Dogs Don't Tell Jokes Read online

  “He didn’t like baseball cards.”

  “He liked to tell jokes. I guess we should have laughed.”

  “I guess we should have laughed,” repeats the TV newsman, in a serious and ominous voice.

  Even Gary had to stop and wonder about himself for a moment after that one.

  “Do you feel like an egg this morning?” his mother asked him Friday morning when he came down for breakfast.

  He looked at her curiously. Was she testing him?

  Do you feel like an egg this morning?

  I don’t know. How does an egg feel?

  Do you feel like an egg this morning?

  Just call me Humpty Dumpty.

  Do you feel like an egg this morning?

  Yes. You better not drop me. I might crack.

  “No thanks,” he said. “I’ll have cereal.”

  On his way to school, he suddenly stopped right in the crosswalk in the middle of the street in front of Floyd Hicks Junior High. He looked at the two-story building, the kids in the schoolyard, the buses in the parking lot. Until he stopped telling jokes, he’d never realized just how much he hated school.

  A car honked at him.

  He didn’t move.

  Another car sped around him.

  Why’d the Goon cross the road? he wondered.

  “I don’t have a dog, but I’ve always wanted one. So I got a goldfish. His name’s Rover.

  “I’ve taught him to fetch a stick. You know how some people throw sticks in the water for their dogs to chase. I throw a stick out of the water for Rover to chase.”

  Gary stepped down from on top of his chair.

  At first he thought a fish named Rover was a great idea, but now he couldn’t think of any more jokes. That was okay. That happened. He just had to go on to something else. Maybe a fish joke would pop into his head later. Maybe when he was sleeping. Sometimes when he woke up in the morning, he’d suddenly think of a new punch line for a joke he had started the night before.

  He continued walking around his room. “Did I tell you about my father? He’s very handy around the house. Always fixing things. Yesterday he hooked up a new VCR. He also put in a garage door opener. It all works great. Except every time you push the button on the remote control to change the channel—the garage door opens.

  “Last week he fixed the toilet and installed a new light switch in the bathroom. Now if you want to flush the toilet, you have to flick the light switch. And if you want to turn on the light, you have to push the lever on the toilet.

  “I have a sister named Sally. Everyone calls her Saloon. She’s disgusting, although I guess I shouldn’t say bad things about her.” Gary put his hand over his heart. “She’s in the hospital.

  “She needs a tongue transplant.

  “It’s ’cause she never stops talking. She’s sixteen years old and this will be her third tongue!

  “She was talking on the phone to one of her boyfriends. She was in the middle of telling him how much she loved him, when her tongue flapped out of her mouth and onto the floor.

  “I was there, sitting at the kitchen counter having a snack. It was disgusting. Not her tongue. I mean my sister saying, ‘I love you, sweetheart,’ right there on the kitchen phone while I was trying to eat.

  “ ’Course, without her tongue it didn’t sound like, ‘I love you sweetheart.’ It sounded more like, ‘I uv you, wee-har.’

  “Her boyfriend probably didn’t even notice. They’re always talking baby talk to each other. I told you she was disgusting.

  “Meanwhile, the tongue flapped around on the floor for a while, like a fish out of water, until it finally stopped and lay still.

  “My dad came in to get a glass of milk and stepped right on it.

  “Have any of you ever stepped on a tongue?

  “No? Well, it’s like a banana peel, except thicker and more slippery. My dad desperately tried to hold on to the quart of milk as he went flying.”

  No, not quart of milk. Half gallon. “Gallon of milk.” The more milk, the funnier.

  “Meanwhile, my sister just went right on talking as she glared angrily at my father, who was lying on the floor in a pool of milk. Finally she held the phone aside and said, ‘I’m trying to talk on the phone, if you don’t mind!’ Except it sounded like, ‘I’m rying oo auk ah uh pho, if you o mi!’

  “We tried to pick up the tongue, to show it to her, but it kept slipping through our fingers.

  “Have any of you ever tried to pick up a tongue after it’s been covered in milk?

  “No? Well, it’s like soap in a bathtub. Just when you think you have it, it squishes out of your hand and goes shooting across the room.

  “My sister finally hung up. As she walked across the kitchen floor I thought she was going to step on it too.

  “ ‘Watch your tongue!’ said my father.

  “She just gave him a dirty look, then bent down and picked it up. She had no problem picking it up because she has long fingernails.

  “Then she slapped me across the face with it. She just kept hitting me, over and over again. She gave me a real tongue-lashing.

  “My mother came in and said, ‘Hold your tongue, young lady.’

  “So now she’s in the hospital, waiting for a suitable donor. This time she says she wants a giraffe tongue. She heard those are the best for kissing.

  “Her old tongue is on my dad’s desk, stapled to his blotter. He keeps it moist and uses it for wetting stamps and envelopes.”

  11.

  Gary knocked on the door to Angeline’s apartment. He was wearing a hat.

  Gus answered the door.

  “Hey, Gus, what’s cookin’?” said Gary.

  “Mashed potatoes and gravy,” said Gus.

  Gus was also wearing a hat.

  Gus was probably older than Angeline’s father, but in a lot of ways he seemed more like a kid than an adult. He was Abel’s partner. Sometimes Gus drove the garbage truck while Abel picked up the garbage, but usually it was the other way around because Gus liked to look for what he called buried treasure.

  Gus was wearing an Australian safari hat with a camouflage band. Gary was wearing a black derby.

  “Nice hat,” said Gus.

  “Thanks,” said Gary. “I like yours, too.”

  “Would you believe it?” asked Gus. “Someone actually threw it in the trash.”

  “You’re lucky!” Gary said. “I paid three bucks for mine!”

  Gary had been to Gus’s house once. It was full of incredible stuff that other people had thrown away.

  Angeline came out of the bathroom wearing a pink cowgirl hat with little gold tassels dangling from the brim. “What’s cookin’, Gary?” she asked.

  “Mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  Abel had on a black beret.

  They all went to the park and played croquet.

  It was Gus’s croquet set. Just because one of the mallets was broken and a few of the wickets were missing, someone had actually thrown it in the trash. New wickets had since been made out of wire hangers (also thrown away), and if there weren’t enough mallets to go around, they simply shared.

  The first time they played, Gus had to teach everyone the rules. He said, “The first rule of croquet is, you have to wear a hat.” He had brought hats for everyone.

  Now they all had their own hats. Gary stopped at a thrift store at least once a week to check out the hats. He was constantly adding to his collection.

  They each had their own peculiar styles of playing croquet too. Gus would just wallop the ball as hard as he could on every shot, no matter how close he was to the wicket—although he hardly ever aimed for a wicket. When you play croquet, you usually aim either for a wicket or for somebody else’s ball. Gus almost always tried to hit somebody else.

  Angeline would hold her mallet high above one shoulder and then swing down at the ball, like a pendulum, so that when she finished, the mallet would be high above the other shoulder. She alternated, one time hitting the ball
from the right side, the next time from the left. The most important thing seemed to be not breaking the rhythm of the pendulum.

  “I don’t see how you can swing like that,” said Gary, “and still always hit the ball so straight.”

  Angeline shrugged. “You have to be the ball,” she explained.

  “Huh?” said Gary.

  “You’re being the mallet,” she said. “You have to try to be the ball.”

  Abel would walk around like a golfer, studying the angles and the slope of the field. He thought about each shot a long time, and then finally took the shot. More times than not, he’d just miss the wicket. Sometimes he’d aim for someone else’s ball, but never his daughter’s.

  Gary never held the mallet the same way twice. Sometimes he held it way down on the shaft, other times high up; sometimes with his left hand on top of his right, sometimes reversed. Sometimes he’d swing the mallet through his legs, other times off to the side. He once tried Angeline’s method, but missed the ball entirely.

  He didn’t know how to “be the ball.” He had a hard enough time “being the mallet,” whatever that was supposed to mean.

  “Okay, Gary,” said Gus. “I think I got you this time. Why’d Mrs. Snitzberry tiptoe past the medicine cabinet?”

  Gary shrugged.

  There was stunned silence.

  “Hah!” exclaimed Gus, clapping his hands together. “I knew I’d get you one day, Gary Boone!”

  He smiled.

  Gus was so happy he had finally stumped the great Gary Boone, he forgot to finish his joke.

  “Why did Mrs. Snitzberry tiptoe past the medicine cabinet?” Angeline asked impatiently.

  “Oh,” said Gus, “she didn’t want to wake up the sleeping pills.”

  Angeline laughed.

  Of course Gary knew the punch line. He just wasn’t allowed to tell jokes. In fact, not only did he know Gus’s punch line, he knew an even better one:

  Why’d Mrs. Snitzberry tiptoe past the medicine cabinet?

  She didn’t want to embarrass the “Bare” Aspirin.

  “Bird feathers!” exclaimed Angeline as Gus’s ball crashed into hers.

  Gus placed his ball next to her ball, stepped on his ball, then slammed his mallet against it, knocking her ball to the far end of the court.

  “One of these days you’re going to break your foot that way,” said Abel.

  Gus laughed. He turned to Angeline. “That ought to keep you busy for a while.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him.

  He stuck out his tongue back at her.

  For hitting Angeline’s ball, Gus got another shot. He aimed for the wicket but missed, and his ball kept rolling until it was almost as far away as Angeline’s.

  “Bird feathers!” he exclaimed.

  “So what’s the deal, Gary?” asked Abel. “How come you haven’t told us any jokes?”

  “Oh, sure he has!” Angeline said. She looked at her father like he was crazy.

  “No, I haven’t,” said Gary.

  “Really?” asked Angeline.

  He told them about his deal with his parents.

  Gus thought it was a “bum deal,” but Angeline agreed with Gary’s parents. “If you keep all your jokes bottled up inside, then when they come out, they’ll be even funnier. Like a balloon. The more air that’s forced inside, the louder the pop!”

  “That’s right!” said Gary. “That’s exactly what happens. I don’t tell any jokes at school, but then when I get home, they all burst out of me.”

  “Oh, I wish I could hear them,” said Angeline. “But don’t tell me.”

  “I won’t,” he assured her.

  “I’d like to meet your parents,” Abel said. “They sound very interesting.”

  “Huh?” said Gary.

  “Do they like to play croquet?” asked Gus. “Why don’t you ask them to join us next time.”

  Gary couldn’t imagine his parents spending time with Abel and Gus—especially not Gus. “They don’t like to wear hats,” he said.

  “So you sound really serious about this talent show,” said Abel.

  “I’ve been making up jokes all week. My plan is to make up jokes for two weeks and then choose my best ones.”

  “La crème de la crème,” said Gus.

  Gary laughed. “Then the last week, I’m going to just work on putting the jokes in some kind of order, and then practice them over and over again. People think that to be a comedian all you need are good jokes, but timing is just as important.”

  “The important thing is, you’re willing to work at it,” said Abel. “It doesn’t really matter how much talent you have. You have to be willing to work at it. Nothing comes easy.”

  “I’m working at it, all right,” Gary said. “My motto is: Whatever it takes, one hundred percent!”

  Gary and Angeline were alone on her sofa. Gus and Abel had gone to get pizza.

  “Did you ever wish you could be somebody else?” asked Gary.

  “Like who?”

  “Joe Reed,” said Gary. “Do you know who he is?”

  “He was in Mr. Bone’s class,” said Angeline.

  “He’s got the perfect life,” said Gary. “Everyone likes him. He’s smart, a great athlete, but he’s not stuck up or anything. He’s nice to everybody. Sometimes I wish I was him.”

  “Maybe you are him,” Angeline said. “Maybe he’s you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe just this second, when you said you wanted to be Joe Reed, you suddenly traded places. You’re now Joe Reed. He’s Gary Boone. But it doesn’t matter. I’m still here talking to Gary Boone. He became you. He has your body. Your brain. Your memory. He doesn’t remember ever being Joe Reed. He thinks he’s always been you. And you think you’ve always been him. So even though you just traded places, nothing’s changed.”

  “Yeah,” said Gary. He saw her point. At least he thought he did. On second thought—he had no clue.

  “No matter how many times you trade,” she said, “there’s always going to be a Gary Boone.”

  She smiled at him, apparently glad there would always be a Gary Boone. She took off his hat, then placed her pink cowgirl hat on his head. She put Gary’s hat on her head.

  “So I guess I should just try to be the best Gary Boone I can be,” he said. He shrugged. “I may be a goon, but I’ll be the best goon there is.”

  “Whatever it takes, one hundred percent,” said Angeline.

  12.

  Gary woke up feeling funny. Not sick-funny. Funny-funny. Hilarious-funny! Supercalifragilisticexpialidociously-funny!

  He felt like he could make up the funniest jokes of his life. The jokes were exploding inside him, ready to burst out, like Angeline’s balloon.

  But first he had to get through school—six hours of mind-numbing, maggot-infested drivel.

  There was a book report due in first period. This was the first time Gary had heard about it.

  Fortunately, it was only supposed to be an oral report, so as long as Mrs. Carlisle didn’t call on him, he was safe.

  Unfortunately, he was the first person called.

  “I’m not ready,” he said. “I didn’t know about it.”

  “You didn’t know about it?” Mrs. Carlisle asked incredulously. “Ashley. When did I assign the book report?”

  “Three weeks ago,” said Ashley.

  “Three weeks,” Mrs. Carlisle repeated. “Where have you been for the past three weeks, Gary?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either,” said Mrs. Carlisle.

  Gary laughed along with several other kids in the class.

  “I don’t think it’s funny,” said Mrs. Carlisle. “I think it’s sad. I will call on you again, on Friday, and by then I expect you to have a book report ready. And Gary,” she added, “not a jokebook this time.”

  Gary sighed. She didn’t have to say that. The first time she assigned a book report, at the beginning of the year, she didn’t say it couldn’t
be a jokebook, so how was he supposed to know? Now he knew. She didn’t have to mention it every single time.

  “What does she think I am—stupid?”

  And besides, he thought, how am I supposed to know where I was three weeks ago when she assigned the book report? Maybe I was in the bathroom. It’s not like she’s been talking about it every second for three weeks. It’s just like a murder mystery. Where were you at exactly 8:23 on the night of July 13? How’s anybody supposed to remember? Only the murderer knows. The innocent people don’t remember things like that.

  He talked to Miss Langley before class started.

  “Yes, Gary?”

  “May I see the list?”

  “What list?”

  “For the talent show.”

  “I wish you cared as much about math as you do about the talent show.”

  “I just want to see if anybody else has signed up yet.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Miss Langley assured him. She showed Gary the list.

  Gary W. Boone Tell jokes

  Susan Smith Acrobatics

  Joe Reed Rap

  Matt Hughes Tell jokes

  Brenda Thompson Sing

  Julie Rose Poetry

  Alex Roth Piano

  Leslie Ann Cummings Sing

  Connie Lee Sing and play guitar

  Fred Furst Bird imitations

  Marsha N. Posey Roller-skate

  “I don’t want to be first,” said Gary.

  “Pardon?”

  “Just because I was the first to sign up, I don’t want to have to be the first one up on stage.”

  “That’s not up to me,” said Miss Langley.

  “Who’s it up to?”

  “Brenda Thompson, I believe.”

  Gary nodded and said, “Oh.”

  “Gary,” Miss Langley said gently. “I wouldn’t get my hopes too high about the talent show.”

  He shrugged.

  “No offense,” Miss Langley continued, “but telling jokes isn’t exactly a talent—like singing, or playing the piano, or even bird calls. I’m sorry.”

  “I just hope somebody laughs,” said Gary. Then he went to take his seat.

  “Gary! Hey, Gary!”

  Gary turned. It was Steve (or maybe Michael) Higgins.