Hippomobile! (16 page)

After a while we couldn't take it anymore and said, “Pops. Hey, Pops!”

He snapped out of it like a rubber band. “What's up?”

“You all right?”

“Yeah, my back's just fine.”

“We didn't mean your back.”

But Pops just said, “Gimme that school box of yours.”

We gave it to him, and he went over to the hippomobile and found his footing in one of the wheel spokes and started climbing right up. The hippomobile protested with more groans than school kids on test day, but it didn't fall apart like we were fearing it was gonna.

Once Pops was up on top, he said, “Hot diggity! Feel like a kid again.”

“Can we climb up too?”

“I sure hope so.”

It didn't take us much more than a hop, skip, and a jump to get up there, but even so, Pops was already prying open the lid to the wood box up by the steering wheel by the time we arrived. When he lifted it off, we bent over to look in and were surprised to see all kinds of gears and pulleys in there.

We looked at each other and whispered, “That must be the engine.”

Meanwhile Pops was busy rubbing his beard and looking hard at those gears and pulleys. “That Gottfried was smart as a sore thumb,” he said.

“He was?”

Pops didn't bother with answering us. He was making that clicking sound with his tongue that meant he was thinking. Plus he was busy poking his finger around all the parts in the engine box. Every once in a while he said things like “Well, I'll be!” and “No kiddin'!” And it wasn't a minute too soon for us when he finally said, “Now where'd that school box take off to?”

“Here it is, Pops!” We handed it to him and even opened the lid for him. “Which one you think you're gonna use?”

Pops just said, “I'll find out as soon as I know.”

That meant not to bug him about it. So we sat there on the front bench quiet as a puddle and watched him try one dingsbums after another until we lost track of how many he done tried. Eventually he pulled a wrench out of one of his pockets and went to work with that some. Then he went back to trying to find the right dingsbums. The whole time our fingers were crossed so hard, they nearly snapped like twigs.

Then sudden as a thunderclap, Pops said, “You gotta be kiddin'!”

And we said, “What, Pops?”

And Pops said, “That old dingsbums you found fits after all. Had the dang thing in backwards and upside down to boot.” And then he added, “But don't you go tellin' no one.”

And we said, “It's between us and the fence post.”

Then Pops said, “Well, let's get rollin'!”

“You mean we're gonna start it up?” we asked.

And Pops said, “You didn't think we was gonna stand around singin' to it, did ya?”

We just covered our ears.

 

 

 

 

POPS TOLD US TO START
the engine. We looked up and down the steering wheel for a keyhole,
¹
and since we didn't find one, we inspected the engine box. We didn't have any luck there, either, so we stood up and turned around to inspect the seat we were sitting on. The whole time Pops kept going, “Warmer, warmer . . .” and then, “Cold. Very cold. Bitter cold,” and you could tell he was enjoying himself. But at some point he had us so cold, our teeth were rattling, and we clean gave up.

Pops got a big laugh outta the whole deal. “What you're lookin' for is right there in front of your beaks,” he said, and pointed to a black curved metal bar sticking out of the right side of the engine box.

“That ain't no key, Pops.”

And Pops said, “You're right. It's a crank.”

And we said, “Huh?”

Pops explained to us that back then you didn't start a pickup with a key—you had to crank it started.

And we said, “You mean like a jack-in-the-box?”

“Yup. But just don't expect no weasel to go poppin' out of the engine. Now, go ahead and wind her up.”

The crank was big enough for all four of our hands, and we worked together hard as a walnut, but it wouldn't budge none.

Pops shook his head and asked, “Am I gonna have to go get the spinach or somethin'?”

“No spinach!” And with the help of some elbow grease, we finally got the crank cranking.

“There you go!” Pops shouted.

We kept that crank moving around in circles like a dog after its tail, but the hippomobile didn't seem to care none. It just sat there all peaceful and quiet, and we finally had to give up and take a breather.

“You two ain't plannin' on walkin' back, is you?”

We'd show Pops what we were planning and not planning to do! This time we spit on our hands and rubbed it in real good and got that crank whizzing like an airplane propeller.

And Pops said, “Atta way!”

But the hippomobile still sat there lazy as a Sunday afternoon, and there wasn't anything left for us to do but to give up. Even Pops said, “Booger,” and took off his beret and scratched his head.

“Maybe we should put some gas in it,” we said.

“Gas.” Pops repeated the word like he was spitting out a piece of gristle. “It ain't called gas—it's called
fuel
.”

“Well, maybe we should put some fuel in it. You brought the can and all.”

“Don't you think I done thought of that?”

We could tell that was one of them questions we wasn't supposed to answer, probably because he forgot all about it.

Pops let a little time go by and then said, “Where is that gas can, anyhow?”

“You mean the fuel can?”

“Just gimme the can.”

We did so and watched him pour like a mad scientist in a laboratory. We leaned back and had our faces covered just in case a cloud of something rose up out of the tank. But that ain't what happened. Instead came this sputtering and coughing and vibrating from underneath that reminded us of a busted ride at the county fair.

Pops yelled out, “Crank it, you turkeys!”

And we did. And the more we did, the more the hippomobile shuddered and shimmied and coughed like it needed a good slap on the back. Then the engine sorta went
vroom!
Pops told us to hold off, and we stopped cranking. And sure as a cow tail swats flies, the hippomobile kept on vibrating all on its very own.

Pops said, “Good goin', you turkeys!”

But we didn't have time for celebrating because something else started to happen. “What's going on?” we asked.

Pops just laughed. “You better put on them helmets of yours. 'Cause we're rollin'!”

And indeed we were! Not too fast maybe, and you probably could've walked backwards on one sore foot faster than we were traveling, but there was no doubting the fact that we really were on our way right out the factory door. So we put on our helmets and fastened the straps secure under our chins and couldn't help but feel like we were out on the speedway.

Pops told us to scoot it and grabbed the wheel. “Let's just hope them axles hold,” he said. Once we left the building, he needed to steer the hippomobile around back the other direction toward town. “Help me out some and lean hard to the left.”

We leaned like saplings in a windstorm, and Pops worked like crazy to get the steering wheel to turn, and the hippomobile began creaking louder than attic steps. But nothing busted, and soon us and the hippomobile were turned around the right way and on Hill Street and slowly heading back into town.

“This ol' thing handles pretty good!” Pops said.

We were about to agree, but just then the hippomobile stopped in its tracks and might've bucked us clean off if we'd been going any faster. “Hey!” we yelled.

Pops's hand came down with a loud smack on the engine box. And believe it or not, that got the hippomobile running again, all right. But it started running back­wards.

“Hey, Pops, we're going the wrong way!”

Pops gave us that one look that said, “Thanks for telling me.” He started looking all over for some kinda knob or switch to change directions.

He looked kinda funny, but we weren't about to say “Cold, colder!” or nothing like that. Instead we just took a chance and gave the engine box another smack, but this time on the other side. And lo and behold, that did the trick! The hippomobile stopped, rumbled in place for a moment like an upset stomach, and then set back off in the direction we were wanting to go.

“Looks like I'm gonna have to work out a few kinks in this thing,” Pops said. Then he moved over and let us take the wheel. “Easy does it.”

And there we were, riding for real on top of the hippomobile just like Gottfried Schuh! It was almost like a Sunday drive. The only thing missing was a radio and a window to hang your arm out of. We sure couldn't wait to show Mom.

We began veering a bit rightward, and Pops said, “Hold her steady, now.”

And so we leaned left and gave the steering wheel a nice gentle twist. It twisted just fine. In fact, it twisted clean off.

“Pops! Look!”

And Pops said, “Holy potato! Gimme that thing quick!”

We handed it to him and held on tight as the hippomobile ran off the road and began mowing down weeds. Pops worked double time to get the steering wheel to fit back in, and we didn't bother him none except for yelling out, “Tree!” and then, “TREE!” and then finally, “
TREE!
”

But lucky for us and the hippomobile, Pops was able to snap the wheel back in just in the nick of time and avoid the tree trunk. We did run through some branches, though, and were forced to eat a few leaves. And Pops darn near got his beret snatched off.

“Mon dew!” Pops called out in some French we didn't get. “That was closer than my shadow!”

He stayed in the driver's seat and got us back on the blacktop, and for a while we were happy to be the copilots. But once we turned off Hill Street without anything unordinary happening, Pops said we should have the honors of driving the home stretch.

We were smiling so much, our cheeks hurt. This time we made sure to keep the hippomobile right in the middle of the road. When we went by our oak tree, we waved and yelled, “Thanks, Old Tom Wood!” If it hadn't been for Old Tom Wood, who knows if we would've found Gottfried Schuh's old letter to begin with.

Then we had just one more block to go. We couldn't wait to see the looks on everybody's faces as we drove into town. Except it turned out that we were the ones in for the big surprise. Just before we entered the square, we saw a big banner stretched across the street from the top of one building to the top of another. It was made out of old sheets, and the words painted on it read

 

WELCOME TO WYMORE
HOME OF THE HIPPOMOBILE

 

Pops said, “Didn't turn out too bad, did it?”

We looked up at him and said, “You mean you knew about it?”

But we didn't hear his answer because then we saw something else, and our jaws dropped down to our knees. It was Mom, and she was up on the one roof holding the banner steady. She was wearing a helmet, but it was her all right, and that might've been the first time she'd ever been up on a roof in all her life.
²
And yet there she was, waving and smiling proud. And up on the other roof was Grandma Ida. She pulled a camera out of her apron pocket and started taking snapshots.
³
And since the hippomobile was going so slow, we even had enough time to make several silly faces.

Then we crossed under the banner, and the whole dusty town square came into full view. All our grandpas and grandmas were lining the street in their best bib overalls and button-down blouses and waving the flags that otherwise came out only for Train Day. We waved back to everybody, and it was almost like being in a real parade, except that parades usually don't crash.

Pops said, “Now we've just gotta figure out how to stop this contraption.”

We started looking around down at our feet for some kinda brake, but it didn't seem like Gottfried Schuh had gotten around to putting one in.

Pops said, “You gotta be kiddin' me!”

We squeezed the horn, but it just blew out a cloud of dust. So we started working our lungs. “Outta the way!” we yelled. We waved our arms like windmills to make sure we had everyone's attention. And in all that commotion, we didn't realize that we were holding the steering wheel clean up in the air.

Apparently our grandmas and grandpas did, though. As we started edging off the street and right toward Mabel's, they parted faster than the sea. Some ran for cover back into the café, and others hid behind a lamp pole, and a few climbed up on the bench Grandpa Chester always sat on.

Meanwhile we kept right on inching toward disaster and stomping with our feet for a brake that wasn't there while Pops fiddled with the steering wheel. Unfortunately, one of our stomps must've caught Pops's toes because he let out quite an “Ow!” and dropped the steering wheel. Alls we could do was watch it roll clean off the hippomobile, land on the ground, and keep right on rolling.