CHUM

Chapter 3: The Philanthropist

                Those jerks with the hoodies are so dumb, they don’t even know the difference between octopus tentacles and toilet paper jellyfish ones. Captain Bombardigo fought off a giant jellyfish in episode 37, just like I did that day in the locker room. There has never once been a single giant octopus on the show.

            They were probably from school. Must’ve seen the video. Not sure how they found me. Not sure what I did to them. I don’t think I’ve been a gumpalo, whatever that may be. That must be something that other kids know about, but I bet they wouldn’t say, so it’s not like I can ask them. I’d look it up, but I’m not going to. That’s how much I don’t even care what the word gumpalo means, and that they wrote it on a hate-note just to me. What’s wrong with people?

            I cut the octopus down from the tree so Dad won’t see it when he gets home later tonight. It’s all watery and red-yellow and totally dead. I feel kind of bad for the little squisher, so I bury him in the alley out back, in the only square foot of dirt I can find. There’s not much dirt here like there is in Idaho.

            Sometimes I miss it — the dirt I mean. People did stuff in Idaho. My one friend and I would spend all day swimming across the river, or tying rope swings in the trees. People don’t like that kind of thing in Los Angeles. I wonder what my friend’s doing now.

            “Hey,” is about all I say to Dad for the next couple of days. I don’t want him to get suspicious, and he doesn’t seem to notice I’m up to something.

On Friday morning I wake up really early — my body knows what day it is. I stay on the sofa, pretending to be asleep until Dad leaves for work. As soon as he locks the front door behind him, I jump up and pack a change of clothes in a backpack, pull on my shorts, and strap on my sandals. My sandals are the sturdy kind — the ones you can run through rivers in.

            I go outside. The morning is brisk, but only in a Los Angeles kind of way, which means the chill gives up before it can get under your skin. It’ll be warm by 7:30.

I pull out my key to unlock my bike. The railing where it’s normally parked is empty. It’s gone.

I get frantic. I haven’t tried to use it since Tuesday. I circle the apartment, and groan. There it is, tangled up in a bush. The guys with the hoodies must’ve broken the lock and chucked it back there. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.

            I snap and break away branches until I can finally yank my bike free. I’m scratched and angry, and it’s almost six a.m. The front rim is bent like a potato chip. I’m so mad I could bite the metal in half. I throw the whole useless thing back into the bushes so hard, it disappears beneath the leaves.

I can’t miss the boat, so I run as fast as I can to the bus stop. I’m pretty sure there’s an early bus that takes people to the south end of Venice where Lincoln Ave. passes by the In-N-Out. If I can make it, I might have a chance.

My heart is pumping blood like a hammer onto my brain, and my breath is starting to get shallow, and my lungs stab when I see the bus at the stop. I jump in just as the doors are closing, and slide my dollar into the cash machine, wheezing the whole time.

Another quarter hour and we’re at the Marina. I pull the chord, jump off the bus, and sprint as fast as I can to the docks.

Luckily they’re not far. A minute later, and I’m sweaty and panting, when I see water. There’s a forest of masts scattered along the docks in neat little rows, ropes and rigging hanging from their branches like vines.

One ship in particular is bigger than the rest — a gigantic orange and blue pirate ship over 300 feet long, its three masts half as tall as redwoods. Its paint is peeling and chipped. Its pale green sails are wound up tight. It’s been modified — with metal scaffolds, lighting equipment, and what looks like microphones or cameras, all bolted, lashed or taped to the wooden deck, railing, and masts. Everything is covered in blinking orange and blue and yellow light bulbs, like a Christmas tree or Las Vegas. The whole thing looks Frankensteined, like it was pieced together by a mad man.