“That’s great. Where do I—”
“Cool your heels,” the chief said. “We like to take our time here, get to know each other. I’m Chief Bushee.”
“You can call him Shrimp,” Mabel said. “Everyone does.”
The chief put his hand on J.J.’s shoulder and led him back to the table. “Keep the coffee coming, Mabel. We’re gonna visit here for a while.”
J.J. slid into his chair. He wanted to blast out of the Hereford Inn, find the man eating the plane, and get started. He could hear his mother’s voice as she put him to bed, reading from the storybook about the unruly child named Max: “And now, let the wild rumpus start!” He wanted to start the rumpus, but he had to keep his cool.
“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” the chief said. “You ever hear about the prison escape up in Grand Island? Guy made a 30-foot rope out of dental floss and climbed right out the window. Took him two years. Is that a world record?”
The blue blazer with the gilded crest flapped madly on its hanger in the backseat as the Taurus bumped along the two-laner heading north out of town. The road wandered past a cemetery and a few farms before dribbling into the fields. J.J. drove along looking for the old windmill.
Coffee with Shrimp had gone for more than an hour. Rapid-fire, he learned about every pretty girl and every unfaithful farmer in the county. He also heard about the chief’s desperate struggle to stay above the minimum weight requirement for Nebraska police officers. Shrimp weighed just 114 pounds. The limit was 120, and the annual physical was just weeks away.
After four doughnuts and two milkshakes, a “1018” emergency radio call interrupted their talk. A bobcat had fastened its fangs onto Mrs. Esther Hoshaw’s leg. The 89-year-old woman had whacked the animal on the nose with her dandelion digger and driven it off, but now she needed medical help.
Before running off, Shrimp scribbled directions to a farm on the outskirts of town. It was the roundabout way to get there. On foot, cutting through the Bargen family’s wheat fields, it only took ten minutes. But he didn’t want the newcomer getting lost.
On the ridge up ahead, where the heat rippled on asphalt, J.J. saw a broken Fairbury windmill ravaged by weather, just two beaten blades still cutting the air. He turned right onto a dirt road running beside a stream. It crossed over a wooden bridge, climbed up a hill, and gave way onto sweeping land. The cornstalks were lush green. In the middle of the fields, he saw a red farmhouse and barn faded by the sun. A brown dog slept on the porch. A rooster ran across the front yard.
Then he saw it for the first time, unmistakable, unbelievable.
A 747 in a farmer’s field …
He stopped the car by the side of the road. He wanted to remember every detail. He wanted to remember the way the sunlight glinted off the tail and rudder. He wanted to remember the exact angle of the jet jutting from the ground. He wanted to remember the way the plane stretched out against the horizon, like a giant nesting bird. He wanted to remember the sensation of awe. In all his travels, he had never ever seen anything like this.
He left his car on the road and walked through the rusty gate with its hand-painted sign: TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED. He tramped up the dirt lane toward the farm, and as he came closer, the perspective shifted. Now the barn was dwarfed by the remaining fuselage. Up close, he could see the tail end of the plane was as solid as Boeing had built it. The marking on the fin was simple: an American flag. From the nose cone all the way past the wings, the aircraft was picked clean, a metal carcass under the hot sun.
J.J. felt the full blast of the discovery. A 747 was no run-of-the-mill jet. It graced the pages of The Book as the world’s highest capacity airliner and, perhaps, the most important aircraft ever built, revolutionizing mass transportation, hauling more than 1.6 billion passengers around the world.
The dog barked from the porch, watching every step as J.J. walked straight to the behemoth. He stood beneath the gleaming hulk of a plane and its towering horizontal and vertical stabilizers. He reached up on his tiptoes, ran his fingers over rivets and aluminum skin. Warm and smooth.
It was real, this 747, in the middle of a cornfield.
No one ever knocked. The house was always unlocked. Why was someone banging on the screen door?
Wally Chubb hauled himself off the couch, turned off the Weather Channel, and searched the living room for his orange hunting jacket. He needed something to cover his red union suit. He was a big man with square shoulders and hands like slabs of steak. His face was long and wide, covered with bristle the color of rust. He patted down his bushy hair and lumbered to the door.
“Who’s there?”
A man in a blue blazer stood on the porch with his hand outstretched. He was too dressy to be a salesman, too good mannered to be a debt collector.
“Afternoon,” the stranger said. “How you doing today?”
“Can’t hurt a Christian.” Wally wiped sleep from his eyes. “What can I do you for?”
“You Walter Chubb?”
No one ever called him Walter, except for school principals and lawmen.
“You from the IRS?” Wally asked.
“No,” the man said. “I’m here about the 747.”
“What 747?” Wally kneeled down to his dog. “Arf? You see a 747?” The mutt yelped and licked his face.
“Look here,” the man said. “I’ve got a few questions about the plane.”
“I knew it.” Wally stood up. “You’re a Fed. Aviation Administration, right?”
“Not even close. I’m with The Book of Records. Came all the way from New York. Name’s J.J. Smith.”
“What do you want with me?” Wally said.
“Are you eating that plane?”
Wally just stared.
“No one’s ever eaten a 747 before,” J.J. said. “This is the first time ever. It could be a world record.”
“What do you get for setting a record?”
“A certificate and you’re in The Book.”
It didn’t sound like much. A piece of paper and your name in a book. He wasn’t eating the plane for any reward. “Think you came a long way for nothing, mister,” Wally said. “I can’t help you.”
“But wait—”
As Wally started to close the screen door, he saw his best friend riding up the dirt path on a bicycle. “Hey, Nate!” he called out.
Nate Schoof got off his bike and leaned it against the house. He wore square black Kissinger glasses, his hair shined with a good coating of Brylcreem, and his Wildcats T-shirt and Wranglers looked ironed.
“Interrupting something?” Nate asked.
“Fella here is looking for a man eating a 747.”
“Who’d be crazy enough to do that?” Nate said.
“Beats me,” Wally said.
J.J. handed Wally a business card. “Thanks for your time. I’ll be at the motel in town.”
“Good visiting with you,” Wally said.
J.J. rushed down the dirt road back to his car.
A man eating a 747. It transcended astonishment. Edgar Snavely at Ripley’s Believe It or Not would have a cow when he found out. Too late! The record would be all locked up for The Book.
Wally Chubb’s resistance would be easily overcome. He’d been through this dance many times. The locals were simply testing, but soon they’d come around. He would wait, mind his own business, and eventually they would beg to be in The Book.
J.J. checked the rearview mirror. It was filled with the silvery creature that the farmer in the Halloween costume was eating piece by piece. The big man in his red pajamas was waving from the porch.
Why was he eating the plane? Was he nuts, suffering from some neurological disorder, a perfect case for Dr. Oliver Sacks? It didn’t matter. People chased records for all sorts of reasons. They wanted their 15 minutes. They wanted to make money. They wanted to impress friends and family. They wanted spiritual fulfillment. Who was J.J. to judge? All he wanted was to ratify the record, get out of town, and get Peasley off h
is back.
In the shade of the porch, Wally, Nate, and Arf watched the stranger head off down the lane.
“Wonder how that guy heard about you,” Nate said.
“Who cares?” Wally said. “I’ve seen The Book of Records. Looked through it at the library once. Just a bunch of freaks.”
“Perfect fit.” Nate polished his trifocals with the corner of his T-shirt.
“Very funny,” Wally said.
“You think I’m kiddin’.”
“I’m gonna get you for that one.” Wally sat down on the porch glider that bucked a little under his weight. “So? Did you see Willa today?”
“She wasn’t in the café this morning, and I didn’t see her in town either.”
“You hear anything about her lately?”
“Nope. Nothing. Just what I see in the paper.”
“No big deal. I was just wondering.”
“It’s okay,” Nate said. “Come on, let’s go to work. I solved your problem.”
“Oh yeah, how’s that?”
“I’ll show you.”
The big wood doors to the barn swung open, kicking up a cloud of dust. A mouse scrambled through the hay. Streams of light dropped down through cracks in the roof, illuminating a huge metal contraption. It stood 15 feet high, like an oversize refrigerator, with wires, pulleys, cranks, and levers angling in all directions.
“Stopped by Ace Hardware on the way over,” Nate said. “Ordered a new five-horsepower engine for the chipper-shredder. Think that’ll do the trick.”
“How much it cost you?”
“Don’t worry about it. Missy slipped it to me for free.”
“She’s been sweet on you since the fifth grade,” Wally said.
“Only ’cause I helped her with her homework.”
“You helped everyone with their homework.”
“Now look at me. I’m the guy who assigns the homework.”
The two men put on aviation-grade ear protectors. Wally knelt next to the contraption, reached inside a panel, and yanked a rip cord. The machine sputtered, groaned, then died.
“You got enough gas in there?” Nate asked.
“How should I know? You didn’t put a gauge on it.”
“One small oversight in my perfect design. Go ahead, try again.”
Wally pulled hard on the cord and the engine rumbled to life.
Nate pulled open the front door of the machine and inspected the gears. His hands darted between moving parts. With a wrench and a screwdriver, he pulled and jerked and finally, with a satisfied smile, he turned to Wally.
“Ready when you are.”
Wally gave a thumbs-up, then marched out of the barn with his handsaw and giant tinner snips. He walked directly beneath the rear bulk cargo hold of the 747, the belly of the beast, positioned a creaky ladder, then climbed right up.
He cast an eye over the smooth metallic expanse. He had never seen a jet up close until that stormy night ten years ago. He had never flown on an airplane or even been to an airport. Still, he was proud of his accomplishment: He had eaten his way through the front of the aircraft, 41 Section, according to the markings on the frames and stringers, running from the nose cone through the cockpit, well past the wings, all the way to the tail.
Standing on his ladder, he examined the subassembly panels under the plane. Where to begin? He tapped the aluminum skin with the tip of his snips, then began cutting. It took ten minutes of hard work, first with the huge scissors, then with the saw, rocking back and forth to give the blade more edge. He liked the warm shavings sprinkling down on his sweaty face. He liked the smell of metal, bitter and raw. Finally, a four-by-four square dropped to the ground with a thud.
Wally climbed down and picked up the chunk. It was just the right size.
“This oughta do,” he said, holding up his prize.
“Good one,” Nate said.
Wally climbed the splintered ladder in the barn, hauled the panel up with a rope and pulley. Then he walked along the beams that ran the length of the structure. He knew every inch of this place, spent his childhood playing hide-and-seek in all its darkened corners.
“Here we go.”
He stared down into the huge contraption and saw the metal teeth spinning at full speed, like a giant Osterizer. He put on his safety glasses, then pushed the metal piece into the mouth of the machine.
It moaned, shook violently, and suddenly went silent. The darn thing was always temperamental.
“Dammit!” Nate shouted.
Wally kicked the metal side of the device with his boot, tugged up and down on the piece of 747. Slowly the teeth began to grind, chewing up the offering. Acrid smoke spewed from the back of the apparatus.
The grinding noise was extraordinary, like a great beast dying. The abrasive sound shot out of the barn, over the two hills, past the windmill, and reverberated across all of Superior. It was a grating sound the town knew well, a sound everyone tried to ignore.
Wally swung down from the rafters on the pulley rope and waited patiently in front of the contraption. He checked his watch, and finally he flipped a switch on the front console. The grinding stopped. He pulled off his ear protectors and opened a little door built into the front panel and pulled out a red bucket.
It was filled with a metallic, gritty substance that smelled of auto shops and junkyards. He ran his thick hands through the hot ore. It felt good to the touch, not too thick, not too thin, just right.
He turned to Nate and said happily, “Time for lunch.”
It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, watching your best friend eat an airplane. Some days you suspected he wasn’t all there in the head. But then, on other days, he was the smartest, most insightful person you ever knew.
“Confucius was a corn inspector until age 16,” Wally liked to say. “It’s in The Farmer’s Almanac. So, the sky’s the limit.”
There was the time he wrote a letter to Cheerios announcing he had invented a new and improved super-glue. The inspiration for this claim had come from his daily struggle to wash dried-out cereal dregs from his bowl. This indestructible stuff—the kind he chipped away with a hammer and chisel—was far stronger than Elmer’s or Krazy Glue. To prove his point, he ground down a box of Cheerios, mixed the powder with water, and used the paste to build Arf’s doghouse without a single nail. It looked durable enough to him, but General Mills was unimpressed. The company didn’t even bother to write a proper rejection letter. Instead, it sent three coupons for free cereal.
Nate sat in the kitchen watching Wally make lunch.
“Rose dropped off some more articles for you,” Nate said. “Did you see the one about aluminum and Alzheimer’s?”
“It’s no big deal, just like all the others.”
“Rose sure worries about you. I see her every day after work when I go to the library. She’s always looking for stuff on airplane eating—like seriously, how much is too much? Yesterday, she found an article in the Journal of the American Medical Association. Something about too much iron and heart attacks.”
“Yeah, but Doc says I’m iron deficient, so I don’t worry,” Wally said, standing over the stove, frying hamburgers.
Nate tossed the photocopies on the heap by the door. The pile of articles about the perils of ingesting metal had grown large over the years.
“Here we go,” Wally said, bringing two plates to the table. “Cheeseburger, onion, heavy on the tomato for you. Cheeseburger, onion, heavy on the air brakes for me.”
He picked up a bottle on the table filled with gray glop. “You sure you don’t want a little squirt today? Helps make you regular.”
“I’m already regular,” Nate said.
Wally examined his burger. He squeezed the bottle between bun and patty, and an ashen ooze seeped over the lettuce, onion, and tomato.
“You got too much on there,” Nate said with alarm.
“No way,” Wally said. “I never go too far with this stuff.”
He bit into the burger.
His front teeth and bicuspids were as square and solid as most folks’ molars. Good for grinding. He chewed, then swallowed, reached for his glass of milk with its noticeably gray foam, gulped some down. He took a Tater Tot from his plate with two pudgy fingers, dipped it in granular grayish ketchup.
“Remember what Mama used to say,” Wally said. “Everything in moderation.”
He chomped.
7 For the record, the biggest watermelon weighed 262 pounds; the longest continuous clothesline measured 17,298 feet with newly washed laundry fluttering the entire length.
FOUR
Behind all the lavender and lace, the Victorian Inn was neither Victorian nor an Inn, just a roadside motel with romantic aspirations. J.J. asked for the largest room and wasted no time getting into the shower. All he wanted to do was get the grit off him. Just a few hours in the country and he already felt coated with topsoil. Scrubbing as well as he could, he cursed the tiny washcloth and miniature bar of soap. Who were these made for? What size human could actually use them? An infant, a five-year-old, but surely not the average man.
He combed his wet hair and mapped out the mission in his mind. Suddenly the entire building shook. Then all was still. A few moments later the room shuddered again. It was a hazard of motor inns. Big-rig trucks rattled rooms, and long ago he had gotten used to falling asleep with the rumbling of the 18-wheelers and headlights flashing through plastic curtains.
Then he heard another sound, instantly recognizable.
Boing. Boing. Boing.
It was the bugle call heralding his arrival, a sure sign that word was out. The Book of Records had come to town. He went to the window and peered down on the parking lot. Just what he expected.
Boing. Boing.
Dozens of kids of all ages bounced on pogo sticks, up and down, gazing at his window.
Boing …
“Mister!” one freckle-face said. “Check this out!”
Whatever country, whatever continent, as soon as they knew he was there, they always showed up. They wanted to be in The Book. They thought it was easy. With a jump rope or a yo-yo, they believed they could make history.