Almost Starring Skinnybones (2 page)

Mostly they’re autographs of famous baseball and basketball players. Also there’s one of Bugs Bunny. I was only three when I got it, so I didn’t understand it was just some man dressed up in a rabbit suit. Personally I think it’s the job of parents to keep
small children from embarrassing themselves like I did. The guy actually signed my paper “BUGS.”

Anyway, just because I signed some autographs didn’t mean I thought I was as famous as Tom Cruise or anything. You don’t get to be as famous as Tom Cruise by doing one little TV commercial. Cap’n Crunch or Mrs. Butterworth is about the best you can expect. Still, they’re celebrities, aren’t they?

The thought of me being a star really drove my mother crazy. I guess she figured it would make me stuck-up or something. Every time I talked about it, I got this giant lecture on how I wasn’t a celebrity at all. How I was still “plain old Alex Frankovitch.”

“I
know
I’m still plain old Alex Frankovitch,” I snapped back one morning at breakfast. “But what’s that got to do with anything? I can still be a star, can’t I? I don’t have to be a
giant
star like with a big mansion in Hollywood. I can just live here and be a
little
star with a little sports car and a little English butler.”

My mother grunted and picked up the sports page.

“What d’you say, Mom?” I persisted. “A little sports car and a little butler? That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

She didn’t even bother to look up. “Of course it
is, Alex. Write down what you want. Your father and I will knock off a bank on the way home from work tonight.”

My mother’s a laugh a minute.

She wasn’t the only one trying to ruin my fun, either. My father was just as bad. Like when we flew to New York City to make the commercial, he actually asked me to carry my own bag to the taxi. I couldn’t believe it! What good was being a celebrity if you had to do stuff like that?

At first I started to laugh. “Are you kidding, Dad? This is a joke, right? You don’t actually expect me, Alex Frankovitch—winner of the National Kitty Fritters Television Contest—to pick up his own duffel bag and lug it out to the cab, do you?”

My father totally ignored me. He just grabbed a bunch of his own stuff and started toward the big sliding glass doors. My mother did the same.

“Hey! Hold it!” I called after them. “This is nuts! Think about it! How many times have you seen Cap’n Crunch hauling his own luggage through an airport?”

My father stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around. My father’s an excellent whirler. He can spin around so fast, it makes you fall down dizzy just watching. After he whirls comes the part I hate most. He heads toward me doing his Frankenstein
walk. Slowly. Very slowly. Real stiff in the legs. He doesn’t smile either.

When he got to where I was standing, he glared at me a second and said, “Just out of curiosity, King Tut”—knowing very well that this wasn’t my name—“exactly who do you think is going to carry your suitcase if you don’t? Me? Your mother? The pilot of the plane? Who?”

Since I hadn’t really given this question a lot of thought, I was forced to come up with something quick.

“Let’s get a waiter over here,” I said with authority.

My father wasn’t amused. He pointed to a nearby bench. “Sit, mister,” he ordered.

The way he said it made me feel like a dog. A dog named Mister.

“Listen, Alex,” he began. “You wrote a funny essay, and your mother and I are very proud of you. You deserve to do this commercial. But that doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly a movie star. And it also doesn’t mean that you get special treatment or get to order other people around.”

Geez! What a place for a lecture. Right in the middle of the Kennedy International Airport! Filled with big ears from all over the world!

“Shhh, Dad. Could you try to tone it down a little
bit? The tourists from Guatemala are starting to stare.”

“I don’t care who’s staring, Alex,” he replied, even louder than before. “All I care about is that you heard what I just said.”

“Heard?” I responded. “Of course I heard. The whole airport heard, Dad. People taking off in planes in Yugoslavia probably heard.”

“Good,” he said. “Then close your mouth, pick up your bag, and get your rear end out to the taxi.”

Great! My rear end! Big ears from all over the world, and he starts talking about my rear end!

Angrily, I grabbed my suitcase and started pulling it across the terminal. As soon as my father’s back was turned, I put the bag down and made a big face. I did the one where you stretch the sides of your mouth out with your thumbs and pull the bottoms of your eyes down. This may sound childish to a lot of people, but personally I still find making faces at my parents very satisfying.

By the time we arrived at the hotel, it was already dark. It was especially dark for me because during the taxi ride I had decided to put on my sunglasses. I don’t care what anyone says, no self-respecting celebrity in New York City ever goes out in public without his shades. Not even at night.

My dad snatched the glasses off my head and
went inside the lobby. My mother just shook her head. I worry about my mother’s head. She shakes it so much, one of these days it’s going to get real loose, and she won’t be able to hold it up anymore. It’ll just roll around on her shoulders and become an embarrassment to the family.

That night, after the lights were out, I slipped my sunglasses back on. I guess you could say I was still pretty irritated about the incident at the airport. After all, what’s so wrong about wanting to act like a celebrity? Wasn’t that half the fun of winning the contest? After a whole lifetime of being teased, was it really so awful to try to feel special for once? Didn’t I deserve it?

I hardly even had to think about it. Yes! Sure I did! Of course I did! Alex Frankovitch deserved a break.

I raised my fists into the darkness.
Hear that, world
? I screamed silently.
Alex Frankovitch deserves a break!

I rolled over and broke my sunglasses.

  
2
  

T
he next morning
, after breakfast, we headed for the studio. I was planning to take a limousine, but as soon as we were out the hotel door, my parents started to walk.

“What? Are you crazy?” I yelled, hurrying along behind them. “Celebrities don’t walk to work! They ride in limos! Come on, Mom. Dad? This is embarrassing! I bet the Fruit of the Loom guys don’t have to trot to the studio behind
their
parents!”

The trouble with the streets of New York City is that even when you’re yelling stuff at the top of your lungs, there’s so much honking going on, your parents can’t hear you. Also, there are so many people on the sidewalk, if you don’t concentrate on where you’re going, you could get swept away with the crowd and end up in New Jersey.

It was exciting and scary all at the same time. New York City reminds me a little bit of the zoo. A lot of the people look like they should be on the endangered species list. In just three blocks, I saw a girl with a ring through her nose, a lady pushing a poodle in a stroller, and a guy wearing a cardboard box.

When we finally arrived at the TV studio, we had to check in with a security guard before we could go up to the studio.

“Name?” he said to me.

I stood up as straight as I could. “Just tell them Alex Frankovitch is here,” I announced, feeling very important.

He checked off my name and looked up. “What a thrill.”

Once we were allowed to pass, we walked down a long marble hallway to the elevator. When the doors opened, a boy about my age strolled off. You could tell just by the way he walked that he was somebody special. Someone you should know.

As he passed, I studied his face.

“Hey!” I blurted suddenly. “I know who you are! The kid on that dessert commercial! The creamy dreamy pudding that melts in your mouth! Pudding Boy! Am I right? You’re Pudding Boy!”

Slowly the boy turned around and pretended to shoot me with his finger. “You got it, Frederick,” he replied coolly.

He blew away the smoke from his imaginary gun and put it back in his pocket. Then he spun back around and strolled away.

“Wow!” I exclaimed as the elevator doors closed. “Pudding Boy! Was that guy cool or what?”

“That guy was cool,” mimicked my father.

My mother frowned. “He called you Frederick.”

“Yeah, what a crazy guy!” I laughed. “What a kidder.”

“That guy was cool,” repeated Dad, who was starting to get on my nerves.

When we got off the elevator, we were greeted by two men. One was from the Kitty Fritters company. The other was the director of the commercial, Mr. Rose.

I hate to say this, but Mr. Rose was a major disappointment. He didn’t look like a director at all. He didn’t have on a French beret or sunglasses or anything. He was wearing a sweatshirt and running shoes. It’s like he got out of bed and thought it was Saturday.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, pumping my arm up and down. “You must be Alexander!”

It sounded funny. Alexander’s my real name, but no one ever calls me that. I was named after Alexander Graham Bell. The phone guy.

Parents do this sort of thing all the time. They
name you after someone great and hope you’ll turn out great yourself. It doesn’t usually work though. Usually you just end up as an ordinary person with a stupid name, like Abraham Lincoln Beerbaum … or in
my
case, Alexander Bell Frankovitch. After a name like that, even the nickname Skinnybones doesn’t sound that bad.

Finally Mr. Rose released my hand. “Well, we’re on a pretty tight schedule today, so we’d better get started. Mom and Dad can have a seat in the back of the studio, and I’ll take our young actor friend with me.”.

Mr. Rose led me over to the set. A set is a fake place in the studio where the commercial is actually filmed. Sometimes it’s a fake living room or schoolroom. In this case it was a fake kitchen.

Fake kitchens are very popular sets for pet food commercials. I’m not sure why though. We feed our cat outside. She only gets to eat inside if there’s a hurricane. My mother says the cat food makes the kitchen smell like a stink hole.

Anyway, we weren’t on the set for more than two minutes before Mr. Rose cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “
Makeup!
” Then, before I knew what was happening, this blond lady came bounding from out of nowhere, plunked me down in a kitchen chair, and started putting gook all over
my face. It happened so quickly, it made my head spin. I didn’t even have time to relax in my dressing room, or get a back rub, or sit in a Jacuzzi. And besides, even though I knew I’d have to wear makeup, I sure didn’t want it to happen like this. Not in front of everybody.

“Er … uh, excuse me, Mr. Rose,” I stammered as the blond lady turned me first in one direction and then the other. “Ah, I was just wondering if maybe I got a dressing room or something. That’s what happens on
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
. They get a dressing room.”

Mr. Rose furrowed his brows. That means he made his eyebrows look real annoyed. It’s an expression that kids my age don’t usually use, but I’ve had enough brows furrowed at me to know what it means. The main thing about furrowed brows is that they make me nervous. The longer Mr. Rose looked at me like that, the more I began squirming around in my chair. I finally got so self-conscious, I started laughing real stupidly—kind of like Goofy.