The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun

by Paul Gallico

  The bus driver returned his microphone to the hook, picked up the one for interior communication and said, “Okay, folks, settle back. We’re off.” He trod on his clutch, dropped smoothly into gear and moved his bus off into the night.

  C H A P T E R

  3

  The bus passed through the business district of San Diego, thence out past the factories and finally into the dark countryside eerily lit by a waning moon, which threw its varying patterns of lights and shadows on the window through which Julian peered, still buoyed up by the excitement of his successful escape. The most difficult part, perhaps, of his project had been realized. There was no way for his family to stop him now.

  Thinking back about them he saw them, curiously, as actors in an old-fashioned silent film moving jerkily and hysterically about in the wake of his defection.

  If the impressions that parents actually made upon their children could be fully expressed by them, adults would be appalled by not only the penetration, but the distortion. Size has a great deal to do with it, plus the fact that a child’s world knows no boundaries and may consist largely of fantasies and exaggerations.

  There had been a spate of revivals of old-fashioned silent movies complete with piano and drum accompaniment the past few months on television, and the films had become a cult amongst the young. The interplay of light and shade upon the bus turned it in Julian’s mind into the picture tube. His imagination kindled rapidly and it was in those terms that Julian now reviewed the events leading up to his present situation. The dialogue he saw in the form of sub-titles flashing across the screen.

  The fact of the matter was that Aldrin West was over-worked and over-harassed by the demands of the era with insufficient time to devote to all his interests, as well as his family. Still, with all these handicaps he tried to be a reasonably good father. But that was not the way Julian saw it. Ellen West, his mother, tended to over-react and over-protect Julian which completed his thoughts as to his family. He felt neglected by the one and smothered by the other.

  The film began with Julian watching himself enter his father’s study where Aldrin West was seen clad in striped trousers and cutaway coat at his desk heaped with papers, and speaking into two telephones at the same time. The striped trousers and cutaway, of course, were no part of West’s wardrobe that Julian had ever seen but that was how important businessmen in the silent movies were always dressed. In the film Julian was clutching the diagram of his invention and he now filled the bus window with the first speech title.

  “DAD, CAN I SPEAK TO YOU?”

  Even at his desk his father loomed large and menacingly over him. To children all grown-ups must be either friendly giants or ogres. Mr. West hung up the two receivers and glared at him. “WELL, WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

  Julian held out his diagram, “LOOK, DAD, I HAVE INVENTED A BUBBLE GUN.”

  Julian’s movie was going well and he showed some technical knowledge for he now saw a close-up of his father’s face looking down angrily and laughing sarcastically. “HA-HA. WHAT GOOD IS THAT?”

  Julian cut in his own face in close-up too. “I WILL MAKE A LOT OF MONEY WITH IT.”

  In the silence everyone seemed to move rather jerkily and there was no mistaking the emotions of a character, so Julian’s father first clapped a hand to his brow and then tore his hair, “OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE, CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY?”

  In Julian’s mind the piano and drum hotted up here, “BUT LOOK, DAD, I’M GOING TO MAKE A MILLION DOLLARS.”

  To a crashing of chords and a long drum roll Mr. West arose and pointed dramatically to the door, “WELL THEN, COME BACK WHEN YOU’VE GOT THE MILLION DOLLARS AND STOP BOTHERING ME NOW.”

  Crestfallen, Julian watched himself creep from the room. He also knew how and when to use a dissolve. He dissolved now to a title reading, “JULIAN’S BEDROOM—MORNING”.

  He listened with satisfaction to the excitement music (deedle deedle dum, deedle deedle dum, deedle, deedle, deedle, deedle, deedle deedle dum) as his mother entered in her dressing-gown and then as she saw the bed unslept in and the note pinned to the pillow, registered anguish, fright and despair. Julian was not quite certain how to get the latter across in addition to her waving her arms about and so he used a title, “SCREAM!”

  As his pyjamaed father rushed into the bedroom and his mother pointed to the note on the pillow, Julian reproduced it as best he could remember.

  ‘Dear Mom, don’t worry about me. I’ve gone to sell me Bubble Gun invention. I will make a lot of money. Dad only laughed at me about it. I’ve taken the money Grandma gave me for my birthday and some underwear. Love, Julian. P.S. Don’t worry, I took some stuff for sandwiches.”

  His mother now pointed an accusing finger at his father, “YOU’VE DRIVEN OUR CHILD FROM HIS HOME.”

  “OH, NO I DIDN’T.”

  “OH, YES YOU DID.”

  “OH, NO I DIDN’T.”

  “OH, YES YOU DID.”

  His mother wrung her hands. Julian wasn’t quite certain what that meant so he had her shake them as she moaned, “WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO HIM? HE WILL STARVE.”

  His father pointed at the note, “HE SAID HE TOOK SOME STUFF FOR SANDWICHES.”

  His mother flung herself upon the pillow, “JULIAN, JULIAN. OH MY GOD, HE’S JUST A BABY.”

  At this juncture Julian took some liberties with his estimate of his father’s character and had him go soft. He went to his wife to comfort her. “NO, NO, MOTHER, DON’T WORRY, HE IS A BRAVE BOY. HE WILL BE ALL RIGHT. HOW I HAVE MISJUDGED HIM!”

  Julian closed off this scene nicely as his father and mother fell sobbing into one another’s arms and he used another dissolve to: “THE PATENT OFFICE, WASHINGTON”.

  He was standing there with several important-looking men clad, of course, in morning coats except that they also wore top hats. One of them unrolled a large scroll decorated with seals and ribbons reading, “PATENT FOR BUBBLE GUN AWARDED TO JULIAN WEST”, and with an inner thrill, he read his final title, “THERE YOU ARE, MY BOY. THIS WILL MAKE YOU A FORTUNE!”

  Julian’s technique told him that here was the moment for “THE END” and to fade out.

  Indeed they had left the environs of San Diego, which remained only as a glow behind them, and were pushing into the desert country where not a single light was to be seen. The screen of Julian’s window had gone completely dark and the bus driver had switched off the main illumination of the vehicle with only one or two overhead reading lights still in operation. The entertainment with which he had provided himself was over. Julian grew sleepy and with a contented smile on his face in recollection of the final scene he leaned back and went to sleep.

  They were driving dead east and the blinding yellow rays of the morning sun slashing over the horizon caused the bus driver to pull down the movable shade to protect his eyes but, mounting, the sun smote through the centre of the bus and began to wake the passengers who stared and lifted their heads groggily through the stuffy atmosphere not yet cleared of the miasma from people who had been sleeping in their clothes.

  The bus was making time on a straight, uncluttered road and was swaying slightly and Julian awoke to a moment of sheer terror of the unknown. Why wasn’t he in his bed in his room in his home with his ancient teddy bear, from which most of the stuffing had departed, within reach, and all the familiar things in sight of eyes opened in the presence of another morning? He experienced a moment of overwhelming panic and loneliness as though a giant hand had plucked him from his home surroundings and flung him into some new and fearful dream.

  Then he remembered and a little of his fright drained away from him. He was on his way to Washington to patent and market his invention, and show his father. To verify this he did not trouble to take in his surroundings but slapped the pocket of his jacket, which returned a comforting crackle, and then he put his hand inside and withdrew the paper, which he unfolded and studied lovingly for its verification of who he was and where he was and what he was doing.

&nbs
p; There were two drawings. One of the exterior showing what looked like a compact, blunt-nosed, black metal automatic pistol. Indeed it was a replica of one sold in the toy shops and had originally squirted a stream of water when the trigger was pulled. The other drawing was of the internal mechanism, Julian’s adaptation and invention, a gun that when the trigger was activated actually shot forth soap bubbles. Every one of the eight parts had been accurately numbered and labelled.

  THE BUBBLE GUN

  1. Soapy solution compartment.

  2. Trigger-actuated soapy solution pump.

  3. Soapy solution hose.

  4. Bubble-making ring.

  5. Soapy solution fill-up plug.

  6. Air rubber bag.

  7. Trigger-actuated air bag compressor.

  8. Air nozzle.

  OPERATION

  Compressing the trigger the soapy solution will be drawn to the bubble ring. The air bag will be compressed releasing the air through the nozzle and this air will produce a bubble when going through the perforated bubble-making ring.

  In the lower right-hand corner was printed, “BUBBLE GUN, INVENTED BY JULIAN WEST, 137 EAST VIEW TERRACE, FLORAL HEIGHTS, SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA, APRIL 25, 1973.”

  He regarded it lovingly, remembering just how he had done it, this combining of a water pistol and his soap bubble game. The rubber bulb of the air bag he had got out of the medicine chest at home, a game provided the ring that formed the soap bubbles at the muzzle, the tubing, too, had come from the medicine chest, but the spring, the compressors and the plungers he had designed and manufactured in his school shop.

  He was still niggled by and slightly worried over its occasional crankiness in operation when it would not function entirely correctly at odd moments and he wondered again where he might have made a mistake, or which part was responsible for the aberration. But, in point of fact, it even had its attraction when instead of the large bubble, a stream of smaller ones emerged for then you could go “Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah,” and give a machine-gun or wholly automatic effect.

  And with a little thrill of remembered delight he thought back to the day when he had first shown it to the other boys in his class and he heard again their impatient clamour.

  “Hey, Julian, lemme shoot it.”

  “No, no, it’s my turn.”

  “Aw, Julian, let me.”

  “He said I could next.”

  “Can you make me one, Julian?”

  They had all wanted one. When he had got it patented every kid would want one and there were millions and millions. Then his father wouldn’t laugh any more.

  Now a voice said, “What have you got there, sonny?” And the effect was most astonishing. It was as though Julian had been living under some kind of a glass dome or that his ears had been plugged up and his eyes unseeing and now with this voice his ears were unplugged and his vision quite clear. He saw and heard everything, the arid landscape whizzing by, the whine and rumble and roar of the bus and all the passengers within, those he recognized as having seen before and those he did not, waking up, yawning, stretching, adjusting their clothing and chattering. He looked about and saw the grubby ten-gallon hat of the baddie where he sat up front and the short-cropped grey hair of the man who had forgotten his briefcase, the honeymoon couple not yet awake, their hands clasped and her head on his shoulder, the man with the strange instrument and all of the rest of the passengers, black and white. Across the aisle the young man, the goodie who had taken his part over the intrusion of the baddie, still had his head thrown back in the sleeping position, but his eyes were open.

  And the question, of course, had come from the man sitting next to him and, in the stuffy morning air of the bus, Julian was aware that this man exuded some pleasant kind of fragrance as though he used scented soap or some flowery toilet water.

  Instinctively Julian’s hand dropped over his diagram. He knew very well why the first thing he had to do was patent his invention. If you didn’t patent it, someone could steal it. But he looked up at the man beside him and saw only the round, dimpled face and a pleasant smile which boded no evil intentions. He then replied, “My B-B-Bubble Gun,” but he did not remove his hand.

  Gresham said, “A Bubble Gun, eh? Well, well. What does it do?”

  Julian replied, “It shoots bubbles.”

  Gresham’s smile grew even sweeter and he leaned closer. “You don’t say. Did you draw that?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What a clever little boy you must be.”

  Julian studied the man again and saw no further cause to distrust him. Besides which the praise had pleased him. He said, “I’m g-g-going to Washington to p-p-patent it.”

  Across the aisle this extraordinary statement from a small, stammering boy caused Frank Marshall to turn his head slightly to look and take in Julian and his scented companion, for his fragrance reached to Marshall and suddenly caused all his hackles to rise. He recognized the boy as the one who had been crowded out of line by that bum, but had thought at the time that he must surely be travelling with someone. Other fragments that had filtered through to his only half-attentive ears returned to his memory. What kind of a crazy deal was this, a kid going to Washington to patent a gun that shot bubbles? And where did this fat fag fit into all of this? It wasn’t any of his business. Nevertheless he sat up and couldn’t help sharpening his listening faculties.

  Julian quietly folded up his diagram and returned it to his left-hand jacket pocket and then automatically patted the bulge of his right pocket.

  Gresham asked, “What’s your name, sonny?”

  “Julian.”

  “Julian what?”

  “Julian.”

  Gresham smiled indulgently. “I mean, what’s your last name?”

  Julian did not reply and simply remained silent obeying the first pricking of the subconscious reflex of self-preservation. When his parents discovered he was gone they would undoubtedly call the police and if he, Julian, went around telling everybody his name they’d be able to find him.

  His companion broke the silence by saying, “My name is Gresham; Clyde Gresham, but you can call me Clyde, eh, Julian?”

  Julian remained silent but across the aisle Marshall shifted uneasily in response to the deep-seated instinct of an animal alerting to something repulsive in another.

  Gresham asked, “Where’s your mommy?”

  “Home.”

  “And your daddy?”

  “Home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  Julian nodded with his head in the direction from which they had come and said, “Back there,” and then added, “San Diego,” though he thought the man ought to have known since they had both got on the bus there.

  “I see. Isn’t anybody with you?”

  Marshall could not resist looking across in time to see Julian simply shake his head in negation while Gresham asked, “You mean you’re going all the way to Washington by yourself?”

  Marshall watched Julian again nod his head in assent. Gresham was bent towards Julian and had his back half turned so that he was unaware of the light of mounting anger in Marshall’s eyes.

  “My, you’re quite a little man, aren’t you? I must say!”

  Gresham’s voice was so full of admiration that Julian looked up at him again and into the dimpled face with its smooth skin and warm, friendly eyes. Praise and understanding from a grown-up was a rare thing.

  Gresham succeeded in keeping the tremor of excitement out of his voice. “Well, now, it just happens I’m going a good part of the way. Would you like me to look after you?”

  Julian was enveloped by the bland smile and saw nothing to intimidate him. He was bright enough to realize that all that lay ahead of him was unfamiliar and that being “looked after” might have its uses, particularly since there could be no question of this stranger having any authority over him and so he replied briefly, “Okay.”

  “Splendid,” said Gresham, “Then we’re friends. You see, I have no little boy of
my own,” and he slid an arm about Julian’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  Julian reacted to this as he did to all adults not of his immediate family who seemed unable to be in contact with children without wanting to touch them, pat them on the head or take them on to their laps. He didn’t like it but then this was a part of the child’s world, that when they did it he kept quiet and suffered it while making plans to get away as quickly as possible. These thoughts led to an unconscious wriggle and Gresham removed his arm.

  The hard knot of anger forming inside Frank Marshall had its physical reflection in the balling of his two hands into hard, tight fists.

  Looking out of the window Julian saw that the dun-coloured lonely country had given way to a few green fields, some outlying barns, a railroad siding and then clapboard houses and adobe dwellings indicating the outskirts of a town.

  The driver’s voice came over the interior communication loudspeaker, “Folks, we’re coming into Yuma, Arizona. Thirty minutes stop. Anybody wants can get some breakfast here.”

  The houses increased in numbers and soon the highway became the main street.

  Gresham slid his arm about Julian’s shoulder again and said, “You come along with me and we’ll have a wash and some nice breakfast together.”

  Frank Marshall said a word between his teeth that made his neighbour look at him startled and wondering what had put the young man into such a fury.

  Although he knew it was none of his business the intensity of the anger gathering within Marshall made him stir and struggle in his seat stiffening the muscles of his shoulders and arms. So violent were his feelings that he was not able to remain there any longer. He got up and walked to the front of the bus and down the three steps to the driver’s well where he stood close to the door as the bus drew up and came to a halt at the station.