Yo-Yo Boing!

— I don’t know how to write reviews.

— It’s as smooth as nail polish. One of my assistants will teach you. I offered the job first to Leen, but Leen wanted to write about Olmo-Olmo, and I said—Oh, no, no Olmo-Olmo, you can only write about me.

— I told you, I don’t know if I can do the job, but I’ll try. If not, my translator will do it.

— Are you still writing poetry?

— I’m writing poetry disguised as a novel—you offered apologetically.

— There are no disguises here—I said. She’s writing a screenplay.

— A screenplay! — he said. Ya know—he pointed at you—ya know wha-what you are?

— Me? — you shrugged shyly.

— Ya, ya know wha-what you are?

— Wha-what?

— You’re a, you’re a pentagram—then he pointed at me—and you, ya know wha-what you are?

I rolled my tongue again — oops — hit the brakes — let me stop — to see if it stops — oops — it stopped in the roof of my mouth — oops — my tongue’s on a roll, on a rampage, running away…

— Hit the brakes — kick your stirrups.

— Hold your horses — hold your temper.

— Hold your horses — hold your tongue.

— Hold your horses — whooa. Stop.

— Ya know wha-what you are? — he sta-stammered. You’re a, you’re a Yo-Yo BOING!

My head hit the ceiling, and I woke up. Wow — this is night. Silence reigned over the house. All the kids were asleep except me. I looked around the moonlit room and saw my rocking horse in the corner and a glowworm by the door. Somehow I climbed over the bars and landed belly up with my head thudding against the carpet. I crawled downstairs backwards, following the wizardly mumbling coming from the kitchen where my parents were arguing at the table. I stood up at the door and waved:

— Look at me. Look at me.

My mother took one look at me and screamed.

— A gobber!

— I was so scared I scrambled upstairs on all fours and climbed into my sister’s bunk. But I showed them who I am. Notice me now. How I dared down the dark stairs crawling into a fight. Sure they noticed. None of my brothers ran into the traffic of the night and sent my mother into a fright.

— I guess it’s like when you least expect it, in the middle of the night, in the streets, near a dumpster, a mouse appears. You scream, and in a flash the mouse disappears.

— I first appeared in Kalooki.

— You played a seal, didn’t you? I can imagine you balancing a beach ball on your pug nose.

— There were plenty of silly animal tricks, but I landed a role that nobody dared.

— Nobody wanted.

— Kalooki tried to fly like a bird, but never pulled it off. Leopard seal flopped and flounced around, but never left his rock. But me, I crossed the whole ocean, inch by inch, belly-crawling across the rug so gracefully, so quietly nobody noticed I was moving. I not only gave setting to the play, I gave a dwelling to the penguins.

— You let them step on you?

— On the quilt covering me. Such fierce concentration did I exercise that neither squawk nor squeak did part my kisser when Kalooki stepped on my fingertips. It was a humble role, but the power behind the play.

— Dog or woman?

— I didn’t bark or scream. I became what I had to become, an iceberg. Unable to see what the animals were doing, I was minding my own business, the business of crossing the whole ocean without melting, even though I was sweating like an ox. When the curtain fell, I was the one who went the farthest and accomplished the most. They clapped and hooted when I emerged pink and soppy, bowing — here I am. Then I cart-wheeled across the stage.

— It reminds me of when Jabalí and I drove through the mountains and there in front of us was an icy river.

— What’s this got to do with Jabalí?

— He used to fish in that river.

— What’s this got to do with me?

— He sat on a rock and fished with a needle and thread.

— How pathetic.

— How poetic. The fisherman and the iceberg. To know that my pipo saved all those penguins from drowning. What a tender guy. When I looked into Jabi’s eyes, I used to see the green thread of hope until I started feeling I was his rag and he was sticking needles in me.

— Wait ’til you fill my iceberg melting in your ocean.

— I prefer a fire burning in the hearth of my house.

— If you think that’s a good one, ay, bendito, wait until you hear about the time I stepped on a bumble bee. I was happy and gay — skipping barefoot about the farm — away, away, away from my chores — when happiest I felt, zzwapt, rapt.

— Oh, my heel, and now I’m cripple, maimed for life.

Hopping, hobbling, what do I see, a wading pool full of back-swimmers and tadpoles, leaves and twigs, a muddy stew of vegetables, onions, and carrots. My imagination was stewing.

— Soup, soup always makes me feel better.

Schwapt. I swished my foot around in nature’s brew, wiggled my toes into the mud for sting relief. By sunset, the arch of my foot was swollen, itchy, and bulging like a sand-packed balloon, infected by parasites in the rainwater. Sweating, I was thirsty. I saw a hose spurting crystal cold water.

— If I go in the house now—I thought—Mom will take me to the hospital. I’ll sneak in at bedtime. I’ll be fine in the morning.

I stuck the hose in my mouth — and gulp, gulp — down my throat — sploosh — came a glob, a frog — a tender tadpole which I swallowed whole. I dropped the hose, realizing it was scum water my father was siphoning from the pool. A queasiness overcame me. The bugger flip-flopped down the hatch, and away I hopped like a frog.

— What’s a frog like you doing with scorpions?

— Doubting everything about myself.

— You know what the scorpion said to the frog?

— Frog, can I hitch a ride across the river?

— Not with me, scorpion. You’d bite me, and I’d drown.

— Why would I do that? I’d drown with you.

— That’s true. Hop on my cape. Let’s cross the river.

Guess what happened? In the middle of the river, the scorpion bit the frog.

— Why did you bite me? Now we’ll both drown.

— Why did you let me? You know I’m a scorpion. It’s my nature.

That’s what scorpions always do to you, and you always fall for it.

— Last night I dreamed I was blowing air into your asshole, inflating your belly, and you were floating up from the bed, floating up, hitting your head against the ceiling and bouncing on the floor.

— Let me go please. Crack a window.

— You won’t fit through the window. How about the door?

— I can’t decide. I’m a balloon.

— If you let me tie a rope around your ankles, I’ll take you out the elevator. C’mon, atta girl.