The Man Who Ate the 747

by Ben Sherwood

  “Where were we?” Righty said.

  J.J. had absolutely no idea. He fumbled with his notes. “Let’s see. ‘Wally’s eating the airplane for the love of a woman.’ ” He took a sip of iced tea. “Must be quite a woman. Where do I find her?”

  “Friend,” Righty said with a grin, looking over at Willa, “you just did.”

  FIVE

  It was supposed to be easy in a place like this—sticking to the straight and narrow. Two lanes in every direction. One coming, one going. No real choices. And yet J.J. had no idea what to do next.

  He tried to focus on the 747, but Willa flashed in his mind. He knew the very thought of her would end up bringing him a world of hurt. He was there to verify the record, not to veer into Wally’s lane. But he could feel the pull, the chemicals firing, the sensation in his chest.

  He wanted to know her. He wanted the world record. But he wasn’t sure if he could have both.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the boy on the bike. The kid had tailed him all through town, first to the mayor’s office, then the bank, then the shopping district on Central. He kept a smart distance, 50 feet or so, falling back when J.J. wandered into a store, then pedaling fast to keep up when he drove to his next stop. The boy cut through alleyways and shot across green lawns to stay close.

  He first noticed the kid in front of the Git-A-Bite. He was accustomed to youngsters tagging along when he visited little towns. They just wanted to kill the boredom, follow the stranger, and maybe even snag a free T-shirt or pin.

  This kid, though, wasn’t like the others. He just watched. When J.J. went into the drugstore, the boy stayed outside, peering through the window. He wasn’t hiding; it wasn’t a secret; he just didn’t seem to want to interfere or to get too close.

  J.J. drove along Central, checked his mirror and saw the boy cycling hard on the sidewalk. He slowed down at the stop sign, waited for the boy to catch up, then signaled a right turn. He passed the Crest movie theater and the public library, crossed Bloom Street, and pulled into the Dairy Queen. He parked in the lot, without looking back, and walked inside.

  He ordered two large shakes from a pimply teenager at the cash register, then sat down at a Formica table. Through the window, he could see the boy, perched on his bike, waiting.

  “Miss,” he said to the clerk. “Would you mind taking one of those shakes out to the boy on the bike?”

  “No problem.” She looked out the window.

  “You know his name?” J.J. asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “That’s Blake. What a loser.”

  Another girl behind the counter added: “Teacher’s pet.”

  “You the guy from The Book of Records?” the first girl asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “What’s the biggest shake ever?”

  “Easy,” he said. “England, a few years ago. A 4,333-gallon strawberry shake.”

  The girls giggled.

  “Believe me,” he said, “it wasn’t nearly as good as this.” He slurped.

  Then one of the girls took the shake, walked out into the parking lot, and handed it to the boy on the bike.

  “Thanks, mister,” Blake said with a gappy grin. He leaned against the white-washed wall and sucked on the straw. His hair was all floppy and blond, and he wore a bright red Huskers T-shirt that reached his knees.

  “Let me guess,” J.J. said. “You’re ‘The Guy Who Knows.’”

  “Yeah.” Blake nodded. “Knew you’d come when you got my letter.”

  “Hard to resist,” he said. “So how’s your kite coming along?”

  “Still building it.”

  “Biggest one ever was 5,952 square feet,” J.J. said.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m not going for that one.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s your record going to be?”

  “You’ll see,” Blake said.

  “Sure you don’t want to tell me?”

  “Nah. Not ready yet.”

  An old tractor puttered down the street. The farmer at the wheel tipped his cap.

  “So,” J.J. said, “what’s it take around here to get some information about Wally Chubb?”

  “My science teacher is his best friend,” Blake said. “Mr. Schoof helped build the magic machine in the barn.”

  “What magic machine?”

  “The grinding machine. It’s how he eats the plane. He grinds it into powder and puts it on his food.”

  “So you know Wally?”

  “Yeah, I help him bring in the crops. He pays pretty good. None of the other kids will work on his crew. They think he’s weird, but I like him.”

  “He wasn’t very friendly when I went out to see him,” J.J. said. “You think you could help me get to know him?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll help you if you help me.” Blake slurped on the straw, finishing the shake. “You know, I wrote you for a reason.”

  “The kite?” J.J. asked.

  “Like I said, you’ll see.”

  The TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED sign was

  there for a reason. Wally didn’t like people coming on his land. He didn’t like distractions. He had acres to plant, the wind was blowing hard from the east and that meant rain was coming. There wasn’t much time to get the seed in the ground. And now the guy from the record book was back. Why didn’t he take no for an answer?

  “I told you once, I’ll tell you again, I’m not interested,” Wally said, sitting atop his green tractor, like a toy under his huge frame. He wore Key overalls and a Pioneer baseball cap.

  The record guy and young Blake stood side by side staring up at him like they’d never seen a farmer on a two-banger before. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead, then he climbed out of the seat and jumped to the ground. He stood just a few feet from J.J. and stared down into his eyes.

  “Listen to me. I don’t want your record.”

  “Come on,” Blake said. “It would be so cool.”

  “Cool? You know I don’t care about that, and neither should you.”

  “Look,” J.J. said, “all I’m asking is that you let me verify what you’re doing so it can go into The Book. I need to see how you eat the plane. I need to photograph the process. I need to be here when you finish the last bite so it can be official.”

  “You need a hearing aid,” Wally said. “I’m really not interested.” He glowered at Blake. “I don’t know why you brought him back here! You’re smarter than that.”

  “Come on, Wally,” Blake said. “If you get the record, you’ll be famous!”

  Wally climbed back up onto the tractor. “Both of you! Get off my land.”

  “Okay,” J.J. said, “I’m leaving.” He paused. “One last thought. A world record sure would impress Willa.”

  “Yeah,” Blake said. “All the girls would be impressed!”

  Wally scrunched his massive forehead. “Who said anything about Willa? Don’t bring her into this.”

  “If you want her attention, break a world record,” J.J. said.

  “I don’t want a world record.”

  “But you’ll be a hero,” J.J. said. “You’ll put Superior on the map. People will come from around the world. You’ll be on television. In magazines.”

  “You got the wrong guy. I’ve got everything I need right here.” He put one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the throttle. “Go watch Blake fly his kite. I’ve got seed to drop—”

  “Wait,” J.J. said. “Have you ever heard of Michel Lotito?”

  “Who?”

  “Michel Lotito. A friend of mine. The world’s greatest omnivore.”

  “What’s that?” Blake said.

  “We call him Monsieur Mangetout. Means Mr. Eat Everything in French. He’s from a village near Grenoble and he’s swallowed metal and glass for 35 years. Eats a few pounds every day. I’ve watched him munch 18 bikes, 15 grocery carts, 7 TV sets, 6 chandeliers, 2 beds, a pair of skis, a bronze coffin, a computer—”

  “Cool,” said Blake.

  “A
in’t got nothing to do with me,” Wally said.

  “Actually, it does,” J.J. said. “I verified Michel’s greatest accomplishment. In Caracas, I saw him eat a Cessna 150. That’s a two-seat private plane.”

  “So what?” Wally shrugged. A Cessna hardly compared to a 747.

  J.J. continued. “Michel has gotten all sorts of female attention because of his world record. Believe me, it’s amazing how many women adore him. In fact, he met his wife, Marcelle, by eating all that metal. If you let me put you in The Book, trust me, you’ll get everything you ever wanted.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Wally said. He wondered what would Willa say. He had never even spoken with her about the 747. Whenever they met in town, she avoided the subject. She had never written a single word about the plane. A world record and all the attention might make her madder than hops, and that was the last thing he could afford to do.

  Still, maybe this Eats Everything guy had the right idea. Maybe it was worth the gamble. He leaned over the steering wheel and said, “Listen, the only opinion that counts is Willa’s. If she says no, forget about it. If she says okay, then I’ll go for the record.”

  SIX

  The lights on the softball field glowed yellow in the early-evening haze. Boys and girls in uniforms ran to their positions for the last inning of the championship game. The score was tied, but the crowded bleachers buzzed mostly with talk about the man from The Book of Records.

  Willa sat in the stands, listening to the hubbub. Mrs. Orville Clappenfoos, secretary of the Nuckolls County Historical Society, was absolutely sure this would be the first world record, ever, for a Superior citizen. Donald Quoogie, the State Farm agent in town, worried that Wally was definitely violating some Food and Drug Administration regulation and would end up in jail.

  Making notes on her box score, Willa tried to follow the softball game. She didn’t want to get swept up in the 747 hoopla. A world-record attempt would end badly for the town. She knew it on pure instinct. The guy from The Book of Records probably wasn’t all bad, deep down. In fact, he seemed sweet and smart. But if the world came to town, and expectations were raised, what would happen if the dream went bust? If it glimpsed a bit of hope, how would Superior ever go back to wasting away?

  A ball sailed into the gap in the outfield for an extra base hit. The crowd cheered. As a girl, Willa played shortstop on this very diamond. With her good strong arm, she threw out plenty of boys, and loved it when her father recorded her triumphs in the paper. She competed in every sport, even flag football, and it showed in her writing. She knew the inside moves and readers loved it.

  She checked her watch. Not much time to get across town for the last story of the day. The auction would begin at six. She motioned to one of the team managers, a skinny teenager with an earring and buzz cut.

  “Virgil,” she said, “do me a favor. Give me a holler later with the box score from the last inning.”

  “You bet.”

  “And one more thing. Tell Missy to follow through with her fast pitch. She’s pulling up too soon.”

  “Will do,” Virgil said.

  She took off for her truck and drove as fast as she could through town. The sun was still lancing rays across the land when she pulled up to the Stack homestead.

  Two hundred farmers had come to bid. They moved around silently, inspecting the farm implements arranged methodically in the yard. The Stack family had farmed this patch of land on the Republican River for 100 years, but now crop prices had collapsed, and the bank had no choice but to sell it all.

  Willa had covered too many of these foreclosures in the last year, farmers saying good-bye to beloved tractors and combines, their precious acres sold off to conglomerates in Chicago and St. Louis. She had written too many words about her own friends and their families giving up after so much struggle. Week after week, her front page featured little else but the decline and fall of their way of life.

  She walked to a high spot under a maple tree and watched the auctioneer. He was a circuit rider, a traveling man who had made quite a living in Iowa, Kansas, and Nebraska. He was a quick talker who seemed to think that if he did the dirty work fast, it wouldn’t hurt as much. Not far from the auctioneer, Bud and Gena Stack watched quietly, their faces drawn.

  The bidding started with a hush. Bud averted his eyes as his cherished tractor was sold to a neighbor for five grand. Gena cried into her apron.

  Willa could see that as usual there weren’t many buyers, just a lot of lookers. It was strange how so many farmers came to watch. It was like the traffic jams on the interstate when a car went off the road. Folks wanted to see the wreckage. There but for the grace of God …

  Willa was taking notes when Tom Fritts approached in a white Stetson, matching starched shirt, and boots from the hide of some uncertain but exotic creature. The town banker, he was the richest man in the county, the one who foreclosed on the Stacks. He was an old friend of her father’s. They’d both gone to school with Bud.

  “How you doing?” he said to Willa, tipping his hat.

  “Better than you are, I’m sure.”

  “You know I hate this.”

  “How many more you expecting in the next few months?”

  “You asking me for an article? Or you just asking?”

  She closed her notepad and put her pen in her pocket.

  “Four more this month,” he said. “Lord knows I tried to help. But it’s no use.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “You see that fellow from New York?” he asked. “The man from The Book of Records?”

  “What’s that got to do with—”

  “We spoke today about Wally and his plane. Tell you the truth, he makes good sense.”

  “You didn’t fall for that, Tom? That man’s a hustler. You can see it—”

  “Think about it for a second,” he interrupted. “We don’t have much here anymore. Cheese plant’s gone. Ideal Cement shut down. Every town has something special. Red Cloud’s got the Willa Cather Museum. Omaha has the largest ball of stamps. Minden has the Pioneer Village. Cawker City has the giant ball of twine. But we’ve got nothing.”

  “Not true,” she said. “We’ve got 125 years of—”

  “That’s all history. We need help now. We need a future. A world record would put us on the map. I’m not saying it would stop the foreclosures or lift grain prices. But—”

  “Can’t believe it,” Willa interrupted. “You bought it hook, line, and sinker.” That J.J. Smith was good, all right. He’d won over the most powerful man in town. With Tom Fritts on your side, you could do just about anything you wanted.

  “Think about your dad,” Tom said. “What would he say? When he bought the paper, Superior was growing. We had five railroads coming through town. We had two hotels and Main Street was hopping. The Express was thick as my thumb. But now look at it. You barely sell enough ads to fill your pages.”

  The auctioneer’s gavel hit the wood box. Bud Stack’s precious livestock, sold for a pittance.

  “Think about it,” Tom said as he walked away. “It would be good for all of us.”

  The night was perfect for the hunt. The air was warm and damp. Locusts whistled in the trees. The moon nudged through the clouds and cast soft light on Lovewell Lake.

  Armed and ready, Wally and Nate marched along the familiar trail winding through darkened woods.

  “Perfect night,” Nate said.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Wally said.

  He reached into the pack slung over one shoulder and rubbed his forefinger over the lid of the Hellmann’s mayonnaise jar. It was banged up pretty good, a bit rusty, but the holes on top still poked through. The old jar always came along. First, as boys, when the hunt was just a hobby. Then, as teens, when at a penny apiece, $7.50 an ounce, the catch paid for secret beer. And later, when it got serious and Nate started teaching science at school.

  Wally loved these nights by the lake. There was nothing so soothing, so relaxi
ng. But tonight his head felt heavy with indecision. What would he do about the world record? His phone must have rung 10 times that day. Folks calling to say he was going to save the town. That his parents would be proud.

  They stood in a clearing on the banks of the lake. The water lapped. Wally bent over, mopped his great forehead on his T-shirt, and checked his Timex.

  “I figure it’s 81 degrees,” Wally said.

  “How’s that?”

  “My new temperature equation,” Wally explained. “Count how many times a cricket chirps in 14 seconds and add 40.”

  “Last week you added 20.”

  “That was my old equation.”

  The two laughed.

  “You want to flash or catch?” Nate said.

  “Up to you.”

  “All right, you flash.” Nate handed over a juryrigged fishing pole with a battery strapped to the spinning reel and a tiny lightbulb wired to the tip. “It’s almost time. Any second now.”

  “I’m ready,” Wally said. Ready for what, really? Would he ever capture Willa’s heart? Or would he spend his life chasing her shadow?

  Then he saw the first flicker of a light in the darkness. Then another. Almost at once, the night air glittered with fireflies.

  “Show time,” Nate said.

  Wally waved the tricked up fishing rod in the darkness, pushed the little button on the battery pack to flash the bulb in quick bursts, a twinkling secret code. The strobing device mimicked the firefly mating ritual, males trying to impress females, a come-on in shimmering light.

  He hadn’t done very well in school—C+ in biology—but over the years he had learned his share about fireflies. They were beetles, really, their flicker an enzymatic reaction. Nate’s word for the fireflies’ glow was bioluminescence, a fancy way of saying the release of light from a living thing. And that was Willa for him—radiant, glowing mysteriously from deep inside. A poem about fireflies described it perfectly. Willa was “living light.” A beacon.

  “You just going to stand there?” Nate asked, sitting down in the grass. He unscrewed the Hellmann’s jar and emptied the net. “Only got 50 critters so far, and I need a few hundred for summer school tomorrow.”