Seriously, Norman!, page 13
“What?”
“The sky, Norman, the sky. Have you looked at it yet?”
“No.”
“I guessed as much. I imagine you’ve been sitting around feeling bored, nursing your jetlag katzenjammer, and poking a moody spoon into the dregs of your breakfast, hmm?”
“Yeah,” said Norman, rubbing his nose.
“Well, I can tell you it has been a marvelous altocirrus-with-just-a-couple-of-cumulus-humilis-on-the-horizon day here. Now the sun has set and I’m looking forward to the rising new moon.”
“What?”
“Is our connection bad? I said, it has been a marvelous alto—”
“Mr. B., where are you?”
“Northern Australia, my dear boy. I’ve come in hopes of witnessing that fabulous species of stratocumulus, the Morning Glory. Haven’t seen it yet, but hope springs, et cetera.”
“Northern Australia?”
“Yes, northern Australia, and the concern I hear in your voice is touching. But do not fear. Remember, Australia is the continent without indigenous mammalian carnivores. Think of it. It’s the first vegan co-op on a massive scale.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll explain all when I get back.”
“When? When are you coming back? I think my dad’s karma is kaput.”
“Quite possibly. However, there is nothing I can do about that here. But to answer your more immediate question, I shall be home soon. In the meantime, keep your nose in the air. Toodle-oo.”
And just as suddenly as Balthazar Birdsong was present, he was gone.
“He’s still no help,” said Norman, grumpily replacing the receiver. “So anyway, we need a new plan. Got any? If so, shoot. Fire. Bombs away.”
Leonard rocked back on his chair and then let it fall forward. “Okay, listen,” he said. “What do we know about your dad that he doesn’t know we know?”
“That he wears too much aftershave?”
“No. He knows we know that. What do we know about his airplane business, finger-waggle, that he doesn’t know we know?”
“The code!”
“Exeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaactly. And not only do we know the first code, thanks to you, we know the second code, thanks to the unfamiliar voice, the sinister, unfamiliar voice, let’s call it the S.U.V., in the Irrgarten. I refer, of course, to ‘one dozen eggs equals one Flieswitzer-Hassenfus 78, with plenty of cup holders.’”
“Yes!”
“So now do you get it?”
“No!”
“All we have to do is get hold of your dad’s copy of the L. L. Bomb catalogue and then switch around the picture codes. That way, when your dad sends the orders to the man with the sinister, unfamiliar voice, S.U.V., the order will be all screwed up. For instance, when the Lilliputians ask for three Flieswitzer-Hassenfus 78s, they’ll get, I don’t know, something completely different, like, say, a Hopper-bopper Overdropper 39, which might not have nearly enough cup holders or something. And then the buyers, the Lilliputians, will be mad, demand a refund, ask to speak with the manager. Same thing will happen with the Blinesians, the Katong Luangans, the Jakartians, and so on.”
“So?”
“So when everyone is screaming at once, your dad will get fired. Bound to, when he messes everything up completely. Boom, problematic-dad-karma fixed, blown up.”
Norman gazed into the middle distance—at the family blender, actually—in a dreamy way, until with a fist thump to the formica tabletop, he blurted, “Leonard, it’s brilliant! It can’t miss. And you know why it can’t miss? Because it plays to our strengths. What are our strengths? My dad’s weaknesses. I mean, he can’t ever keep anything straight anyway, so Mr. S.U.V. will just think my dad has lost more than his usual share of marbles and fire him.”
Leonard basked in his friend’s admiration like a happy canary.
“So what you have got to do is sneak into your dad’s office and—” Leonard stopped and sniffed. “Do you smell aftershave?” A moment later, a humming Orman Normann entered the kitchen.
“Norman!” said Orman. “Oh, hello, Leonard. You here?”
“Yup,” said Leonard.
“Norman,” Orman said, filling a massive coffee mug with the words WORLD’S MOST EXTRA SUPER DAD emblazoned on it, “I’d like to speak with you. Come into my office. Excuse us, Leonard.”
“Yup,” said Leonard, giving Norman a wink and a silent (mouthed behind Orman Normann’s retreating back) “NOW!”
* * *
“Norman, come on in, and shut the door behind you,” said Mr. Normann, sidling around his desk before dropping into his chair with a bilious whoosh.
“Whoo, boy!” he said, holding his coffee mug above him. “Nearly spilled my java, ha-ha! Sit down, son.”
Norman sat.
“Son, I just wanted to chat a bit because, well, with school coming on again, I just wanted to check in with you like a concerned shareholder would. How’s Norman Normann Enterprises doing on the big board? Is the stock I hold in you going up or going down?”
“I don’t know, Dad. What big board?”
“The big board of the marketplace of life, where how much you’re worth is up in lights for all to see. How’s your net worth, son?”
“I still don’t get it, Dad.”
“It’s a metaphor, boy, a metaphor. What I mean is, are you learning stuff? When January rolls around, will you be prepared to hit your target on the next Amalgamated Schools Test? Will your air strikes be laser-guided missiles ripping apart that test booklet answer sheet?”
“I guess so,” said Norman, shifting in his seat.
“Let’s look at the big picture for a minute. I’m not just talking about the next test, the next school, I’m talking about your life, son, your career. When the time comes, will you be ready to join me as a partner in my beautiful bomber business? We’ll call it Orman Normann and More!”
Norman fidgeted.
“I’m not sure that’s what I have in mind, Dad. I think I’d rather sell things that people really like.”
“Really like? Really like? I’ll tell you what people really like: bombers! No, I take that back, people don’t like bombers. No. People love bombers! People love dropping heavy metal exploding objects on other people’s heads. How many times do I have to tell you that? They love it! Especially men. Men will spend millions of any kind of money you can name for the simple pleasure of dropping heavy metal objects on other people’s heads. Hooee! Ain’t it a grand world?”
“It sure is, Dad.”
While his father was talking, Norman allowed his eye to roam over the pile of papers that covered his father’s desk like a raised topographical map, scrutinizing each bit of paper surface in order to spot the L. L. Bomb catalogue.
“Where else can a guy make a living selling bombers? Mars? I don’t think so.”
A yellow capital L and the unmistakable tip of a Flieswitzer-Hassenfus 78 magnetized Norman’s gaze. Gotcha! The L. L. Bomb catalogue lay in the upper layers of the paper mountain, sandwiched beneath a Big Ricko’s pizza box and a stack of three-ring binders.
“Venus?” said Orman, getting up from his chair. He began to pace the room.
Norman could feel his father working up his bombast like steam in a boiler.
“Saturn? Can you sell bombers on Saturn? Well, I don’t rightly know,” said Orman, turning now to look out into the garden.
Norman eased himself onto the edge of his seat and, pretending to yawn, stretched his arm forward.
“I’m not boring you, am I?” said Orman, turning around.
“No, Dad, no,” said Norman, pulling his arm back hastily and scratching his elbow. “Go ahead. What about Pluto?”
“Pluto? Pluto! But Pluto’s not a planet anymore, is it?” Again, he turned to look out of the windows into the garden.
With a quick and silent motion, Norman lifted the pizza box. For a moment, Norman blinked, for it seemed that the L. L. Bomb catalogue had vanished, but then he realized that it was merely stuck to the underside of the pizza box, glued there by a paste of oily cheese. Norman hesitated for just a second, then, yanking the catalogue off the box with a horrible tearing sound, he dropped it neatly to his feet and kicked it under his chair.
Orman Normann turned at the noise, saying, “Plu—” He looked at the pizza box in Norman’s hand. “Did you want to order a pizza? That’s not a bad idea. After all, it is ten forty-five on a Saturday morning in mid-August. And that seems to me as good a time as any. Let’s order! What do you want on your half?”
“No, Dad, I’m fine. I just had breakfast, actually.”
“No pizza?”
“No, Dad, thanks.”
“All right, suit yourself. Now, where was I?”
“On Pluto, Dad.”
“On Pluto, right, and can you sell bombers on Pluto? No, you cannot. Which is why I say, for my money, drop bombs right here on Earth. Why travel to outer space when you’ve got a whole world to bomb right under your own two feet?” With his last words, Orman stamped his two feet on the floor, heavily, one after the other. The ensuing tremor of the floor, coupled with Norman’s disturbance of the desk, caused the uniquely balanced mountain of paper to wobble and then, giving up all its ambition to remain a mountain, dissolve into foothills and cliffs and mesas of paper, and then slide to the floor.
“Hooeee!” said Orman.
“Let me get all that, Dad,” said Norman, dropping to the floor to grab the L. L. Bomb catalogue. But Orman was already bent double, scooping up armfuls of paper.
He was not bent for long. With another whoop, Orman Normann jumped up and cried, “The L. L. Bomb catalogue!” He held it aloft. “I’ve been looking for this for a week! This is a very important document!” He performed a quick little dance, possibly called the Bacon Fat, which he had danced in his youth on the prairie. “I can’t afford to lose this again.” He walked around his desk, crouched next to the safe, and punched in some code letters on the keypad. The safe emitted a soft chime. Orman swung open the heavy door, placed the L. L. Bomb catalogue carefully within, and then, with a gentle push, let the door swing shut, listening for it to lock with a confident, multiple click. It chimed again.
“That should just about do it. Norman, let’s have another chat again soon. I think they do us both a world of good. It certainly did me. I was nearly in deep doo-doo without that catalogue—a certain business partner of mine would not have been happy, nae, sir, nae. But, in the meantime, I think I’ll order a pizza after all.”
It was a very droopy Norman Normann, whose chat with his father had possibly done him a world of bad, who returned to the kitchen to report on these events to Leonard.
Summing up the entire mission neatly, he said, “I bombed. Pass me the dictionary. Maybe it’ll have something about safecracking.”
nip vb : to grab hold of and squeeze tightly, to pinch or bite
nip and tuck adj or adv : very close
nipcheese n : a miser, someone who will not spend money
nipperkin n : a container with a capacity of half a pint or less
nippily adv : quickly
nippiness n : the state of being nippy, agility
nipple n : a conical protuberance on top of the mammary gland all higher mammals possess, from which the young animals draw milk and first receive sustenance
the key to unlock
any door
The next morning Norman sat brooding at the kitchen table, when his mother entered the room, carrying her handbag.
“Norman, I’m just going to my exercise class, and then I’m going to buy groceries. There’s not a thing to eat in this house. And then I’m going to the bank. And I may stop by my hairdresser’s and see if she can squeeze me in.”
“Okay, Mom, I’ll be fine right here, alone by myself, finding plenty to do.”
“Will you be fine right here alone by yourself? Will you find plenty to do?”
“I’ll be fine right here alone by myself finding plenty to do. I’m absolutely positively sure.”
“Are you absolutely positively sure?”
“I’m absolutely positively sure. I love you, Mom.”
“Do you love me?”
“Bye, Mom.”
The next days passed fruitlessly for Norman, in regard to his father, his father’s study, and his father’s study’s safe. Orman Normann had been in and out of the house, allowing Norman plenty of chances, but affording no solutions. Apart from thumping his head gently against the wall over and over, there seemed to be practically nothing to do.
* * *
The days dragged on, as they so often do in August. Leonard was traveling again with his mother, who was inspecting various projects around the country; Norman was on his own.
On a particularly bland Tuesday, Norman found himself contemplating mayonnaise.
“Mom,” he said, “is mayonnaise really made out of eggs?”
“No, dear, it comes in a jar,” she said.
“I think it is made of eggs, Mom.”
“Fine, dear. I’ll see you after my exercise class.”
“Okay, Mom.”
On a similar, remarkably hot yet dull Thursday, Norman contemplated mayflies.
Mayflies spend their entire adult life, which, as he had read, is about one day long, without a mouth. Norman was revolted. How could you live your life without a mouth? What kind of a world is this, thought Norman, that includes a creature that spends the most important time of its life without a mouth?
In between musing about such matters, Norman continued to check the safe. It remained locked.
* * *
On the last boring day of August, when Norman thought he couldn’t stand even one more, the twins returned from camp and Balthazar Birdsong returned from Australia and Leonard returned from Kankakee, Illinois, bringing back all the color that was lacking in Norman’s pale cheeks.
The Normann telephone nearly bombilated off the hook.
“Eeeeeyaaaa!” shouted Leonard.
“God, camp was boring,” said the twins.
“Norman, it is vitally important that we meet,” said Balthazar Birdsong. “Tomorrow I shall be upon your doorstep at eleven a.m. sharpish. Alert your mother and your friends.”
As a result, and after much further phone calling, they all—that is, Anna, Emma, Leonard, and Norman—assembled in the Normann living room, with their parents’ permission to spend the day with Norman’s tutor, which, frankly, had been granted speedily and gratefully on all sides. Balthazar Birdsong found them there, gabbling like young geese starved of honking partners. He found he had to practically nip at their heels like a sheepdog as he steered them out of the house, onto and off a couple of buses, and then into a Q subway train, where they sat in a row opposite him, hooting and nearly quacking, utterly unheedful of the other travelers on the train. Occasionally Mr. Birdsong admonished them to mind their impulses and not to overvocalize, but mostly he allowed them to revel in their reunion. Even when Leonard leapt up and down to dramatize some individual moment of terror or joy, or when one of the twins stood up and pressed the sides of her face with her hands to mock some especially odious fellow camper, Mr. B. refrained from scolding them much.
It is a little difficult to record any of what was said; even the four themselves sometimes had trouble understanding one another over the rattle and shrilling of the train wheels. Nevertheless, a bit of their conversation could be heard over the din.
Leonard said, “I looked out across open space, thousands of feet in the air, across to another cliff exactly like the one we were on, and I thought: Eeeeeeyaaaaaah! My mother’s trying to kill me!”
Emma said, “Anna tried to kill me. She made me pair up with Tiffany Simpleton for the trust walk in the middle of the woods at night, which was horrifying enough. But what was worse was the next day the Tiffikins was my lab partner. I mean, the way she says ‘Oh, the difflugia in my sample are exquisite’ is enough to give a person heart palpitations. I don’t know what difflugia are, but I’m sure they aren’t ever exquisite.”
“They’re a kind of protozoan,” said Norman, “a single-celled animal.”
“A what?”
“A bug.”
Anna said, “I saw her difflugia. They were awful.”
“Awful?” said Leonard. “This is awful: Imagining myself falling over a cliff, helplessly clawing the air, my whole life flashing before my eyes. What if, on my way down, there wasn’t even enough time for the year I turned five? That was a great year!”
And so their subway trip passed pleasantly, full of their loud conversation, tales and gossip about everything and nothing, on a train to they-knew-not-where, under the watchful eye of Balthazar Birdsong.
* * *
At the end of the line, they walked to a boardwalk along the beach, opposite the city’s famous amusement park at Coney Island. They squeezed themselves onto a bench, the twins on one side of Balthazar Birdsong, the boys on the other, Mr. B.’s long legs stretched out before him, his arms draped over the back. Balthazar smiled and gazed at the small dirty waves beneath the hot sky. Gulls, children, and teenagers called to one another; jets moaned overhead and subways rumbled nearby; the air blew gently but stickily, and Balthazar sighed a heavy sigh of contentment as the four friends looked at him expectantly.
“Er, Mr. B.,” said Norman, “what was it that was of vital importance to us all?”
“This moment,” said Mr. B.
“This moment?”
“Precisely.”
Four pairs of eyes turned away from Balthazar Birdsong and began skeptically to gaze about.
“I still don’t get it,” said Norman.
“What could be more vitally important than simply spending time with your friends? I’ll tell you. Nothing. That is, to be with those whom you hold most dear is the great key which will unlock any door.”
Balthazar Birdsong pushed his hands into his pockets.
“And the other great key to unlocking any door, as Norman’s father is always ready to tell us, is cash, which your dear parents have sent along with me to dispense as I see fit. So here’s some cash for each of you to squander in trivial amusements.”
“Fa-whammm!”
