Disappearing Acts Read Free Page A

time, and Mike shook his head at the memory.
    â€œIt was instant fame. I mean, kids I’d never seen before would come up to me in the lunch line and say, ‘Do my teacher. Please!’ I’d go, ‘Who is your teacher?’ ‘Miss Prunty.’ ‘Right. Boys and girls, will whoever borrowed my book Laxatives of the Rich and Famous please return it immediately. I need it before the end of the school day.’”
    Mike gave a shrug of apology. Then he added, “They loved it. What can I tell you.”
    All this bathroom humor made Meat decide to go to one. He didn’t really have to go, but when he got up to do a routine—or didn’t they do that this early in the lessons? Anyway, he would certainly have to go then.
    â€œRest rooms?” he asked Barbie.
    â€œI never go,” she said.
    â€œI thought you just did,” Mrs. Santa Claus said. “You went somewhere.”
    She shrugged. The man at the next table jabbed his finger toward a dark hall beside the stage.
    Meat proceeded slowly toward the unappealing hall, skirting the tables as he went.
    Behind him, Mike warmed to his story. “My comedy career lasted about two weeks. Then Mr. Ledbetter called me into his office and asked me to do my impersonation of him. Talk about your hostile audience. Then he asked if I had any other impressions. I did the entire staff, even the cafeteria workers, and he did not crack one smile. Not even at Mrs. Richards—‘Will whoever took my Gas-Away tablets please return them, or you will be very, very sorry.’”
    Meat had moved out of voice range. The building was old and the hall smelled of disinfectant and urine, as if someone hadn’t quite made it to the rest room.
    There was graffiti on the walls. Meat paused to read the messages as he walked slowly toward the two doors at the end. “D.J. wanted to call 911; he got the nine right but couldn’t find the eleven.” “Call Betty for real laughs.” Maybe he would dial. He needed a laugh more than he needed a rest room.
    Meat was sorry he had come—not just to the rest room, but to Funny Bonz as well. He had a feeling in his own bonz, and he didn’t like it.
    To keep up his spirits, he began to whistle. He recognized the song as that old camping song about the worms crawling in and out of a dead person.
    At the end of the hall, Meat stopped between the two doors. He always doubled-checked the signs on rest-room doors. This was because he had a recurring nightmare of being trapped in the girls’ bathroom at school.
    He had to peer closely because of the dim light. The sign on the door to the right said “Guys.” The sign across the hall said “Guy-ettes.”
    Herculeah would not like that word “guy-ettes.” She didn’t even approve of “Guys” and “Dolls.” He’d have to warn her before she came to graduation.
    He read the signs one more time, just to be sure. They still said the same thing, so Meat, reasonably confident, opened the door to Guys.
    The room was darker than the hall, and Meat felt for the light switch.
    He turned it on and was almost sorry he had. A roach hurried back to the baseboard. The floor was covered with crumpled paper towels, scraps of toilet paper, and various unidentifiable debris.
    The window was open. Meat was grateful for that and for the fresh air that came through it. Except for the occasional passing car, the room was quiet. A gurgle from the faucet seemed unusually loud.
    The condition of the rest room made Meat decide that he didn’t have to go after all. He glanced down. The breeze from the window disturbed the paper towels, and Meat saw a wallet. It was light blue.
    Meat bent closer. This looked like a guy-ette’s wallet. He thought maybe he should check the door again to make sure the sign said Guys—after all, this was a comedy club and people could go in for sick jokes, like Herculeah did.