Swine Not? (7 page)
Traveling at the Speed of Dreams
RUMPY
I
WAS DREAMING
. I was back in Vertigo, sitting at a desk. Using my hooves, I was able to type on the computer, and I could see Flutbein’s Hotel on the screen. Barley and Maple were in the fish tank on top of the hotel, but in my dream, it wasn’t a fish tank; it was a spaceship, and they were sending me instant messages, telling me how much they missed me, and they were wondering if I was ever coming back to New York.
I typed back to them, “Not as long as Boucher is around.”
Boucher. Now there is a name that can strike fear into the heart of any pig. In French, it means “Butcher” — as in the guy who makes pork chops and hams out of you-know-what. I had overheard that he was the head chef.
Next thing I knew, I dreamed I was back in the fish tank, and Maple and Barley were all abuzz because I had returned so fast.
I like to travel at the speed of dreams.
The twins were smoothing my coat and asking me how I had learned to type so well. Barley mentioned his concern about my love of exploring. Maple seemed to feel I was searching for someone . . . and there the dream melted into cheeses dancing with tomatoes! Though I was sleeping, my very alert and sensitive snout was still on and engaged in its most frenetic twitch, announcing, like the scream of an airport metal detector, a fresh pizza — my second-favorite food next to chicken fingers. This meant Ellie had brought dinner home after a long day of work.
“Supper’s here, girls,” Barley announced. I was back to reality in a second. I scrambled out of the closet and raced to the living room, where the picnic of my dreams lay spread across the floor. Edible flowers had been scattered like a path to four pizzas, surrounded by freshly baked apples.
In spite of the hostility below in the mean streets, that night in the fish tank was pure heaven. Ellie raved about the hotel’s modern kitchen. It was every chef’s dream, and she was determined to please Mr. Flutbein with her work. She had introduced herself to the waiters and had asked them for feedback on any dessert. Over coffee, the busboys told her amusing stories about the regular guests, as well as a few good jokes. The senior chef, a Frenchman by way of Hackensack, New Jersey, had returned from his hunting trip. Ellie described the way he snarled at his employees and was constantly ducking into the alley behind the kitchen for a cigarette.
“You mean Boucher?” Maple asked. Syrup hissed from her shoulder.
“Sounds like he might be the next candidate for the famous Coach Mom’s cheap-shot payback,” Barley said with a smirk.
Ellie didn’t see the humor in his statement. “How do you know his name?” she asked.
Barley then told her about finding Murray in the apartment, snooping, and about Freddy’s warning to watch out for the head chef.
“Well, we are all new here, and we will just have to learn to get along with everybody. I assure you that the good apples here at the hotel certainly outnumber the bad ones.”
Apples. Mmmmm. I confess I wasn’t thinking about the rotten apple that had just appeared in my dreams an hour earlier. No, I was thinking more about the nicely baked ones placed around the pizzas. I didn’t need an invitation. I gobbled the apples while the kids were telling Ellie about their day at school. Barley was excited he had made the varsity soccer team, and Maple announced that Barton’s “pet day” was coming up next week. Normally I would have jumped at the opportunity to perform, but after my day at the park, I was relieved that Maple was going to take Syrup to class — so she could exhibit the extensive cat wardrobe she had made.
After dinner, Ellie came over and sat by me and scratched my head. “You seem tired, Rumpy,” she said. She removed her apron and placed it next to my snout so I could get a whiff. Drenched with flavor, it was a delicious record of every meal she had served that day, and it sent me off to dreamland again — but that night, I slept fitfully on the couch. I guess three whole pizzas kept the snake dreams fueled.
In my next dream, Ellie was in the hotel kitchen, and I was her assistant. The kids were seated at a table in the dining room with Lukie, and he and Barley were wearing tuxedos. The kitchen had a glass wall, and everyone was staring at us. Ellie was creating a very strange dessert — a toffee tarantula, suspended in a spun-sugar cobweb, with yellow eyes that scanned back and forth for prey.
I should have taken it as a warning.
More Soccer than a Boy Could Want
BARLEY
T
HINGS MOVE
quickly here in New York. Back on the first day of school, I barely had time to get my locker straightened out because soccer tryouts started right after the end of class. The next day, the team list was posted on the bulletin board, and that afternoon, I had a practice uniform on. I was running plays as a member of the Barton Academy Falcons on the Great Lawn of Central Park. Being a new kid in a city school like Barton was not easy, but it certainly helped that I could kick a ball.
Let’s just say that the Great Lawn of Central Park is a very different home field than Pancake Park. On any given day, more people are playing soccer than football! That is why the Great Lawn is where you will find me most of the time I am not in school.
Barton Academy is only a few blocks from the park, and we practice every afternoon and play our games there as well. Then there is the big difference, and it is a huge one: the Red Bulls practice at Giants Stadium, just across the Hudson River in New Jersey. I finally figured out the subway-and-bus route there, and Mom is going to take me over next weekend. The Red Bulls are tied for first place in the East with D.C. United. Who knows, I just might get to that play-off game with Dad after all.
In the meantime, our first game was simply amazing. I have to say I’ll never forget running onto that field in the middle of Central Park, scoring the winning goal, and actually hearing more than four people cheer. It kind of signaled that I had really arrived in New York — even more than when I had tumbled out of the stretch limo. Mom and Maple were in the crowd, and all of Maple’s new school friends were text-messaging her, asking if I had a girlfriend. Yuck!
When I am not playing for the Falcons, I can just go to the park with my ball and find any one of a dozen pickup games on the lawn. I play with everybody, from kids my age to grown men who don’t speak much English. Already my Spanish has improved tremendously. So I can honestly say that soccer is not only fun but also educational. Still, I have to leave time to do my schoolwork back in the fish tank. Soccer is sure more fun, but Barton is an academic challenge, and I promised Mom that I would make good grades in order to play soccer. It’s only been a few weeks, but so far so good.
There is only one problem with having all the soccer a boy could want. Because of the almost unlimited supply of games, players, and shots on goal, my longtime goalie, Rumpy, sort of slipped off my radar and onto the sidelines. Back in Vertigo, Rumpy was always in goal, because most of the time we didn’t have enough humans to make up a team. But in New York, that just wasn’t the case.
After our second Falcons game, Mom pointed out that I had left Rumpy out. She was right, and I felt bad. Not only was Rumpy our pet but she was my pal — and kind of like a roommate, too. That night, I promised Mom that I would spend time with Rumpy in the park. I had just gotten distracted by all the great things to do in the city, especially in Central Park. There were concerts, bike trails, restaurants, and the zoo. There was even a castle on the Great Lawn.
Mom laughed and reminded me that she, too, had been a country girl who had come from Mississippi to the Big City. “No matter what great changes life brings you,” she said, “you have to make time for your true friends, Barley.” And that is exactly what I did. After practice the next day, I sprinted to the Barton bookstore and bought Rumpy a surprise. But when I got home, I found her buried in the corner of Maple’s closet, hugging that football of hers.
There was no wiggle and no rush to rub my leg and get scratched. She showed no interest in my gift, and she didn’t even react when I told her about our upcoming one-on-one playdate. Instead, she simply looked up at me, rolled over, and closed her eyes. Maybe she was feeling bad after eating three pizzas the night before, or maybe she was just homesick for the farm. Anyway, it was my job to cheer her up, and I was taking that job seriously.
Not So Fast There, Rumpy
RUMPY
I
GUESS I
needed that fourteen-hour nap after the incident in the park and the pizza dreams. I woke up early the next morning feeling much better. I had a faint memory of Barley in the closet talking to me, but I couldn’t remember what he had said. Then I saw his gift — the prettiest red jersey with falcons written across the front and my name and the number “1” stitched across the back. Next to it was a snout guard that Maple had designed with the Barton Academy colors. They hadn’t forsaken me! I was back in the game. I was still Barley’s goalie, and I was still Maple’s favorite star to dress.
It was exactly the medicine I needed. Maybe New York wasn’t such a bad place after all. I jumped up and began to scratch around Maple’s bed, even before her alarm rang. She rolled around in the covers, but I pulled on her sheets.
Just then, Barley popped his head in the door. “There’s my goalie!” he said with a smile. I ran over to him and snuggled up, grunting and spinning at his feet, stopping only long enough for Barley to get my new jersey on. Maple took a picture of me.
As usual, the kids got dressed for school, fixed their breakfast and mine, and packed up their schoolbags. Ellie’s absence during this morning ritual wasn’t unusual; she often dashed to the kitchen early to make sure the overnight bakers had cooked the morning pastries properly. I walked in front of the mirror in the hallway and admired my new jersey. I was ready to take on New York again.
I had often walked the kids to school in Vertigo, and I had figured it would be the same in New York. However, I opted to lie low. I was scared to go out. But the jersey cheered me up and boosted my confidence. Suddenly I was looking forward to exploring the route to Barton Academy and seeing what kind of goalie the Falcons had. Once the twins were safely in class, I could scout the streets around the campus for Lukie scents before checking out soccer practice in the park. Then I would try to connect with the uptown pigeons. My hope was that they were in contact with other pigeon squadrons in the city. Working together, they could help me locate Lukie. I was back on the job.
T
HAT AFTERNOON
, I was chewing away on the last carrot in my bowl when the scent of fresh-baked croissants made its way into the kitchen. Ellie must have returned from the restaurant. “What?” I heard Barley yell. “That’s outrageous!”
I stopped eating and ran for the living room.
“Oh, Rumpy . . .” Maple said in a shaky little voice.
“It’s just not fair!” Barley shouted. He had tears in his eyes, and his voice was angry.
Ellie stooped down and stroked my head. “Rumpy, you can’t go out anymore.”
Apparently one of the waiters had been telling everyone that a pig at a hot-dog stand had been chased by a mob through the park.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Ellie asked.
The truth was written all over my face.
Ellie was crying now. “Oh, Rumpy,” she said, “it’s all my fault. I was too busy worrying about the move. I never imagined the problems city life would present for a pig. And then this showed up under our door this morning.”
Barley held up a letter written on hotel stationery. He read the large print at the top:
“No Exotic Pets Allowed.” He went on, “This includes ocelots, mice, chinchillas, monkeys, ferrets, gerbils, hamsters, reptiles, prairie dogs, sheep, goats, rats, and . . . pigs.” Barley stopped reading. He crunched the paper into a ball and kicked it into the trash can in the corner.
“I think that’s why Murray was snooping around the apartment,” Ellie said. “The waiters told me he and Boucher have been lobbying Mr. Flutbein to get rid of all hotel pets except cats and dogs. Then, just yesterday, someone brought his pet ocelot into the lobby. Somehow it spotted a mouse in the corner of the dining room and got free from its owner. The ocelot bounded across five full tables of diners before it leaped onto the buffet — imagine an ocelot and a mouse in this hotel! Boucher went berserk. And I guess Mr. Flutbein finally agreed with him.”
The room went silent.
“This is not right,” Barley said.
“I’m afraid New York is not Tennessee.” Ellie scratched me behind my ears. “I fear your inexperience with city life has put you at a big disadvantage here, Rumpy, and quite possibly in grave danger.”
Ellie went on to explain that she had been pacing all morning, trying to figure out what to do. She had signed a contract with the hotel, we couldn’t return to our old life for a year, and she really needed the money. Shipping me back to Tennessee or sending me to live in a local petting zoo was out of the question. That left only one option: confinement to quarters. She had made the decision that they would hide me until she had gotten to know her boss better. Then she could plead our case. After all, we really didn’t live in the hotel but on the roof. In the meantime, I had to stay out of sight, which was a big order for a pig living in a fish tank.
Maple kissed me good-bye. Barley knelt down beside me. I couldn’t look at his face, and he didn’t know what to say. Biting his lip, he scratched my ears a little bit on his way out. “Don’t worry, Rumpy,” he said, petting me through my Falcons jersey. “You’ll be back on the field in no time.”
And then they were gone. Welcome to my lonely world.
