Free My Life as a Computer Cockroach by Bill Myers Page B

him to do.”
    3 seconds . . .
    I looked at her. I looked at Ol’ Betsy. Maybe she was right, maybe there was another way. Maybe I could spare Ol’ Betsy’s life and still straighten everything out. Maybe all I had to do was to delete the Choco Chum story.
    2 seconds . . .
    â€œWally, you’ve got to believe me! Just hit ‘DELETE’!”
    I reached for the delete key, my finger hovering over it.
    1 second . . .
    â€œWally, do it! Hit the delete key! Now! Hit it now!” Finally, I pressed it.
    Ol’ Betsy started churning and grinding away, making more noise than Dad’s stomach in church when he’s had too many pieces of anchovy pizza the night before. It was pretty obvious, the old girl didn’t want to give up the program. But she kept on grinding until finally, after a couple of last-minute grunts and a few more groans, the most amazing thing happened . . .
    A single cockroach scurried out from under the keypad. He glanced around kind of dazed and confused. He looked up at me, gave his antennae a little rub, then hopped off the keyboard and into the tub, landing with the tiniest splash. After a dozen backstrokes he made it to the edge of the tub, crawled up the side, and disappeared into a crack in the molding.
    â€œThat was it!” Wall Street cried. “That’s what was wrong with Ol’ Betsy. That’s what was scrambling up her program. She really did have a computer bug!”
    I hoped Wall Street was right, but I couldn’t be certain, not yet. I stuffed Ol’ Betsy under my arm and headed back into the hallway. Out there, soldiers were standing around, scratching their heads, looking confused and trying to figure out what had happened.
    I headed for the stairs. Down below the General was still shouting out orders, but they were a different type. “All right, men, I want this place shipshape and clean as a whistle—and I mean now!”
    As I arrived, he spotted me and walked over. “Sorry, kid,” he said. “I’m not sure what all happened.” He let out a long sigh and continued. “Best we figure, it was that Millennium Bug. Messed up everybody’s computers—the government’s, the military’s, everyone’s.”
    I slowly nodded.
    â€œNot to worry, though,” he said. “Looks like some genius has just solved it. Before you know it, everything will be back to normal.”
    I nodded again.
    â€œOh, here,” he said, handing me the phone. “It’s the President. He still wants to talk to you.”
    I took it in shaking hands and numbly answered, “Hello?”
    â€œWally? Wally McDoogle?”
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œListen, sorry about the little mix-up. Best we figure it was that Millennium Bug thing.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAnyway, I trust there are no hard feelings. Tell your folks we’ll get the house and everything else fixed up lickety-split.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œOh, and Wally.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œTo help express our sincere apology and to prove there are no hard feelings . . .”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œWell, tell your friend, Opera, that there will be no charge for all those Spam chips he’s eaten.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” I said. And then, ever so slowly, I hung up.
    It only took a few days for things to get cleared up. Eventually, the power came back on, stores got food back in, and people finally started to relax. Of course, everybody had their theories about what had happened. But only Opera, Wall Street, and I knew what had really gone on and what the real “computer bug” was. And now that everything was all fixed up, we figured why bother explaining. After all, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt us.
    When school finally began, Coach Kilroy was back, doing what he did best . . . flunking me and shouting, “Come on, McDoogle, move it, move it, move it!” Opera returned