The Man Who Ate the 747 (13 page)

After dropping off the last newspapers, he and Willa had spent a good half hour at Kier’s Thriftway
in Mankato debating the aeronautical merits of the different sizes. As a nod to scientific inquiry, they settled on three—medium, large, and jumbo. They also bought a roll of paper towels and a bottle of cheap white wine.

The sun was setting and a gorgeous warm light blessed the fields. J.J. had marched 109 generous paces, well beyond the record, just to show Willa how far 323 feet really was.

“Hellooooooo,” he called from the far side of the field.

She waved to him. He could see her smile a full football field away. She was barefoot in a yellow sundress, and she stretched in the wind.

“You sure you want to do this?” he called out.

“Yeah,” she said. “Quit stalling!”

“Fine.” He jogged back to her. “Let’s take this in degrees. Say we try 15 feet for starters.”

“You’re on,” she said.

As she counted off 15 steps, she laughed like a young girl. She turned toward him, her dress flitting in the wind. He liked her face when she wasn’t accusing him of ruining Superior. He took off his shirt and threw it in the fork of an elm tree. He saw her watching and he sucked in his belly. He wished he did more sit-ups and push-ups.

“Shake ’em up good,” he said. “Break up the yolk and they fly better.”

“Here comes a jumbo,” she said, throwing it underhand.

The first few were easy and their confidence grew. Back and forth they tossed gently, catching, missing, laughing. Impatiently they increased the distance, first 40, then 60 feet. Eggs cracked in their palms, goo flew everywhere.

“This isn’t fair,” Willa said. “How come I’m getting yuckier than you?”

“I’m plenty messy,” he said.

They looped eggs high in the air. Pop, one on Willa’s head.

“Ow,” she yelled. “The mediums hurt. They’re like golf balls.”

Splat, another against J.J.’s chest. Egg splooge dribbled down his stomach.

“Willa,” he called, flicking shells from his skin. “You throw like a girl. Bigger the arc, easier to catch.”

She zinged one straight at him, whizzing by his head.

“Whoa! No fair!”

“Yes, fair,” she said. “Shortstop. Nuckolls County All Stars. Four years in a row.”

She threw another egg, overhand, muscles flexing. She was holding back all along. He should have known better. He tossed the egg back to her, a wild throw, and she lunged for it, legs tensing, dress lifting a few precious inches. He was certainly no match for her, and he could barely concentrate. The sight of her, pirouetting in the field, was dazzling. He felt drunk with whimsy, and afraid the buzz would wear off.

“Trust me,” she said. “If you let your hand swing with the egg when you catch it, it cushions the impact.”

“You do it your way. I’ll do it mine,” he said. “Here we go. 100 feet.”

His hand was slippery and he raised his arm to throw. He felt the yolk move as he let it go. A high throw.

She leaped up in a swirl of yellow and gold, caught the egg in her fingertips, and landed. She raised a fist triumphantly.

“Yessss!”

They hurled eggs until the last one had flown and crashed, and they both dripped with goop. The ground was speckled with 36 yellow splotches ringed with white shards.

“So?” she said. “How’d we do?”

“Sorry,” J.J. said, his sticky face all somber. “No record.”

They cleaned up with the paper towels and a bottle of water. They stood inches apart, wiping glop off each other. She smelled salty and sweet. He found specks of shell in her cascading curls and gently mopped yolk from her back. He felt her warmth, her muscles, and then the faint shudder of her whole body when he brushed egg bits from the silky hairs on her neck.

Then they flopped down in the field to watch the sun go down, throwing great and glorious splashes of plum across the clouds. Willa’s skin was luminous,
her eyes gleaming. Even the toenails on her dusty bare feet seemed to glimmer, each one painted pink.

She opened the bottle of wine with the corkscrew on her pocket knife. They had forgotten glasses so they passed the bottle back and forth and took great swigs.

J.J. knew the giddy feeling inside him. During his extensive interviews with scientists about the nature of love, he had nailed the formula: His midbrain was pumping dopamine, norepinephrine, and phenyl-ethylamine. His pheromones, invisible airborne molecules of scent, were flying. And her brain was firing, too. The signs were there. Her skin was covered with a light mist of sweat, her eyes dilated, and her face was flushed.

He felt confused. Science had always made him feel safe, impervious, but what had happened? Just days ago he had left Paris grousing about love. Now, despite his ratios and equations, more than anything in the world, he wanted this woman, wanted to know her, wanted to bury himself in her. But then, like a beaker breaking in the lab, he remembered. This was business….

When he spoke, he was surprised that his voice sounded almost normal. “So,” he said, “I have to ask you. What’s your relationship with Wally Chubb?”

S
hrimp eased his patrol car behind the beat-up ’68 VW van with Oregon plates. The driver of the suspect vehicle had long red hair and a matching Moses beard. He had pulled into town that morning, accompanied by two dark-eyed women who—sources claimed—weren’t wearing brassieres. They stopped at the grocery store, then spent the day inside the van, curtains pulled shut. There was nothing illegal about it, but everyone was keeping a close eye on them.

On this fine Sunday evening, as the good folks of Superior sat down for supper, the long-haired man was driving through town
in his van with a loudspeaker, shouting something about the Messiah, the 747, and technology.

This hippie was disturbing the peace, and Shrimp definitely had to do something about it.

The man pulled over to the side of the road. Shrimp got out of the squad car, inflated his chest as best he could, and strutted toward the VW.

“License, please,” Shrimp said.

The man with the long hair smelled terrible. The women in the backseat were barely dressed.

“What’s the problem, man?” the hippie asked.

“Disturbing the peace,” Shrimp said. “That’s the problem.”

“I’ve got a right to free speech.”

“You sure do, son. But in Superior, you can’t go around blasting your loudspeaker like that. It’s against the law.”

“What law?”

“I am the law, son. Get out of the vehicle.”

A small crowd had gathered to watch. The hippie climbed out of the van. There were gasps as everyone realized the man was wearing no pants, no shorts, only a tie-dyed shirt and hiking boots. The women followed him.

“Wake up, people, before it’s too late!” the man shouted. “Technology is destroying society!”

Shrimp led the three hippies to the patrol car.

“Wally is our savior,” the man screamed as he was shoved into the backseat. “Eat the plane! Eat technology. Eat evil.”

The streetlights threw circles on the pavement. Willa stopped the truck to drop J.J. off. She had barely pulled away when reporters surrounded him. Then he was swept away with the crowd.

She drove down East Third, turned right on Central, then cruised to the front of the Lady Vestey Center. The whole time, she picked apart her answer to J.J.’s question:

What’s your relationship with Wally?

“I’ve known him all my life,” she had said. “He’s not normal and easy to figure out. Even when he was young, he was this huge, uncomfortable guy. He didn’t have friends. I liked him, though. He has a good heart.

“I think he got this crush when I went to his tenth birthday party. I thought it would go away, but it didn’t,” she said. “He’s always had a shine for me. I see him once in a while in town. But now he’s really blown this way out of proportion. Well, that’s my opinion.”

“I think I understand,” J.J. said.

She hoped he really did understand. She liked Wally, but she never imagined ending up with him. And right now she wanted to clink glasses of Asti de Whatever with this man who knew the world.

The Lady Vestey Center was as grand as government funding could make it. Once an old hotel, it was now a home for the elderly, named for its benefactress, Evelyn Brodstone, a native daughter who left Superior and married British nobility.

Willa walked through the large hall, her sandals clacking on the terrazzo floor, past the darkened lounge and deserted coffee corner. At last, she found Rose washing up in the ladies’ room. She was just finishing her part-time job caring for residents of the center.

“What happened to you?” Rose asked. “What’s that in your hair?”

“You won’t believe it,” Willa said. “You won’t believe what I just did.”

“Try me.” Rose handed her friend a towel. Willa scrubbed her face and rinsed her hair in the sink.

They walked back to the lounge, a room with a dozen chairs. A large TV played in the corner. Willa and Rose took two BarcaLoungers.

“I spent the afternoon with the guy from
The Book of Records,”
Willa said. “We went out to Righty’s field and tried to break the record for projectile throwing. It was a riot. We laughed our asses off.”

“You tried what?”

“Projectile throwing. You know, the egg toss. We didn’t come close to the record.” Willa could hear herself—her voice all dizzy.

“You’re putting me on,” Rose said.

“Honest.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Nothing! Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You should see yourself, Willa. You’re goo-gooeyed.”

“That’s crazy! I just had a great day. Played all afternoon. Haven’t done that in ages. Nothing to worry about.”

“You’re going to do it all over again, aren’t you? The last time you got carried away, it took two years to get back to normal.”

“We were only playing. That’s all, I swear.”

Rose shook her head.

“It’s been so long since I had any fun,” Willa said softly. “And it’s been even longer since I felt anything.”

“You know nothing about him.”

Willa showed her open palms. Nothing to add. She stared at her friend.

“Nuts,” Rose said quietly. “Honestly, Willa.”

A tiny old man in blue pajamas, white hair sticking up on his head, got up from a La-Z-Boy and shuffled over to the television. He took a cigarette out of his mouth. “You ladies mind?” he asked.

“No, go ahead,” said Rose. “We’re not watching.”

Otto Hornbussel changed the television station to CNN.

“Look,” said Rose.

An anchorman with shellacked gray hair was saying: “Joining us live tonight, J.J. Smith of
The Book of Records.
Tell us, what’s really going on out there in Nebraska?”

“Evening,” J.J. began. “This one’s a real doozie….”

Behind him, a bunch of teenagers made rabbit ears for the camera and waved their Budweiser cans.
Banners touting Weight Watchers and Alka-Seltzer flapped in the background. Superior was turning into a freak show.

Willa remembered what J.J. had said to her just hours ago: “My whole life is The Book.” She stared at him on the screen. What a disreputable scene. Her racing heart stumbled, and slowed. He wasn’t Asti de Miranda; he was Dr Pepper….

“There you go,” said Rose. “Your basic, here-today, gone-tomorrow kind of guy. I ask you: Would you buy a used car from that man?”

Willa flinched. “I really hate it when you’re right.”

J.J. sat on a folding chair next to his friend, the famed omnivore Michel Lotito, a sturdy man with a flat nose and messy black hair. He held a Gitanes cigarette in one hand and a Heineken in the other. The Frenchman had succumbed to CNN’s rich offer in a network bidding war and was now galvanized to supply expert commentary on the gastronomic challenges of eating a 747.

It was just after 9
P.M.
and Wally’s field was so studded with television klieg lights that it was as bright as morning. Every insect in Nuckolls County seemed to fly into the light beams. From his seat, J.J. could see all the brightly colored tents that had sprung up in the barnyard and beyond. A little one-engine crop duster flew out of the dark into the bright blaze, dragging a banner:
THE GINSU—CUTS ANY METAL, EVEN A 747.

An audio technician adjusted J.J.’s earpiece.

“Hey, man,” he said, “you’ve got something on your ear.”

J.J. picked eggshell from his lobe. He felt high. He knew it was an electrical signal from his left pre-frontal cortex. Yes, his brain was saturated with neurotransmitters. The flood of endorphins was causing strong feelings of attachment. He wanted to go back to that field with Willa, smother her with eggs, even try to set another world record, the kind that wasn’t suitable for The Book.

“One minute,” the audio technician whispered, “and we’re back on the air.”

The instruction jolted him into the moment. A national television audience awaited. Time to sell. The camera’s red light flashed.

“Mr. Lotito,” the anchorman intoned. “A question from a caller in Raleigh. What’s worse, the airplane or the airplane food?”

The Frenchman grinned. “Trust me, those rubber tires taste worse than burnt lasagna. The flavor is miserable and you have to drink so much water just to get them down.”