Kanowitz said. “We have never had an actor here!”
“Exactly!” said Josephine. “But now one is coming, thanks to my shrink! I believe he thinks it will control my rage.”
“So you won’t be the Doll Smasher anymore,” said Stanley.
“Yes,” Josephine agreed, “although with all my new duties, the Black Mask Theater has had very few performances lately.”
Just like Stuart Bagg, the whacking of the walls was no more, too.
“The Butters,” Josephine continued, “are underground. But there is no sense being underground if above ground no one knows you still exist. So we must plan something dramatic to do on Career Day!”
“An actor!” Cleo Kanowitz couldn’t get over it. “A famous actor?”
“Fairly famous,” said Josephine Jiminez.
“But not that famous,” said Stanley.
“We must come out of hiding on Career Day with a bang!” said Josephine.
“What actor?” Cleo Kanowitz said.
“Everyone’s favorite,” said Josephine. “He is the spokesboy for Great Breath chewing gum.”
“He’s C. Cynthia Ann’s favorite, not mine! You call him an actor?” Cleo Kanowitz was the argumentative type, a saucy little blonde from New York. “Gregor Samsa just does that one commercial! All he says over and over is ‘Does your smile smell?’”
“I didn’t choose him,” said Josephine. “Miss Rattray did. Now let us put our heads together and decide on a plan of action.”
Stanley Sweetsong closed his eyes as his father always did when he was concentrating on something very serious. (Should our next car be an Infiniti or a Porsche?)
Everyone was silent, except for Cleo Kanowitz, still saying “Gregor Samsa” to herself, making a face as though she had just smelled something putrid.
Stanley thought and thought, but it was hard to concentrate, hard not to think of Bagg.
Bagg would know what to do. He could come up with an answer as easily as he fit into Stanley’s clothes. And Stanley missed that, too, having another boy around. Having a pal.
Twenty
S OMETIMES COOK HAD TO tidy the halls herself, a task she felt was beneath her.
What she did was sweep them, then scoop it all up with her Dustbuster and put it back in its slot without emptying it.
It was pitch-dark inside.
There was not just dust in there, but also lint, the corpses of a cricket, and a fly, the leg of a spider and half his dragline, a paper clip, a third of a Life Saver, a yellow M & M, and Shoebag.
Awake, Shoebag said the Cockroach Prayer for the Dead, for he was sure that he would die.
“Go to a better life,” he murmured, licking the M & M, shifting his shell away from the burden of the paper clip.
When Shoebag could sleep, he dreamed that Under The Toaster was scowling at him, saying “I TOLD YOU SO!” and pushing Drainboard aside as she held out her legs to embrace Shoebag. But there was only one real leg with him in the Dustbuster: the spider’s hideous, hairy one.
Sick as Shoebag still was from the Zap dose, he was even sicker thinking of his family en route somewhere without him.
Sick as Shoebag was from this tragic blow by the Fickle Finger of Fate, he wondered if he would ever see Stanley Sweetsong again. Or ever again be Stuart Bagg.
Knowing Cook’s lazy ways, knowing she hated emptying the Dustbuster, Shoebag forced down the fly corpse, thinking of it as his last meal. For the piece of Life Saver was too hard to chew, and the M & M was licked down to a sliver.
How could he eat a cricket which was from the noble old order of orthoptera, as Shoebag was himself?
Twenty-one
T HAT SUNDAY, AFTER CHURCH and before Sunday dinner, Stanley Sweetsong called home.
“What a strange name for a club,” said his mother.
“And why are you only the VP?” his father said. “Why aren’t you the P?”
“Because Josephine Jiminez is the P.”
“She’s only the P because her father is a famous general, I’ll bet,” said Mrs. Sweetsong.
“She’s a good president,” Stanley defended her. Not only
“Exactly!” said Josephine. “But now one is coming, thanks to my shrink! I believe he thinks it will control my rage.”
“So you won’t be the Doll Smasher anymore,” said Stanley.
“Yes,” Josephine agreed, “although with all my new duties, the Black Mask Theater has had very few performances lately.”
Just like Stuart Bagg, the whacking of the walls was no more, too.
“The Butters,” Josephine continued, “are underground. But there is no sense being underground if above ground no one knows you still exist. So we must plan something dramatic to do on Career Day!”
“An actor!” Cleo Kanowitz couldn’t get over it. “A famous actor?”
“Fairly famous,” said Josephine Jiminez.
“But not that famous,” said Stanley.
“We must come out of hiding on Career Day with a bang!” said Josephine.
“What actor?” Cleo Kanowitz said.
“Everyone’s favorite,” said Josephine. “He is the spokesboy for Great Breath chewing gum.”
“He’s C. Cynthia Ann’s favorite, not mine! You call him an actor?” Cleo Kanowitz was the argumentative type, a saucy little blonde from New York. “Gregor Samsa just does that one commercial! All he says over and over is ‘Does your smile smell?’”
“I didn’t choose him,” said Josephine. “Miss Rattray did. Now let us put our heads together and decide on a plan of action.”
Stanley Sweetsong closed his eyes as his father always did when he was concentrating on something very serious. (Should our next car be an Infiniti or a Porsche?)
Everyone was silent, except for Cleo Kanowitz, still saying “Gregor Samsa” to herself, making a face as though she had just smelled something putrid.
Stanley thought and thought, but it was hard to concentrate, hard not to think of Bagg.
Bagg would know what to do. He could come up with an answer as easily as he fit into Stanley’s clothes. And Stanley missed that, too, having another boy around. Having a pal.
Twenty
S OMETIMES COOK HAD TO tidy the halls herself, a task she felt was beneath her.
What she did was sweep them, then scoop it all up with her Dustbuster and put it back in its slot without emptying it.
It was pitch-dark inside.
There was not just dust in there, but also lint, the corpses of a cricket, and a fly, the leg of a spider and half his dragline, a paper clip, a third of a Life Saver, a yellow M & M, and Shoebag.
Awake, Shoebag said the Cockroach Prayer for the Dead, for he was sure that he would die.
“Go to a better life,” he murmured, licking the M & M, shifting his shell away from the burden of the paper clip.
When Shoebag could sleep, he dreamed that Under The Toaster was scowling at him, saying “I TOLD YOU SO!” and pushing Drainboard aside as she held out her legs to embrace Shoebag. But there was only one real leg with him in the Dustbuster: the spider’s hideous, hairy one.
Sick as Shoebag still was from the Zap dose, he was even sicker thinking of his family en route somewhere without him.
Sick as Shoebag was from this tragic blow by the Fickle Finger of Fate, he wondered if he would ever see Stanley Sweetsong again. Or ever again be Stuart Bagg.
Knowing Cook’s lazy ways, knowing she hated emptying the Dustbuster, Shoebag forced down the fly corpse, thinking of it as his last meal. For the piece of Life Saver was too hard to chew, and the M & M was licked down to a sliver.
How could he eat a cricket which was from the noble old order of orthoptera, as Shoebag was himself?
Twenty-one
T HAT SUNDAY, AFTER CHURCH and before Sunday dinner, Stanley Sweetsong called home.
“What a strange name for a club,” said his mother.
“And why are you only the VP?” his father said. “Why aren’t you the P?”
“Because Josephine Jiminez is the P.”
“She’s only the P because her father is a famous general, I’ll bet,” said Mrs. Sweetsong.
“She’s a good president,” Stanley defended her. Not only
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