Philip Gets Even (9781597050807) Read Free

to mean?”
    “No, no,” laughed Emery. “Four separate
ones.”
    “And you’re telling me that bananas, pickles,
and eyes and whatever elevate and explicate the crash and fall of
the ying-yang and the bing-bang?” Mr. Conway stared at them
fiercely. “Gibberish. Total gibberish. Go on. Tell me that’s what
they do. I dare you.”
    Emery swallowed hard.
    Philip shook his head quickly and said,
“Don’t blame us. We didn’t write that, Mr. Conway. The lady just
gave it to us.”
    “Brrr,” Mr. Conway shivered. “I know that,
boys. Come on upstairs with me. Let me show you what I do, and if
you still think I’m good for an idea, I’ll be glad to help
out.”
    Mr. Conway went up the stairs slowly, putting
each foot on the same step before climbing to the next one. The
boys followed him into the largest upstairs room, which he’d turned
into his art studio.
    “What do you think?” Mr. Conway said,
stretching out his arm.
    The boys were struck with wonder. There were
no dancing pickles, no eyes, no bananas, and no feet in sight.
Instead, what Mr. Conway painted were superheroes. Right away the
boys recognized Superman and Batman and Spiderman. There were a
number of paintings of each performing heroic acts—Superman flying
from a burning building, holding a baby in his arms; Batman socking
a strange villain dressed as a cat; Spiderman dangling from the
side of a tall building.
    “I know him,” said Emery, pointing at a
black-clad rider, whose cape was sailing out behind him as he rode
his black horse. “I saw him on the Disney channel.”
    Mr. Conway chuckled. “I’m glad you know him.
That’s Zorro. He was one of the first masked avengers with a secret
identity. Way before Superman or Batman or any of these others.
I’ll bet you don’t know all of them.”
    Philip and Emery walked through the room and
inspected the rest of the paintings.
    “Who’s that?” Philip asked.
    “The Shadow,” said Mr. Conway. “Very famous
when I was a kid. Listened to him on the radio. Do you know the
cowboy next to him?”
    “I’ve seen him,” said Emery.
    “Yeah, me, too,” said Philip.
    “That’s the Lone Ranger. He was on the radio and television. He was a masked avenger with a secret
identity, but he used his six-guns while Zorro used his sword.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” said Philip. “I saw him on TV.
Not the whole show. My father was watching it.”
    “So that’s what I do, boys. No
ying-yang-bing-bang for me. Real scenes. Real life. Well, real
fantasy life,” he chuckled. “So you think I can help you?”
    “Wow, yeah, sure,” said Emery.
    “Let’s go downstairs and think up a plan,”
said Mr. Conway.
    Back in the living room, Mr. Conway took his
seat in the big, soft chair again and stared at the red gallery
announcement in his right hand. Philip and Emery waited on the
sofa.
    “You know what they want, boys?” Mr. Conway
burst out, slamming his hand on the chair arm again. “They want
nonsense. Nonsense! And that’s what we’re going to give ’em.” He
stared at the two boys. “Are you with me?”
    “Nonsense?” said Philip. “We’re going to give
them nonsense?”
    “Don’t you think that pickles and pig’s feet
is nonsense? But there they are. Hanging for sale in a gallery. For
thousands of dollars! Art ! Hummph!”
    “Pig’s feet?” Philip repeated.
    “There were no pig’s feet,” said Emery.
    “Just an expression, boy. Dang, we can
out-nonsense their nonsense,” said Mr. Conway in an excited voice,
slamming his hand on the arm of the chair a third time.
    “But what’ll we paint?” said Philip.
    “Anything. Everything. Right side up and
upside down. Inside out and outside in. Every color we can manage,”
said Mr. Conway. He shook the red contest announcement he was
holding. Philip and Emery looked uncertainly at one another.
    “I have it,” the old man shouted.
    Philip and Emery jumped.
    “We’ll call it Everyday Things. If
that gallery likes pickles and pig’s