Sandapalooza Shake-Up, Page 2

  It’s why our motel grounds are still full of fiberglass statues of dinosaurs, pirates, spaceships, and whatever we decide to turn a refurbished Muffler Man statue from Michigan into. (Right now he’s painted to be Ponce de León, the famous explorer—but we might turn him into King Arthur if Grandpa can find enough gold paint.) We also have our own Putt-Putt golf course.

  Anyway, one year after Grandpa had his grand opening in St. Pete, another Walt had an even grander opening in Orlando: Walt Disney.

  “We had one incredible year, P.T.,” Grandpa always tells me. “One incredible year.”

  Walt Wilkie’s Wonder World eventually turned into the Wonderland Motel, which for years barely made enough money to stay open. But then Hollywood came to town and filmed a movie at our motel, and—KA-CHING!—our money worries were over.

  Of course, that doesn’t mean all our troubles totally disappeared.

  Because right after the royals checked in, our nasty neighbor, Mr. Edward Conch, the skeevy, not-so-nice real estate tycoon who owned the Conch Reef Resort next door, dropped by to pay us a visit.

  Mom, Grandpa, Gloria, and I were in the lobby, eating dinner.

  Gloria’s dad had already gone to work at WTSP.

  The four of us were wolfing down Chef Jimbo’s juicy and delicious Surf Monkey cheeseburgers, which are softball-sized globs of charbroiled sirloin smothered in melted cheese. Jimbo says, “I like mine with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57, and French fried potatoes,” because those are lyrics from a Jimmy Buffett song called “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”

  Anyway, we were all on our eighth paper napkin when Mr. Conch strutted through the front door and jangled our dangling bells.

  “Where’s your royalty?” he blurted.

  “Upstairs,” said Grandpa with a sly grin, “in our last three remaining rooms. How you doin’, Ed?”

  “Fine, fantastic. Never better, Walt, believe you me.”

  “Really?” said Grandpa. “I heard the only items on your breakfast buffet this morning were stale Cheerios and some kind of rubbery yellow goop you called scrambled eggs.”

  “That was the finest prefabricated egg-substitute product you can pour out of a cardboard carton, Walt. Cutting-edge, high-class, top-shelf stuff.”

  “I heard you’re giving away free eye patches made out of construction paper and yarn,” I said, piling on with Grandpa.

  “Part of our Pirates on Parade celebration, Petey.”

  “It’s P.T.,” I reminded him. “Short for Phineas Taylor. Just like P. T. Barnum.”

  “My hero,” said Grandpa. “The man who once declared, ‘Without promotion, something terrible happens: nothing!’ ”

  “Which,” said Gloria, “seems to be exactly what’s happening at your resort on a regular basis, Mr. Conch. Nothing!”

  Gloria and I fist-bumped. “Booyah!”

  “You guys…,” said Mom, shaking her head disappointedly.

  We were kind of laying it on thick. Mostly because Mr. Conch and his bratty daughter, Veronica, had tried so hard to ruin our movie shoot.

  “Let me cut to the chase,” said Mr. Conch. “As president of the St. Pete Beach Lodging Association, I’m here to remind you that this holiday weekend we’re hosting our spectacular Sandapalooza sand sculpture competition. You signed up as a golden premiere sponsor. That means you get your own dedicated team of professional sand sculptors. You put them up in your motel; they sculpt whatever you ask them to down on your beach.”

  “Their room is ready,” said Mom.

  “And,” said Gloria, “P.T. and I have already blue-skied several sand sculpture ideas we need to flesh out into actionable concepts.”

  Gloria knows how to talk in business buzzwords the way her dad knows how to speak sportscaster.

  “Fine,” said Mr. Conch. “Whatever. We’re giving you the top team. Real pros, I kid you not. I personally handpicked them just for you. But before they can begin work, I need something else.” He rubbed his fingertips together. “Your sponsorship check?”

  “Of course,” said Mom.

  She found her checkbook and pen.

  “How much do we owe?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  Mom wrote the check.

  Wow.

  Six months ago, ten thousand dollars would’ve been all the money in the world to the Wonderland. Today? It was just our entry fee for a sand sculpture contest.

  Like I said, ever since the movie, things have changed in our little corner of paradise!

  It’s become even paradise-ier.

  Mr. Conch snatched Mom’s check before the ink was dry.

  “Thank you for organizing this event, Edward,” Mom said, because she’s way nicer than the rest of us.

  “You’re welcome, Wanda. If I were you, I’d be thanking me, too. In fact, I thank myself for being me every morning when I look in the mirror. Why? Because I have a very big brain full of very big ideas.”

  “You also have a very big hotel,” I sniped, “full of very empty rooms.”

  “P.T.?” said Mom.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, kid,” said Mr. Conch, hiking up his plaid golf pants. “I have a thick skin. It’s like rhino hide. Sure, we’ve had a tough couple of months while you’ve been over here riding the Surf Donkey wave.”

  “Surf Monkey,” said Grandpa.

  Mr. Conch poked a pudgy finger in my face. “A little free advice, Petey? Be nice to the people you meet on the way up. They’re the same people you’re gonna meet on your way down.”

  “What if we take a different elevator?” I cracked.

  “What if we never go down?” added Gloria.

  “Oh, you will,” said Mr. Conch. “Just ask the big shots at Pan Am, Woolworth’s, and Blockbuster. What goes up must come down. That’s why they invented gravity.”

  He headed out the door, tucking Mom’s ten-thousand-dollar check into the back pocket of his golf pants.

  “You guys,” said Mom when Mr. Conch was gone, “you can’t keep teasing Mr. Conch like that.”

  “Why not?” asked Grandpa, pounding a button on the soda machine and popping open his first can of Cel-Ray soda that day.

  Yes, Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda tastes like celery.

  Why anybody would want to guzzle liquid vegetables with bubbles, I haven’t a clue.

  “After what those Conches tried to do to us, you want us to go easy on ’em?” said Grandpa, letting loose with a major-league burp. “Forget about it!”

  “Why are we even helping the St. Pete Beach Lodging Association?” I asked. “We don’t need a promotion like the Sandapalooza to boost sales. We’re doing fine all by ourselves.”

  “Because, P.T., our neighbors—the nice ones—are like our family,” said Mom.

  “Um, no. You and Grandpa are like my family, because you are my family.”

  Grandpa dramatically pointed a finger toward the ceiling. “If I may quote Unknown—who is my favorite person to quote, because nobody ever knows if I’m quoting him correctly—family isn’t always about blood relations. It’s the people in your life who want you in theirs. The ones who would do anything just to see you smile. The ones who love you no matter what.”

  I stared at him.

  “I suspect,” said Gloria, “it’s one of those things we’ll both understand better when we grow up.”

  “Exactly!” said Mom.

  “Fine,” I said. “But right now, since we’re paying ’em ten thousand dollars, we should hit the beach and meet our sand sculptors.”

  “You guys go ahead,” said Mom. “I’ve got reservations to wrestle with. And Lord Pettybone wants lemon barley water in his minibar.”

  “Gross,” I said.

  “It’s British,” said Gloria.

  “It’s still gross.”

  Mom shrugged. “Most British food is.”

  It was about six o’clock, and the sun was still hovering over the Gulf.

  The sand sculptors had already started working on t
heir creations up and down the beach. The “official” event would open the next day, on Friday afternoon, and continue through Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, which was a holiday. Prizes would be awarded Monday night.

  There was a van parked on the beach behind the Wonderland. “Michelsandgelo Sand Sculptors” was painted across its side.

  Two guys in cargo shorts and floppy sun hats were leaning on shovels and sniffing the aroma of Jimbo’s flame-broiled burgers drifting along on the breeze. The taller one had a pair of binoculars and was using them to scope out the Banana Shack.

  “Smells just like the juicy burgers I used to enjoy down in Bora-Bora,” he said, lowering the binoculars. “Dee-licious.”

  “Gimme a break, Travis,” said the stubbier one. “When were you in Bora-Bora?”

  “When I was flying tourists back and forth to the island from Tahiti. I piloted my own amphibious airplane, Darryl. What we call an island hopper. I used to land that bird right in the lagoon, putter up to the beach, and grab a cheeseburger at this little bistro run by a French chef named Monsieur Fromage.”

  The tall guy made me laugh. He definitely knew how to spin a story. In a weird way, he sort of reminded me of, well, me!

  “Uh, hi!” I said. “I’m P. T. Wilkie. This is my grandfather, Walt Wilkie.”

  Grandpa belched. “Howdy.”

  “And this is my best friend and business partner, Gloria. We’re from the Wonderland Motel—your official Sandapalooza sponsors.”

  “Gentlemen?” said Gloria. “We understand you two are tops in your field, so let’s try to square this circle. When sculpting the Wonderland’s exhibit, let’s make sure we maximize our brand messaging by creating something linked to Beach Party Surf Monkey that’ll do double duty as advertainment.”

  “You’ve been to college, haven’t you, young lady?” said Travis with a charming grin. “I’m guessing business school. Do you have an MBA?”

  “No, sir,” said Gloria. “Not yet. I’m only twelve.”

  “Impossible,” said Travis. “But for now, we need to put our sculpture ideas in the parking lot and circle back to our brand challenges offline.”

  “Kudos,” said Gloria. “You used four clichés in one sentence.”

  Travis shrugged. “I like to read business books in the off-season.”

  “But we can’t sculpt nothin’ until our sand arrives,” said his partner, Darryl.

  “Huh?” I said, because we were standing on the beach. The last time I checked, it was full of sand.

  Turns out superstar sand sculpture pros like Travis and Darryl use something called heavy sand.

  It has a different texture and is thicker than your everyday, ordinary beach sand. It’d probably be more annoying in your shoes, too.

  “It’s the same stuff they use for construction projects,” Travis explained. “We ordered ours special from Carroll’s Building Materials over on Thirteenth Avenue North. Mr. Conch wanted us to use cheaper, inferior material, like everybody else, but Carroll’s is clean and soft, with no sharp shells.”

  “Travis and me are like postage stamps—first class, all the way,” joked Darryl.

  “Heavy sand molds better,” explained Travis. “And it’s a whole lot easier to shape with tools. Does your daddy let you use his tools, P.T.?”

  “No,” I replied.

  Grandpa winced a little. He never likes it when people ask me stuff about my dad.

  “P.T. can use my tools whenever he wants,” said Grandpa.

  “Actually,” I said to Travis and Darryl, “I don’t have a father. I mean, I do, but I’ve never met him.”

  “TMI,” whispered Gloria out of the corner of her mouth. “TMI!”

  She was right, of course. I didn’t have to explain my father situation to two sand sculptors I’d just met. But for some reason, I wanted to. I’m not sure why. I guess they were just so easy to talk to. Especially Travis.

  “Well, son,” said Travis, placing his hand on my shoulder, “I’m sure wherever your daddy is, he still thinks about you. All the time.”

  “He’d probably let you use his tools, too,” added Darryl.

  “Sure he would,” said Travis.

  I nodded.

  I also hoped it was true.

  Friday morning, Gloria and I headed back to Ponce de León Middle School.

  “I heard from Pinky,” I told her on the bus. “He’s coming home from Hollywood tomorrow for a quick visit!”

  “Fantastic,” said Gloria. “We should work him into our backstage tour package. Have him autograph a few coconuts. Maybe name a sandwich after him at the Banana Shack.”

  “The Pinky Sandwich? What’s in it? Bologna? Spam? Both?”

  “Boom!” said Gloria. “Perfect!”

  “Booyah!”

  We slapped each other five. Fact: we make a very excellent team.

  The second we walked into the school, our pal Jack Alberto told us he had a great new idea for a “big-time promotion” at the Wonderland.

  Another fact: my friends love the Wonderland—and not just because we let them swim in the pool for free.

  “Lay it on me,” I said to Jack. “What’s the big idea?”

  “A metal-detector hunt!” said Jack. “You guys could bury something metal in the sand—like a watch or pirate doubloons or a toy truck—and then all the kids with metal detectors could comb the beach looking for it! Whoever finds it first wins a big prize!”

  “Um, Jack—not many kids have metal detectors,” I said as gently as I could.

  “In fact,” said Gloria, “metal-detector treasure hunting is typically a solitary hobby enjoyed mostly by males over the age of fifty.”

  “Sure,” said Jack. “The old guys can compete. But I’ll beat ’em! Why? Because I’m awesome. They call me the Ditch Twitcher!”

  “Tell you what, Jack,” I said. “We’ll think about it. Add it to our promotional possibilities pool.”

  “You promise?”

  “Totally. In fact, I’m thinking about it right now.”

  Mostly I was thinking that it wasn’t such a great idea. But I didn’t want to burst Jack’s bubble.

  Jack was still pumped about his metal-detector treasure hunt when we all had science with Ms. Carey. Science was the last class of the day. And Friday was the last day of the school week. Our three-day weekend was about to start!

  “Before the switch is pushed to close the circuit and send electrical current through the school bell’s electromagnetic coil, thereby causing the iron striker to be attracted to its magnetism and bang the bell…”

  (That’s how Ms. Carey says “Before the bell rings.”)

  “…let me remind you that my virtual door is always open. If you have a question over this long holiday weekend, hit me up with an email, a tweet, or a text. Because science never takes a holiday!”

  Maybe.

  But kids sure do.

  As soon as the bell rang, we raced out the door. It was time for three long days of fun in the sun!

  When Gloria and I got back to the Wonderland, our beach was swarming with sand sculpture spectators.

  “Our tram tours are going to be packed all weekend long, P.T.!” declared Grandpa. He was as giddy as a kindergartner. “And, Gloria? You’re going to need extra sock monkeys in the souvenir shop!”

  “Did the guys from Michelsandgelo create something to help drive sales?” asked Gloria.

  “You bet! It’s so amazing they shot off a few Roman candles when they finished!”

  “Let’s go check it out!” I said.

  Gloria and I hurried down to the beach.

  Travis and Darryl, our professional sand sculptors, had definitely done an amazing job. They’d created a wild scene with the Greek sea god Poseidon rising out of a cresting wave with his trident to poke Surf Monkey in the butt.

  “You like?” asked Travis, who was putting on the finishing touches, smoothing out a few edges around Poseidon’s crown with a bushy paintbrush.

  “It’s incredib
le,” I said. “Reminds me of that classic Greek legend.”

  “The one where Poseidon chased the monkeys out of Greece?” said Travis.

  “Exactly! First he opened all the monkey cages in the Greek zoos!”

  “Because,” added Travis, “the big guy loved to monkey around!”

  “Correct!” I said, riffing off the story Travis was spinning. “And then he used his trident to poke all the monkeys in their butts and sent them surfing across the Mediterranean Sea to the beaches of North Africa. That’s why there are so many more monkeys in Africa than in Greece these days.”

  “And why, many centuries later, the Greeks invented Trident gum,” said Travis.

  Gloria and I cracked up.

  I heard a funny ringtone. Darryl reached into his cargo shorts and pulled out a phone that was chirping “La Cucaracha.”

  “Yello?” Darryl said to whoever was calling him. “Sorry, buddy. Wrong number.” He slid the phone back into his pocket. “Dipstick must’ve butt-dialed me.”

  “Isn’t it brilliant?” Lady Lilly came up behind us. “I got here when they were finished, right after they shot off the fireworks!”

  “Those weren’t really fireworks,” said Darryl. “That’d be illegal without a permit. I just lit up a few Roman candles.”

  “They should’ve been Greek candles!” I joked.

  Travis chuckled. “Good one, little buddy.”

  “Bravo, gentlemen,” said Lady Lilly. “I feel quite confident that your marvelous sand sculpture is far superior to any of the marble statuary my mother, my father, and Digby saw on view at that dusty old museum downtown.”

  “Thank you,” said Travis.

  “I’m kind of hungry,” said Darryl. “How about we take a break and go grab one of them burgers we’ve been smellin’ since lunchtime?”