DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything from Tiny Toon Adventures, including characters, locations, references, or the Acme or Warner Bros. logo. All rights go to Warner Bros. and Steven Spielberg's Amblin Entertainment.


Chapter Eight

Jobs and Homework

~Dec. 3rd~

Cartoon Logic was the first of the afternoon's two classes that day. The students all had their textbooks and college ruled notebooks ready, and with a few minutes before class started, they spent their time chatting about this and that, a few even practicing Wild Takes for the amusement of their friends.

Hamton, meanwhile, was sitting quietly at his desk, staring down at a list of job ideas with no satisfaction whatsoever.

Job Ideas for Gift

-Shoveling snow

-(House) cleaning

-Cooking?

-Part time jobs?

-Sell possessions

-Donate self to science

-Win the lottery

In the time he spent in the library, Hamton had only been able to add these last three ideas, and none of them (especially the last) were written with any real seriousness. It was as though his mind were sputtering to gain ideas much the way a car would when it was on its last legs, and all it managed to churn out were three silly ideas, just so the page on which Hamton wrote them would appear less blank.

When the bell rang and Prof. Elmer Fudd walked in, Hamton sighed, folded up his list, and placed it in his pocket. Then he pressed his hands to his cheeks and listened only partially to what Prof. Fudd lectured about freezing in midair whenever someone shouted "STOP!"

The clock overhead, which usually kept silent, seemed to tick louder today as Hamton sat there, his mind halfway between cartoon freeze-frames and the minuscule list resting in the pocket of his overalls. He knew he 'ought to pay more attention to what was happening in class, but his brain wouldn't give him its full support. With every passing minute, December twenty-fourth and the Christmas party drew closer, and he did not have the faintest clue how he was going to raise enough money for the bottle of Du Coeur.

Why on earth did it have to be so expensive? It's not like the perfume would sell badly at a more reasonable price. But there was no use thinking this, Hamton knew; the price was set at one-thousand five-hundred dollars and it wasn't going to decrease for anyone, especially when it was already fifty-percent off.

I just got to get to work, plain and simple, thought Hamton. Just two more hours, then I'll be free to go and start.

But to Hamton's dismay, by the time 2:00 had rolled around, Prof. Fudd assigned a four-page paper on Gravity: Moments it can be Defied and Why to be due on Friday.

"And wemember, cwass," said Prof. Fudd, "the Cawtoon Exams will be coming up soon. So be sure you pay attention to what you wead, and feel fwee to ask me if you have twouble undewstanding any of the matewial. Always wemember: there's no shame in asking for help."

The bell rang and drowned out Hamton's groan of disappointment. Though he knew the homework wasn't that difficult, it was bound to cut in the time he hoped to raise money. But he refused to let this discourage him. Hamton shook his head and forced himself to feel determined. He can get his homework done AND work to get Fifi's present. He can do both; he just has to focus! So, closing his notebook containing the notes he scribbled throughout the lesson, Hamton left with his friends and classmates for their last class of the day: Exploding Cakes.

Professor Yosemite Sam was waiting for them when the students arrived. Despite being only two feet tall, Prof. Sam made it clear he was not a teacher to mess around with. His long red mustache and beard hung from his assertive, unfriendly face — a face that looked as though it had been chiseled with a cactus and shaped for frightening outlaws at gun fights. His oversized cowboy hat was curved at the ends, very dusty, and blocked a full quarter of the chalkboard from view (and any student who pointed this out would find themselves in detention faster than they could say "long-eared varmint!")

When all the students were seated, none of them spoke but waited for the bell to ring, as was the norm when in Yosemite Sam's presence. Prof. Sam glared at them with his arms crossed, as though he were daring them to speak. The only one who didn't sit still or quietly in his desk was Montana Max, whose feet were propped up as he counted a large wad of one-thousand dollar bills, arrogantly humming "I'm in the Money".

When the bell finally rang, Yosemite Sam's rough, no-nonsense voice let itself loose upon the class. "Okay, you no-listenin', kiddie-cornered, cheap young-version cartoon varmints, listen up! And Monty!" he shouted, causing the rich boy to jump. "Quit countin' your loot and put your feet on the floor! Cheap clichés like that aren't welcome in my class!"

Now normally Monty would either bribe the teacher to let him have his way or would flat-out refuse in a tone of voice that was just as aggressive as the miniscule cowboy in front of him. But, seeing as this was his mentor who was speaking, Monty obeyed, crossed his arms, and matched Prof. Sam's aggressive look (though notably with buckteeth and no foot-long mustache).

"Okay, ya'll," sneered Prof. Sam, his voice dropping to a mild growl. "Today in Exploding Cakes, we're gonna to be studin' cakes and see which gives the best kinda kablooie!"

"Big surprise," Buster whispered.

"Now, as we've done several times before, we're gonna first read up on batter, decide which you'll use, and then get to baking. Ya'll know the drill. On ya mark," Yosemite Sam unsheathed one of his pistols (a starting pistol of course — school policy), "get set," he pulled back the hammer, "and GET BUSY!"

He pulled the trigger, and to everyone's alarm, an actual bullet exploded from the barrel and hit the ceiling, causing a piece of plaster to crack and fall on Yosemite Sam's head.

"All right," he growled to the students. "Which one of ya no-good-lollypop-singin' rascals switched me blanks for rubber?"

Nobody was stupid enough to answer.

Turning away from the hot-tempered cowboy, Hamton and his friends pulled their desks together to form a circle, then got out their books entitled Explosive Desserts: Literal and Actual.

Exploding Cakes was one of Hamton's favorite classes, not only because it involved free food but because his own experience with baking gave him (and thus his friends) an advantage, which usually guaranteed a surefire A+.

The class time drew on with Hamton and his friends chatting over the long list of possible ingredients to put into cakes, such as gunpowder, firecrackers, and good old-fashioned TNT.

"Oooh! Look at this one!" Babs said, eagerly pointing at a picture in her book. "Blazing Fire Cake, complete with party popper flowers and roman candles! I wouldn't mind a cake like that on my birthday."

"Great," said Buster sarcastically. "I'll be sure to alert the Acme Fire Squad so they'll be ready to extinguish the forest."

Babs stuck out her tongue in a teasing way, to which Buster returned with a smirking shake of his head.

From behind, Hamton heard other students, Dizzy Devil and Elmyra among them, making sounds that expressed their delight with the class.

"OOOOO!" Elmyra cried. "A cute widdo cake in the shape of a cute kitty-witty! I just want to eat him up!"

Dizzy Devil's dialogue was a lot less sappy, but also a lot less fluent. "Ooo, yum, yum! Big bomb cake taste good!"

"Pipe down, you walking, purple garbage truck!" shouted Yosemite Sam. "This ain't no kiddy bakin' time! This here's Exploding Cakes, so treat it seriously!" Turning back to his desk, Prof. Sam muttered something along the lines of, "Youngins these days. . . ." but nobody paid him any mind.

Despite Prof. Sam's firm attempt to make this class seem hardcore and dangerous, it couldn't change the fact that it was really fun discussing the different kinds of cakes and guessing how much frosting you would get blasted with.

All this fun and enjoyment made the hour go by quickly. In what felt like no time at all, the bell rang and Hamton looked up from a photograph of a beautiful chocolate cake to see that it was now 3:00. The school day was over.

"Okay, keep to ya seats, you eager group of hog-tied, sassafras drinkin', undisciplined group of a prairie dogs!" shouted Prof. Sam. "Now, I hope ya'll did more than laugh and squeal like a bunch of sissy girls and actually decided on a recipe or two, 'cause we're gonna be bakin' this Friday. Your assignment is to decide on a recipe and make sure ya know the right way to make it smack, dang perfect! We'll meet next time down in the cafeteria to do the work and anyone who doesn't want to be left back betta' be there! Winter Exams and all! Now hit the road, ya young, no-account, phrase-wastin' varmints!"

Hamton and the others wasted not a second in doing so. As he made his way out, he noticed every girl in the room shoot Prof. Sam a dirty look for his "sissy girls" comment. Yosemite Sam, however, didn't seem to notice. He had fallen back in his desk chair with a hand sliding down his face.

Before he was out the door, Hamton heard the undersized teacher say, "Ahie . . . this phrase-makin' business is gettin' harder every day..."

The sounds of moving feet and lockers being thrown open and closed came in every direction as Hamton and his friends made their way down the hall.

Plucky, who had rushed off to the bathroom, returned fully dressed in his red and black waiter's uniform.

"See you all later," said Plucky, fastening his bow tie. "Time for me to go to the Country Club and make some money," and trying to look calm with steady posture, he bid them all "goodnight."

Zipping up his winter coat, Hamton headed for the door Plucky had left through, glanced behind and said, "See you all tomorrow."

He barely heard his friends' farewells before he was outside the school, running down the steps and past the high statues of Bugs and Daffy. Glancing up at the Toons, Hamton saw white snow falling atop their stone shoulders and mortar boards. And sure enough, it was snowing all around the school and right on into the city.

Excellent, Hamton thought, running through the arch and down the city block. Really, he couldn't have asked for better weather, (at least with his prospect of Fifi's gift in mind).

Before the tall clock tower of Acme Loo reached 3:15, Hamton had made it home, grabbed his snow shovel, and ventured out into the beautiful white dusting that descended from the sky like a prayer.

"Second verse, same as the first."


Hamton knocked on as many doors as he could, from the houses he skipped last night to the ones that bordered the Acme Forest where Buster, Babs, and Plucky lived.

He shoveled snow and he scraped snow. He tossed it into piles and he stacked it onto lawns. He breathed and he panted, he heaved and he carried, and when his body finally decided that it could not scoop one more snowflake, Hamton staggered home, following the bright trail of streetlamps, his shovel scraping the snowy ground behind him.

He had no idea what time it was. The sun had gone down quite a while ago and he felt too tired to even turn his head and squint at the clock tower. It couldn't be too late, though. He didn't even feel hungry, so it couldn't be past dinner time . . . right?

There were very few cars driving down the streets tonight, though Hamton did catch the first few snowplows cruising down the block, clearing the way for tomorrow's traffic. Nobody was on the sidewalks either, which were blanketed in a thin sheet of snow, not a footprint in sight. And the snowflakes were still falling — not nearly as much as it had when Hamton left school, but still tumbling evenly in the air before disappearing into the vast whiteness that layered the ground.

Hamton pressed a cold, numb hand to his chilled face. He had sweated a great deal during his shoveling and it now seemed to have frozen onto his forehead like a cool, crispy layer of cling wrap. His hat, coat sleeves and the bottom half of his overalls were covered in snow; he must've looked like a fat, little snowman walking down the sidewalk. The idea brought a tiny bit of humor to him.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath beside a lamppost, glowing on the street corner. At first Hamton regretted this, for stalling had made his muscles realize all the work he just put them through. They felt heavy and dull, and they even seemed to groan as Hamton let out an exhale that hung on the cold air before it disappeared. A second later, however, Hamton looked up, and what stood before him brought a sense of peace and ease that practically cleared away his exhaustion.

Now that Hamton gave notice to something other than the ground in front of him, he found that the scenery around his neighborhood was truly beautiful. The houses were lined and grouped like friendly cottages, the slanting roofs and smoky chimneys soft and smooth with the fallen snow, and the golden glow from the many windows gave a feeling of welcoming warmth. Someone had even found the time to build a snowman and tag him as "Parson Brown," coal smile and all.

Adoring all of this, Hamton picked up the pace again and pressed on towards home. Even his numbing hands felt renewed.

He let his snow shovel fall to the floor with a clatter the moment he stepped inside his house. The warmth it held was like a hug, and, for that wonderful moment of relief, Hamton imagined it was coming from Fifi. He hung up his snow-covered coat and hat on their hooks, then made way to his bedroom. After changing out of his damp overalls, Hamton glanced over at the alarm clock and nearly fell over in shock.

It was 8:15. He had been outside for over five hours, much longer than yesterday.

As expected, a loud roar issued from his stomach. Feeling suddenly famished, Hamton rushed to the fridge and pulled out an Acme Instant Pizza from the freezer.

He popped it into the oven and, in five seconds flat, pulled out a large, fully cooked everything-but-pepperoni-and-sausage pizza.

Hamton smiled hungrily. When Acme said something was "Instant," they meant it.

He grabbed a soda from the fridge, sat down at the table and dug in. There were only two of the eight slices left when Hamton was finished. With a light belch, Hamton licked his fingers clean of pizza sauce and sighed with relief at having a full belly.

Deciding firmly that he'll leave the last two slices for another day, he placed them into the fridge and returned to his bedroom. Flicking on the light, Hamton pulled up to his desk, sat down, and grabbed the sheet of paper which told how far he still had to go before he could buy Fifi's perfume. The $1,500 at the top was scratched out, and underneath it was the current total: $1,345.

Taking a deep breath, all tiredness pushed away and his attention sharp and anxious, Hamton stood up from his desk and walked over to his laundry basket in which his damp overalls were laying neatly folded. He reached into the side pocket.

"Man . . ." he groaned, "I really should've taken it out when I changed." The money he had earned from shoveling snow was wet; not soaked through like his overalls, but still damp enough to leave moisture on his hands. Back at his desk, Hamton very carefully unfolded the dollars so as not to tear them and placed each one down separately to dry.

Dollar by dollar, Hamton counted it.

"Thirty, thirty-five . . . fifty . . . sixty dollars."

With a light smile, Hamton picked up his pen, worked the simple math, and wrote out the new amount.

$1,345

-$60
(shoveling snow)

$1,285

Sixty dollars earned had brought the amount down and, though it was still a long ways away, Hamton was satisfied at being closer to Fifi's gift than he had been five hours earlier.

Though he could've happily gone to bed after such a busy night of work, Hamton knew better than to leave unfinished homework for later. So, after taking a quick trip to the bathroom to splash cold water onto his face, and grabbing a bag of chocolate chip cookies from the kitchen pantry, he returned to his room, pushed the damp money up to the desk's back edge, and grabbed his textbook and notebook from Cartoon Logic class. Seeing as it was the longest of his two assignments, he decided to start with Prof. Fudd's four-page paper on gravity in cartoons.

The cold splash in the face (and ten devoured cookies) stimulated Hamton long enough for him to write out the first page and half of the second. But after much rechecking from his textbook and planning out what he wanted to write on paper, Hamton found his eyelids drooping more and more often with each passing minute.

His head started to feel sluggish and fuzzy, and it was getting harder by the second to move his arms. Glancing over at his alarm clock on the nightstand, the red numbers read 10:00.

Letting out a great yawn, Hamton rubbed his sleepy face and decided that it was definitely time for bed.

Putting down his pencil, he pushed himself to his tired feet and left for the bathroom, yawning as he went. After his teeth were brushed and he made sure all the lights in the house were off, Hamton returned to his bedroom and gave his desk one last look. He would have to finish the rest of his gravity essay tomorrow. Plus, there was still that cake recipe he had to find and choose for Yosemite Sam's baking test on Friday, but that could be done in plenty of time — it probably wouldn't even take longer than thirty minutes. The bag of cookies, meanwhile, can remain on the desk, both for the next time he did homework or if he needed a late-night snack (whichever comes first).

And then there was the money. . . .

Placing his fingertips atop one of the dollars, Hamton felt that the bill was now dry. So he gathered the sixty dollars into a stack and carried it to the dresser where he placed it into the lunchbox hidden in the bottom drawer, right atop the money he had earned yesterday.

"I'm getting there," he told himself, patting the drawer as he stood up.

Crawling into bed, Hamton glanced out the window and at a tree in his front yard, its branches holding the snow that had piled since this evening. By the dim light of the streetlamps, Hamton saw that the white flakes had stopped falling. By tomorrow most of the streets would be smooth and most of the people's driveways will be cleared by some means or other.

Closing his eyes, Hamton put the last few of his thoughts for this evening not into his remaining homework, but into what he planned on doing next. He had known from the very start that he couldn't rely solely on shoveling snow to help him buy Fifi's gift. No. No, he would have to go beyond that if he was serious about this, if he was to have any chance of reaching one-thousand five-hundred dollars before Dec. 24th.

But as Hamton lay in his warm bed, he was confident that he still had a chance. He still had time to do it . . . for himself and for Fifi. And that, to Hamton, was more important than any grade a teacher could ever hand out.

~$1,285 to go - 21 Days until Dec.24th~


All comments are welcome, positive or negative. Things may seem simple now, but keep in mind, this is only the first week. Hamton's mission is only beginning.