The True Meaning of Smekday

“It’s been nice having one.”

We walked into the booth—

—and out the other side. I was numb again, and Pig made a low noise. But it was bright enough here, and there were no Gorg in sight. There was nothing in sight but white tile and two rows of urinals. We were in a boys’ bathroom.

“Out of the booth,” said J.Lo. “I should shut it off. Gorg might come.”

As if in agreement, thudding footsteps echoed toward us. Around the corner of this hall of urinals came a Gorg with a rifle like an outboard motor with a car muffler sticking out of it.

“LU! F’GAB! GET AWAY FROM THAT!” Gorg bellowed.

We stepped forward and to the sides, crowding the urinals. Pig squirmed and hissed in my arms. J.Lo threw an aspirin, and then another, but the cold foam didn’t slow Gorg down much. He batted chunks of snow away and raised his rifle. Then he noticed Pig for the first time.

“RRRR. THAT IS…” he said, at a loss for words. “SURRENDER THE ANIMAL!”

He pointed his gun at my head.

“SURRENDER THE ANIMAL!”

“Okay,” I said faintly. “Sorry, Pig.”

And I threw her right at his stomach.

Pig screeched and dug her claws into Gorg as a cloud of hair rose off her back. Gorg looked down in horror and loosened one hand from his rifle to knock her away. I threw an aspirin at it, and kicked Gorg in the shin, which stubbed the hell out of my toes, pardon my language. It didn’t do a thing to the shin. But with his hand covered in foam, Gorg couldn’t hurt Pig, and she leaped away and hid behind the teleclone booth.

What happened next was the absolutely worst allergic reaction I’d ever seen. Gorg’s stomach turned red and formed fat bubbling hives like tomato soup. It spread up to his neck and head, and he went into spasms of gasping and sneezing. I think he even tried to fire his rifle, but his fat red fingers couldn’t work the trigger. I circled around him.

“Get the booth ready!” I said, and waited for J.Lo to give me the thumbs-up. Then I shoved Gorg as hard as I could, which wasn’t very hard, but an unlucky sneeze on Gorg’s part helped me force him into the cage, and pop! went the weasel.

“Where did you send him?” I asked.

“Whydaho, I think,” said J.Lo.

“Idaho.”

“Yes. This place,” he said, turning the booth off again. He consulted some kind of computer terminal on the side of this telecloner. On the top of it was a mass of rubbery-looking goop, and J.Lo poked and mashed it like he was working with clay. Shapes and symbols appeared in the air above the stuff, telling him what he wanted to know. I coaxed Pig out of hiding and gave her some treats.

“I will never do that again,” I told her. “Most likely.”

“This computer says there are other teleclone booths very close—within a squared mile, maybe. If I keep to looking, it might tell me where did they put Tipmom,” J.Lo said.

“Good. You do that, and keep Pig safe. I’m going to see where we are.”

“Be careful. Call on the talkie-walkie if you are in danger.”

I crept around the corner and found another hall of sinks and stalls, and the exit door. And next to that, a smaller exit door, like one was for adults and the other for kids. The small door was labeled “Mice” and the other one “Men,” and there’s only one place I know of that does that. It’s The Nicest Place on Earth.

“No way,” I whispered, stepping outside.

I saw the Vocabularcoaster and Rumpelstiltskin’s Spinning Wheel. Above were the twin tracks of the Duorail and the tops of thick-bearded palm trees. Right in front of me was the Castle of the Snow Queen.

I realized I was out in the open, so I slinked over to a line of shops and crouched in a doorway. At least it was nighttime.

“We’re in Happy Mouse Kingdom,” I said into the walkie-talkie. “We’re back in Orlando. Over.”

Shhhch “No way,” said J.Lo’s voice, as shrill and crackly as a drive-through menu. “Over.”

“It’s true! That big signal you found is Happy Mouse Kingdom. I’m looking at the castle right now. Over.”

Chh “This makes sense, actually. The Boov liked Florida. So then the Gorg push them out from Florida and set up base camp, to be poomps.”

And yet there were no Gorg to speak of—not around the castle, not down by the newsstand or by Chairman Moo’s Calfeteria. I ducked into the Calfeteria, wondering where you would keep a prisoner in a theme park. I didn’t even know what I should be looking for. Cages? Giant nets? Jars with holes poked in the lids?

It was then, far down Broadway, that I heard noises. I peeked around the edge of the Milk Bar and saw four Gorg exit another restroom, this time a ladies’ room, and walk my way. Another teleclone booth, I thought. Or maybe Gorg always go to the bathroom in groups.

I backed up and crawled behind the bar. The floors here were covered with sticky, black rubber mats that were rotten with the stink of spilled milk and feet.

The Gorg voices drew closer. They spoke to each other in their own language, which they punctuated with pokes and jabs at each other’s shoulders and ribs. I reached up and stopped the ticking of my walkie-talkie antenna against the dairy case.

They weren’t even going to notice me. There was no reason to, unless they came behind the bar looking for spoiled milk. But then a question that had been bubbling in the back of my mind suddenly came to the surface. Why would a group of Gorg teleport into that restroom down there, only to walk all the way up here?

Because they tried the booth J.Lo shut off and it didn’t work, stupid. Now they’re going to go find out why.

When they passed and were only feet from our restroom, I grabbed an empty milk bottle and hurled it across the street. It crashed and spread glass all over the floor of one of those stores that sells electric nose hair trimmers and solar-powered vacuum cleaners. The noise or the motion or both set off two Dancin’ Santas and a robot dog. The Gorg turned around and went to investigate where all that barking and Feliz Navidad was coming from.

I held the antenna still and sneaked back toward the men’s room, only to hear a screech come from my backpack like a tiny train wreck. The walkie-talkie. I froze, then scurried into a gift shop—one filled with the kind of gifts people only buy on vacation. Hiding behind a rack of Happy Mice wearing T-shirts that read “Official Souvenir,” I ripped the walkie-talkie out of my bag.

“What?” I hissed.

Shhhhkk “I did it!” the speaker shrieked.