A Nose for Adventure Page 3

  There’s a problem with the cab at the head of the line. An old lady is complaining, pointing with her cane at the cab. The cabdriver is trying to explain something.

  “I tell you, it’s not my dog,” he says. “She just hangs around here. Ask anyone! Ask Harvey, there. Hey, Harvey, is this my dog?”

  Harvey is a big fat man in a tight shirt. He clambers out of his cab, the next in line.

  “That’s Sally,” he says.

  “Is she my dog?”

  “Nope. She’s no one’s dog. She just hangs around here. She likes to take cab rides.”

  “You see?” says the first cabdriver. He opens the door to his cab, and a dog climbs out.

  Funny-looking dog – about the size of a police dog, but with huge pointy ears, like a bat. The ears stick straight up, and give the dog a permanently surprised expression.

  “Oh, the sweetie!” says Frieda.

  The old lady stamps on the ground with her cane. “But the … the animal has been inside the cab. I will not ride in a cab where an animal has been!”

  A man with a briefcase and cigar brushes past her. “I’ll ride with anything,” he says, getting into the first cab. “Borough courthouse,” he directs the driver. “And step on it.”

  The first cab drives off. Harvey gets back in his cab. The whole line of cabs moves forward. The old lady opens the door to Harvey’s cab. And Sally the dog climbs in.

  I look behind me. I don’t see Slouchy. People are milling around, complaining about the old lady, the delay, the humidity. I take a deep breath, and, oddly enough, feel myself carried away, out of the present. For a moment it’s as if nothing has gone wrong yet. I feel hopeful: my dad is waiting for me; we’ll shake hands and go to the hotel, where there’ll be a swimming pool and a video game player, and we’ll order room service, and I’ll get to stay up late.

  False hope.

  “Hi, there.”

  I’m back to reality – back to panic. It’s Slouchy. He’s caught up to us. He’s wearing a windbreaker and sunglasses. He slouches up to Frieda, smiling. One of his teeth is silver. It glints. “Here we are again,” he says.

  Frieda doesn’t answer. She rolls herself over to me for moral support. I hope she doesn’t want any other kind. Slouchy smiles at me too. And takes a candy bar from his pocket.

  “What a coincidence,” he says. “I’m just off work and you’re waiting for a lift. It’s … Frieda, right? Frieda Miller? I remember the name from your suitcase.”

  He smiles and unwraps the candy bar. She’s right. He is creepy.

  “Want a bite?” he asks. “I’ve got more in my pocket. This one’s caramel.”

  “No,” says Frieda.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m sore about that slap you gave me,” he says. “The mark’s gone, and I’ve totally forgotten about it. A misunderstanding. Friends, okay?”

  Frieda doesn’t say anything.

  “Say!” he exclaims, as if he’s just got the idea. “How about coming with me? I’ve got a car waiting. Me and my cousin would be happy to give you a ride home.”

  “That’s okay,” she says. “We can take a cab.”

  “Oh, but taxis are so expensive. And the drivers don’t always know where you want to go. Better come with us.”

  “No,” says Frieda.

  “We’ll save you taxi fare. Your parents will appreciate it. They’ll love you for saving them money – mark my words.”

  “They will? My parents?” Frieda laughs – not happily. “You don’t know them,” she says.

  Slouchy raises his hand and beckons. A blue car I haven’t noticed pulls up to the front of the cab rank. It looks like a whole lot of other cars, except for the pink tassel tied to the aerial.

  Slouchy opens the back door for us. “Come on,” he says. “You’ll be home in no time.”

  The driver is the skinny government employee with the long nose and the federal powers. “Plenty of room,” he rasps.

  All this time the taxis have been sliding forward, one at a time, like pop cans in a vending machine. The funny-looking dog, Sally, is frisking up and down the line, jumping in and out of the waiting cabs. The crabby old lady is tired and upset. Poor crabby old lady.

  Skinny’s car is ahead of all the cabs. Sally chases the old lady towards it. When she gets to the open door, she practically collapses onto Skinny’s backseat. “Thank you, thank you,” she says to Slouchy, who stares at her, openmouthed, his silver tooth gleaming. “I live at the Northwestern Hotel, in Manhattan,” she says, mistaking Skinny for a taxi driver. “No pets allowed.” She reaches out, and closes the car door firmly in Sally’s face.

  Sally backs into Frieda’s wheelchair, and stands there, quivering. Frieda reaches out and strokes her flank.

  Slouchy scowls at the old lady. Puts his hand on the door. Then he takes a sudden step back, and starts shaking his head. He waves his arms around, slapping at his neck irritably. “Bees,” he says. “I hate bees.”

  I look up – now I’m outside, I can see the sky – but I still don’t see any sign from heaven. Or do I? There seems to be a flash of something small and golden hovering near Slouchy’s neck….

  Sally’s big bat ears twitch. She runs over to Slouchy and starts barking and leaping up. She wants the candy bar. She’s a big dog. Big enough to put her paws on Slouchy’s chest when she jumps. He stumbles backwards, along the length of the car. Sally’s jaws snap together, near the candy bar. Near the bee too.

  –Watch out!

  The voice is high-pitched. Not Slouchy’s voice. He uses the front door handle to pull himself to his feet. He’s staring around like a man who’s heard a ghost. Sally jumps again, knocking him down.

  –Beat it! Go away!

  The voice again. Can it be? I’m sure I know the voice well. “Norbert?” I say, taking a step forward. “Is that you?”

  Sally, very excited, jumps again. The candy bar, and the bee, disappear.

  Slouchy is lying on his back beside the car. “All right, all right,” he mutters to himself. “I’ll beat it.” He fumbles the car door open and crawls in. Skinny drives away. And, echoing strangely, the voice returns once more.

  –Great steaming mugs of cocoa! Where am I?

  The dog stands perfectly still for a moment. Then she sneezes three times in a row. Then she circles herself, chasing her tail. Then she sneezes once more, very loudly, and sits down. The expression on her face reminds me of the time my friend Victor ate what he thought was a jellybean, only it turned out to be a bath oil bead.

  The cab line moves forward. People get in. Cabs drive off. Nobody’s paying attention to us. Sally moves over to Frieda’s wheelchair and puts her paws up on Frieda’s lap. Frieda strokes the dog’s head, tentatively.

  “Hi, there, sweetie,” she says.

  Sally makes a snuffling sound.

  “Aren’t you beautiful,” says Frieda.

  – Thank you, I suppose I am.

  “Norbert,” I say. “So it really is you.” I know it’s Norbert. It’s his voice, and it’s just the kind of thing he’d say.

  Frieda gives a little shriek, and draws back. But she doesn’t let go of the dog.

  “Is that you talking, Alan?” she says. “Or is it the dog?”

  “Neither one of us, actually,” I say.

  I try to explain it to her. Norbert is a tiny, squeaky-voiced alien from the planet Jupiter. For a while last year he lived inside my nose, the way a friend would stay over at your place while his parents are out of town. Norbert didn’t feel cramped. Apparently my nose is bigger than I thought, with a living room inside. Yes, I said living room. There’s also a bedroom, a back room, a kitchen, and a garage for Norbert’s spaceship.

  No, I don’t understand it either. Norbert stayed with me for a few weeks, and then left to live in k.d. lang’s nose. Yes, the singer k.d. lang. Apparently the whole planet Jupiter just loves our country music. As far as I know, Norbert’s been with Ms. lang ever since.

  I’ve kind of missed him.


  – Yes, it’s really me, he says, from down beside my knee.

  You called for help, didn’t you? Who were you expecting – Mighty Mouse?

  I should say that Norbert is not always polite. In fact, he’s quite a mouthy little fellow.

  “Where are you? Are you … inside the dog?” Sally barks.

  “Inside the dog’s … nose?”

  – Hey, it’s a lot roomier than yours Dingwall. It was a shock at first, landing in here, but I’ve had a chance to look round, now, and I think I like it. I’ve got a studio, you know, with two skylights. I may take up oil painting again.

  Frieda frowns at Sally. “You can talk,” she whispers.

  – Yes, I can. So can you. So can Dingwall, here, which means it can’t be that tough.

  “Hey!” I say.

  – See what I mean? says Norbert. A blushing Demosthenes. Of course I am blushing. Frieda smiles slightly. “But you’re talking to … to me,” she says.

  – Oh my achy breaky heart! Come on, girlie! Try to catch up. I am speaking to you. You are speaking to me. It’s called conversation.

  Can the people nearby hear? No one turns around. No one notices.

  “Norbert! That’s rude!” I say.

  Funny, I wouldn’t have cared what anyone said to Frieda on the plane. She is, after all, an annoying girl. I figure it’s her wheelchair that makes me want her treated more nicely. Being in a wheelchair makes her more vulnerable. Why is it, I wonder, that you only want to be polite to someone because they’re already in trouble? After all, she’s still an annoying girl.

  The dog looks up at Frieda, and barks. Frieda’s expression clears. She strokes the dog.

  – Shut up, Sally says Norbert. Quick now, Dingwall. Where are we going?

  “We?” I say. “You mean, you’re coming with us?”

  – Of course.

  I can’t tell you what a weight that is off my back. Norbert is difficult at times, rude and opinionated, but he’s on my side. He’s a friend. And he doesn’t get scared. Not ever. It’s a real asset to have a friend who’s never afraid.

  – D’you want help or not? You asked for it. And, in my opinion, you need all the help you can get. Who picked your clothes for you? And when did you start wearing cologne? You smell like last week’s roses.

  Frieda giggles.

  I can feel myself blushing again. “That’s not my cologne,” I say.

  – This young lady here is dressed very nicely indeed, k.d. lang has a suit almost exactly like it. And you, Dingwall, are wearing a shirt with a donut on it. Now, where are we going?

  Frieda stops giggling to say, “My place. My parents’ place.”

  “My dad was supposed to meet me,” I say. “But he’s not here.”

  The line of cabs moves forward again. The driver in front slams on his brakes, forcing the other cabs to stop suddenly too.

  – Hey, TAXI! yells Norbert. Frieda stares at him – well, at Sally.

  A businessman with a fat briefcase is moving past us, gesturing at the cab.

  – Back off, buster, snarls Norbert. That’s our cab.

  The man turns around with a frown. “Didn’t anyone teach you manners, young lady?” he says. The dog’s head is near Frieda’s. The businessman figures Frieda is talking.

  – Manners? You’re a cab thief, and you talk about manners! I’d have this mutt bite you in the leg, if I could get her to do what she’s told.

  Norbert is mad.

  – Hey, Dingwall. The girlie isn’t moving. Push her. Make with the feet, big guy!

  The cabdriver is trying to find the switch that opens the trunk. He opens the hood by mistake, and turns on the windshield wipers. I help Frieda out of the chair and into the cab. She leans on me. Finally the cabdriver figures out how to open the trunk. The wheelchair fits inside after I fold it up. Sally jumps into the cab after Frieda. I climb in last. It’s a tight fit.

  The businessman is staring at us.

  – And your shoelace is untied! Norbert shouts past my shoulder. The businessman looks down. A man and a woman, holding hands, push past him. He drops his briefcase. It opens. Papers fly out. Norbert’s laugh sounds funny coming from a dog.

  “Where to?” asks the driver.

  “Take us to 26 West 84th Street,” says Frieda, loud and clear. “It’s off Central Park West. In Manhattan,” she adds.

  “Show me some money,” says the driver.

  Frieda’s purse is on her shoulder now. She reaches in and finds a bill. Holds it up.

  The driver pulls down the flag to start the meter, and takes off like a rocket.

  No one says anything at first. The cabdriver concentrates on the traffic, muttering to himself. I stare out the window.

  A few minutes later I hear Frieda’s voice. She’s not talking to me.

  – Pleased to meet you too, Frieda, Norbert replies. Pardon my earlier rudeness. Excuse me while I wipe my cocoa mustache. On Jupiter we all drink cocoa. Now I have to clean up the dishes. I must say, Sally’s kitchen has every modern convenience.

  We have to stop at a traffic light. The cabdriver shakes his head. When the light turns green, he takes off with a squeal of tires.

  “So your dad is a state representative,” I say. “That’s important, isn’t it?”

  Frieda stares. “Of course it is. Don’t you know anything? Don’t they have state representatives where you come from?”

  “I’m from Canada,” I say. “We don’t even have states.”

  She shakes her head. “Not unweird,” she says.

  – k.d. lang’s favorite place in the world is a little town in Alberta, Canada, says Norbert.

  “But Alberta is a state,” says Frieda. “Right above North Dakota.”

  “It is?” I say. It’s my country, but she sounds so darn sure of herself, I think maybe I’ve missed something in the news. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. My dad went there last year and he’s a politician.”

  “Do you think that’s why they’re after you?” I ask. “Because of politics? Because of your dad?”

  Frieda shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe,” she says. “What does your dad do?”

  “He works in human resources,” I say. “He keeps getting transferred. This is his first year in New York. My mom helps children in trouble. What does your mom do?”

  Her face shuts tight, like a slammed door. “Nothing,” she says.

  We’re driving across a bridge I’ve seen a million times before, on TV and at the movies. I recognize the view ahead of me, with the morning sun shining on all the famous skyscrapers.

  “Cool,” I say. I can’t help it. I know it’s scary and all, and I’m in a strange city, and my dad is too busy to pick up his son at the airport, but it is pretty cool. Only I’m wrong.

  “In New York, nothing is cool,” says Frieda.

  “Sure it is,” I say. “This is cool.”

  “‘Cool’ is just not a cool expression,” she explains. “That is, what you would call cool.”

  I have to believe her. She’s so certain. “When something is cool, what do you call it?”

  She smiles. “We call it: not uncool.”

  “Not uncool!” I try it out. “Sounds dumb.”

  “And ‘cool’ sounds smart?”

  I don’t have anything to say to that.

  – On Jupiter, says Norbert, we say that something is very “Sid.”

  “‘Sid?’” says Frieda.

  – Yes, Sid. Like the moon. One of Jupiter’s moons is named Sid.

  “I didn’t know that,” she says.

  Frieda seems to have adjusted to Norbert. Maybe because she’s from the city. There’re already so many different kinds of people in a place like New York that one more stranger – no matter how strange – is easier to accept. I tried to tell people about Norbert last year, but no one would believe me. They thought it was me talking.

  “So, Norbert, what do you think of the Queensboro Bridge?” she says. “Is it Sid?�
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  – Well, it’s not unSid.

  “Not bad for you!” she says, stroking the dog’s ears. Sally tosses her head. We laugh. Seems like the first time in weeks that I’ve laughed.

  Finally I start to relax. This whole adventure may well be over soon. Dad’ll pick me up from Frieda’s place, and we’ll drive to the hotel, and unpack my …

  “Oh, no!” I say.

  Frieda is turned around in her seat, so she can look out the back window.

  “Our luggage. We don’t have our bags.” In the hurry of getting away from the airport, I forgot about them. Her suitcase and my soccer bag are on the sidewalk in front of the cab rank. “We’ll have to go back and get them,” I say.

  Frieda keeps staring back, as if she doesn’t care at all about the luggage. I can’t understand why, until I realize that the car she’s staring at, the car directly behind us, has a pink tassel tied to the aerial.

  We’re being followed by Slouchy and Skinny. And maybe the crabby old lady, but I’m not too worried about her.

  I don’t care about the luggage either. This is much more important. I thought all the bad stuff was over. I feel like crying. I don’t know what to do. Fortunately, Norbert is decisive.

  – We must find a way to lose the car. k.d. lang’s driver used to turn three times really fast to discourage pepperonis.

  “Pepperonis?” I say.

  – think she said “pepperonis.” I hope our driver is as good as Mario. Hey, up front! Hey, there!

  The cabdriver frowns, turns right around so that one arm is along the front seat. The car sails across a lane of traffic. “You talking to me?” he says. His eyes dance in his head.

  – Yes, says Norbert.

  “Are you,” he pauses, staring at the dog, “talking to me?”

  – Yes. Are you listening?

  “Me?” he says. “You’re talking to me?”

  The bridge is behind us on our left. Buildings tower over us. The cab swoops across the road. As we approach the next intersection, the driver turns around even farther to stare at us. This movement puts the wheel down. I shut my eyes. When I open them again, we’re on a different street, with the sun behind us. Somehow, we made the turn.

  We haven’t hit anyone yet, partly because we are incredibly lucky, and partly because New York drivers seem to be very alert to odd behavior on the part of other drivers.