Meeker Street. They were at the curb, same as yesterday.
“Where were you?” said Bump. “We went to your house and knocked.”
“At my grandpa’s,” I said. “He just came to live here.” I looked across the street. “Where is he?”
“In for lunch,” said Burke.
“So what’s happening?”
“Same old,” said Bump. “He’s hammering away. Still don’t know we’re here.” He shook his head. “Unbefreakinglievable.”
“In his own little world,” said Nacho.
“That’s how they are,” said Bump.
It’s true: goobers live in their own little world. Planet Goober. They don’t seem to notice anything else. If the whole rest of the world is wearing black shoes and they’re the only one on the planet wearing yellow shoes, they won’t even notice. Or care.
And that leads to another thing about goobers, probably the mainest thing of all: goobers don’t know they’re goobers. They just skip happily along through life thinking they’re perfectly normal.
Just then Soop—that’s what we call him now—came back outside and for the first time in two days looked across the street and noticed us. He had a glass of something in his hand. He called, “Hi, guys!” He held up the glass. “Want some lemonade?”
Our knees buckled. Burke let out one quick snort bomb, but the rest of us did a pretty good job of swallowing the laughs. For a good reason. When a goober says something totally hilarious, you naturally want to bust out laughing. But if you’re smart, you make sure to hold it in and keep paying attention, because while you’re busy laughing you might miss the next gem that comes along.
And here’s another rule: act like they’re normal. If you don’t, if you explode a volcano of laugh lava like you feel like doing, you might spook them. You might cause them to see themselves the way you do. The last thing you want is for a goober to all of a sudden look in the mirror one day and say, Well whaddaya know—I’m a goober! Of course, that’s probably not going to happen. But still, you don’t want to take chances. Supergoobers are too rare. You don’t want to risk losing them. So you keep your face straight and act normal. Even though the kid just called across the street to perfect strangers, “Hi, guys! Want some lemonade?” And was wearing an orange hat. Orange.
Yeah, it takes a lot of discipline.
So Nacho answered, “Hi, Soop!” I cringed but the kid didn’t even notice the “Soop.”
And Bump said, “No thanks. We’re just sitting here watching. Whatcha makin’?”
The kid beamed. “A clubhouse.” He took a swig of his lemonade. He beamed again. “Hey, guys—want to be in the club?”
Bump rolled across the street. The rest of us followed but hung back. Let the master work it.
“What club?” said Bump.
“My club,” said the kid.
“What’s it called?” said Bump.
“I don’t know yet,” said the kid. “Maybe you guys can help me pick a name.”
“Who’s in the club now?” said Bump.
The kid threw out his arms. “Me!” He stuck out his hand. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Ernest. But you can call me Ernie.”
They shook. “You can call me Bump.” He pointed to each of us. “And you can call him Burke. And that there is Nacho. And that’s Jake.”
Of course Ernie couldn’t let it go at that. He had to shake hands with each of us and say, “Nice to meet you.”
“So Ernie,” Bump went on, “if we joined up, then there would be five of us. From what I can see, Ernie”—he pretended to study the woody mess—“it doesn’t look like it would be big enough.”
“No problemo,” said Ernie. Again the arms flew out. “I’ll make it bigger!”
“Wow,” said Bump, acting impressed. “Really?”
“Sure. I can make it as big as I want. My dad will get me more wood. Look”—he held up a yellow plastic bucket, like a little kid would take to the beach—“I have enough nails to make a skyscraper!” He laughed.
“Wow, Ernie,” said Bump. “You’re really somethin’.” Bump turned to us. “What do you think, fellas? Do you think we oughta join Ernie’s club?”
You had to see Bump’s face. It was as serious as if he was answering a question in English class—which only made the whole thing funnier. It was too much for Nacho. He pedaled off up the street, gagging on his own laughs.
As for me, I understood exactly what was going on. It’s one thing to observe a goober, it’s totally something else to interact with one. The key is to interact with the goober so he doesn’t suspect anything fishy is going on. Which, with goobers, is easy, because they’re so gullible and agreeable. So you act all serious and string them along. You don’t just nod and say “Yep” and “That’s nice.” You give them a nudge. You steer them in a direction that will bring out their gooberness in all its glory. I knew that’s what Bump was doing.
So I spoke up. “Sure, Bump. Sounds like a good idea.” I rolled my bike alongside his. “Let’s join up.”
“Yeah,” said Burke, coasting over. “Let’s do it.”
Soop let out a little yelp-cheer. “Yes!” He did something that he probably thought was a happy dance but actually looked like somebody fighting off a swarm of bees. When he finally calmed down, he said, “So guys, care to help? We could consolidate our efforts. I can find some more hammers.”
Care to help…consolidate our efforts. This guy was getting better by the minute. “Nah, sorry, Ernie,” said Bump, and he really sounded sorry. “We’d consolidate if we could, but we all have blisters on our hands and our doctor told us no hammering for a month.”
Burke started choke-laughing. He headed off to join Nacho.
“Oh—okay,” said the kid. “No problemo, señors.”
Goobers believe everything you tell them.
“So you go ahead and hammer away,” said Bump. “We’ll just hang here and watch you for a while. If you don’t mind.”
“Heck no, I don’t mind,” the kid chirped, and dived right back into Planet Goober. He put on his goggles, put on his gloves, and started pounding away.