourage. She’s like a princess being followed around by fawning, flattering attendants. If this were a fairy tale, they’d all be wearing those pointy hats with silk scarves stuck on the tips. I think she brought her agent and her manager, not to mention her wardrobe, hair, and makeup people, too.

  I don’t see Judy Nazemetz. She hasn’t been on Skype lately, so I don’t know if she’ll be here. I hope she’s just running late.

  “The show’s going out live tomorrow night, kids,” says our director, a goateed guy named Mr. Russell. “We need to block out the camera moves and show you kids how to hit your marks. We also need to pull numbers to determine the order you’ll be going on in.”

  Ray Romano and the celebrity judges aren’t at the rehearsal. Their stand-ins or stunt doubles or whatever they’re called take their places.

  “Where’s my Judy Nazemetz?” the director barks.

  “Send Ms. Nazemetz’s double to the set,” his assistant barks to his walkie-talkie.

  “Sending her in,” the walkie-talkie barks back with a burst of static.

  “We’ll rehearse the show as if Judy’s in it, but we have to be prepared for her to drop out at the last minute,” explains the director. “She may not be here tomorrow night. She’s dealing with a major family emergency.”

  Her father, I think. I’m guessing Judy is still in Oklahoma City.

  Chatty Patty raises her hand. “Golly, if Judy isn’t here tomorrow, does that mean there will only be three of us in the Final Four?”

  “That’s right. The math’s a little screwy, but, hey—we gotta work w
ith what we got, am I right?” The director’s assistant hands him a three-ring binder. Mr. Russell flips forward a few pages. “Okay. It’s a two-hour show. You’re each scheduled to do a fifteen-minute routine. However, if Ms. Nazemetz is a no-show, you need to stretch your fifteen to twenty minutes and give me a big laugh line at the fifteen-minute mark so we can cut to a commercial.”

  “No problem,” mumbles Antony Guerrero, who, even though he is loud and brash onstage, is one of the shiest, quietest kids I’ve ever met. “Sorry about your friend Judy,” he says to me.

  “Yeah. Me too. Thanks.”

  “Golly,” gushes Patty, batting her big-as-cue-balls eyes at the director. “I could do more jokes if you need them. Why, I could do a whole half hour.”

  “Thanks, kid. You’re sweet. But if we need even more filler, we’ll handle it with Ray and the judges. Okay, you three need to draw numbers out of a hat.” He turns to his assistant again. “Where’s my hat?”

  “On your head, sir.”

  “What’s it doing there? We need to be drawing numbers!”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

  The assistant plucks the baseball cap off Mr. Russell’s head.

  The assistant’s assistant scribbles numbers on four slips of paper. The assistant’s assistant’s assistant takes the numbers and jumbles them up inside the hat.

  Then the assistants hand the hat back to each other until the first assistant hands it back to the director.

  “Okay, kids. Pick a number.”

  Antony reaches in and pulls out number two.

  Chatty Patty yanks out number one and does an arm pump. “Yes!” she exclaims. “Lucky number one. Again!”

  I reach in and pull out my folded slip of paper.

  Number four.

  Once again, I’m going on last.