Barfing in the Backseat by Henry Winkler & Lin Oliver

Author:Henry Winkler & Lin Oliver [Winkler, Henry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781436252393
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2007-07-04T16:00:00+00:00

SOMEONE DID PICK UP.

But it was the wrong number.

The Great Automated Voice had given me the Comfort-For-U Motel in Lubbock, Texas!

Great Automated Voice, I take back what I said.

You are not a goddess.

As a matter of fact, you aren’t very good at your job.

No offense.

THE NEXT TIME, we didn’t let the Great Automated Voice dial for us. I insisted that Frankie handle the whole dialing business. When you’re calling long distance, there are a lot of numbers involved, and as I think you understand by now, numbers and I don’t get along.

When the person on the other end answered, Frankie said, “Is this the Comfort-For-U Motel in Washington, D.C.?”

I couldn’t hear the answer, but it must have been yes, because Frankie handed me the phone.

“The dude talks weird,” Frankie whispered, covering the phone so the guy on the other end couldn’t hear.

“Weird how?”

“Weird, you’ll see.”

“Hello,” I said, taking the phone and trying to sound way older than eleven. “This is Hank Zipzer here. You might remember me. We stayed in room 319 last night.”

“Excusez-moi, monsieur,” the man said. “Excuse me, but I do not remember every guest and their particular room number.”

Boy, he did sound weird. He sounded like Luke Whitman doing his lame impression of a waiter in a French restaurant. I wondered if that accent was for real.

“Trust me, monsieur,” I said, giving him back a little of the old French accent, “we were there, and loved your establishment. And now I need a favor.”

“That is what I am here for, monsieur,” he said. “To provide comfort at the Comfort-For-U Motel.”

“I left a very important packet of homework under my bed,” I explained. “And I need you to send it to me as quickly as you possibly can…as in now.”

“Now is not good,” he said. “Now is lunchtime.”

“You don’t understand, monsieur. This is urgent. Can’t lunch wait a little while?”

“Snails in garlic butter sauce cannot wait. They must be eaten at the precise moment they come out of the oven.”

“So I guess a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich is out of the question?”

“Ah, that is what’s wrong with you Americans. You don’t understand the delights of a fine French meal dancing across your taste buds, being helped down your throat with an aged wine over a slow two-hour lunch.”

“Two hours?” I gasped. “That can’t happen. I can’t wait that long. Sir, I need you to go to the post office now. I must have that packet by tomorrow morning or…”

“Or what, monsieur?”

“Or…um…America will lose out on who I could have been because my parents will kill me, especially my father. You don’t understand, sir, how important it is that I get that packet as soon as possible.”

“This is what I mean. You Americans are always hurrying someplace.”

“I’m hurrying to become the future of America. Do you want to stop my journey right here?”

“No, I want to enjoy my snails with a crisp garden salad.”

I was so frustrated, I handed Frankie the phone and started walking in a circle.

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