by Ben Sherwood
“This is all kind of crazy,” she said at last. “I mean, we barely know each other.”
“That’s the whole point. It is crazy. Makes no sense at all.”
“Then how can you be sure what you’re feeling? How do you know?”
“I just do,” he said. “I’ve got all the facts and formulas, but in the end, it’s just a feeling—”
She listened to his voice, and she felt herself beginning to believe again.
One magic moment and my heart seemed to know
That love said “hello,” though not a word was spoken.
“I need to know what happened to you that morning in the Spartanette,” she said. “Why you pulled away—”
“I was afraid.”
“I scared you off?”
“No. I scared myself off.”
He looked down at his blurry reflection in the water. “I’m just another John Smith from Ohio. How could I ever be worthy of you?”
She reached out and touched his rumpled shirt, tousled his messy hair. “I like you, John Smith from Ohio.”
“I like you, Willa Wyatt from Nebraska.”
It was a good place to begin. They had thrown eggs and chased lightning. Maybe it was time to open up for more. The night was still, except for a bullfrog honking on the banks. She threw her head back and looked up at the sky.
One look and I forgot the gloom of the past;
One look and I had found my future at last.
“Will you ever let me back in?” J.J. said into the silence.
Willa was lost in memories. A salesman with his leather-bound books. A banker’s son with all the money in the world. A guy with a gilded crest on his blue blazer.
“I’m afraid, too,” she said.
“Give me another shot. Where would you be if your mom hadn’t given your dad a second chance?”
He slipped off the tree trunk into shallow water and turned to face her. His eyes were so blue, and even his nose seemed its fine former self. Her knees touched his waist. She saw how much he wanted her. His arms were open and waiting. She let herself go into his warmth.
“Let’s make one perfect day,” J.J. said. “And if it feels right, let’s make another one tomorrow.”
All her brain chemicals were firing now, and deep inside, she knew it was there, that special feeling. The music came to her again.
One look and I had found a world completely new …
He leaned into her. Their lips touched. A soft, soothing kiss that caught fire. He moved his mouth over her face and neck, then plunged into her hair, and whispered words that dissolved her last resistance.
“Love walked in with you,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Love walked in with you.”
AFTERWORD
It’s late. The sun is setting over the fields. At any moment, Willa will return from her newspaper run. I’ll hear the Ford coming up the lane, rattling the way old junks around here do.
I live in the middle of nowhere now, or the middle of everywhere. All depends on how you look at the map. This is where I belong, and I count my blessings that after wandering the world, I finally found my place.
As I write, I sit in a little wood workshed, just a few yards from an old aluminum Spartanette. The fading light touches the photographs on my wall. I prize three pictures above all the rest.
The first is of my friend Mitros Papadapolous. He actually stood still for almost two days without realizing I had left the island of Folegandros. He shattered the world record, earned his place in history, and was kind enough to send me a fine bottle of ouzo when he heard my news.
That leads me to the second photo on my wall. It was taken in front of the Taj Mahal the day I asked Willa to be my wife. Look closely in the background, and you’ll see some old friends. One balances on a single leg while the other waves the world’s longest fingernails.
The third photograph is from a farmer’s field. It shows 1,104 people standing next to a red barn and a great gash in the ground, measuring 231 feet 10 inches, the exact length of a 747. These people—friends and neighbors—finished the work of one good man who set out to eat a jumbo jet. It took them 8 hours and 41 minutes, every second televised to a global audience of more than one billion people. And I can say with absolute authority that no official world records were broken.
No official world records were broken….
Of course, the truth is different. You see, so many records were broken that summer in Superior, the kind that really count, the kind that never end up in books, newspapers, or on television. A man helped his best buddy build a magic contraption so he could eat an airplane. A woman never left the bedside of a friend in a coma. A boy wanted his sister to find happiness, so he brought the world to her door.
At first, I didn’t recognize the majesty in these moments, but then in this age where bigger is always better, people rarely do. That, I think, is the challenge. To know true greatness when we see it. To appreciate it when we have it. To embrace it while it lasts.
And that’s exactly what Wally and Rose have done since that day in the hospital when he awoke from his slumber. The two have barely let go of each other and live in rich contentment on the farm. Wally is working hard on a new idea—bovine Jacuzzis. Mellow, happy cows, he insists, make healthier cows. So he and Nate Schoof are busy building a prototype in the barn.
Now to the outrageous proposition that began this book: This is the story of the greatest love, ever. You may counter with Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, or perhaps even your own personal story. And that is precisely my point. Each one of us—even mere mortals named John Smith—can claim the record for the greatest love, ever, if we can only cast off our ambivalence and recognize it when we find it, pure and true.
I keep a scrap of paper pinned to my bulletin board, even though I’ve long since memorized the words from the Japanese poem:
I have always known
That at last I would
Take this road, but yesterday
I did not know that it would be today.
My old road ended here in Superior, and I have ventured forth on a new path. I’ve begun compiling a brand-new book of records. It’s not what you’d expect—God knows I’ll never beat Peasley at his game—but I don’t care.
I’m calling it The Book of Wonders, a chronicle of all the amazing feats that go unnoticed in this world, the achievements with no entries in big books, no live shots on television, no roadside attractions. I know an old woman in New York who belongs in this book—she waters plastic sunflowers every day. It may seem crazy to some, but I know the truth. She cares.
I’m looking for real stories about everyday wonders, authentic moments of greatness and splendor around the world, and I welcome your submissions. I’ve set up a Review Committee—you know what I mean—and I pledge to answer courteously and promptly.1
Perhaps someone has built the Taj Mahal for you, or even eaten an airplane. Or maybe it’s something smaller but just as exalted. Maybe every night, driving up the lane, a special person honks the horn for you. It doesn’t sound like much, but listen closely….
The front door opens and you can hear the hurried footsteps.
1 Kindly send your submissions to The Book of Wonders, P.O. Box 51, Superior, Nebraska 68978–0051. Or e-mail your entries to [email protected].
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am indebted to Mark Young, former CEO and publisher of Guinness Media Inc., and his staff in Stamford, Connecticut, for their guidance, information, and encouragement. My great gratitude also goes to Guinness World Records Ltd. in London. The records and many of the descriptions in this story are derived from their extraordinary books and database. The kids’ letters in Chapter 2 were inspired by actual children’s submissions to the record keepers. Any factual inaccuracies, of course, are my own.
I am also grateful to the various world record holders who shared their experiences, especially Michel Lotito of France, the world’s greatest omniv
ore (nearly 9 tons of metal since 1966) and Ashrita Furman of New York, the record holder for breaking the most world records (60 and going strong). I will always treasure the image of indomitable Ashrita one October weekend. Clutching a 10-pound brick for 30 hours 52 minutes in an un-cradled downward pincers grip, he shattered the world brick-carrying record by walking 85.05 miles on a decrepit high school track in Jamaica, Queens.
To the people of Superior, Nebraska, I offer special appreciation. I am proud to be an honorary citizen. For their wisdom, friendship, and farmhand training, I am particularly grateful to Sandy and Lefty Bothwell and Beth and Chuck Fowler. Joyce, Sam, and Scott Baird generously opened their doors and many others in Superior. Marjorie Smith blessed the story with her centenarian view and sparkling editorial eye. I was always made right at home by the morning crew at the Gas ’N Shop, the lunch crowd at the Hereford Inn, and the irrepressible Russell Thomas and his gang at the grain elevator in Webber, Kansas. For local lore and answers at all hours, I am beholden to Bill Blauvelt, editor and publisher of The Superior Express, and his wife, Rita. For a “riter’s” education and much fun, I salute Lew and Pamela Hunter.
For technical information on the jumbo jet, I consulted Guy Norris and Mark Wagner’s Boeing 747: Design and Development Since 1969. I also conferred with Glenn Farley, aviation specialist with KING-TV in Seattle, and Dan Gellert, former 747 pilot.
For the chemistry of attraction, I used many sources, including Simon Levay’s The Sexual Brain, Deborah Blum’s Sex on the Brain, Anthony Walsh’s The Science of Love: Understanding Love and Its Effects on Mind and Body, and Claudia Glenn Dowling’s “The Science of Love,” in Life magazine. For additional material on Michel Lotito, Monsieur Mangetout, I relied on Robert Chalmer’s article “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” in The (London) Observer. And for background on stone and iron eaters through the ages, Ricky Jay’s Learned Pigs & Fireproof Women is the classic work.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe much to many for giving flight to 747. The record holders in my book include …
Chrissy Colvin for inspiration from the very start, and Norman and Priscilla Colvin. Debra Goldberg for pointing the way to Superior. Robin Jonas for 65 and countless wonders, and Virginia Jonas. Kristin Mannion and H.P. Goldfield for sharing their Whimsea. Friends and readers: Julie Bergman, Barry Edelstein, Tiffany Ericksen, Arthur Drooker, Richard Haass, Alan Levy, Susan Mercandetti, Jeffrey Rosen, Gary Ross, Dov Seidman, Dylan Sellers, Stuart Sender, Allison Thomas, and Elizabeth Guber Stephen.
Tom Brokaw, David Doss, and my colleagues at NBC News for indulging my fixation on crop rotation in the midst of war and impeachment. Gwyn Lurie for a big lift at an early stage and the folks at Bel-Air and Junction Entertainment. Maxine Paetro for exalted insights and encouragement along the way. Harriet Braiker for reflections on the heart. Phyllis Levy for the wisdom of a true romantic. Michael Gendler and his team for ferocious advocacy. All-knowing Irwyn Applebaum and unstoppable Beth de Guzman for spirited publishing and editing. Jennifer Sherwood, all-star, for great cheer and care. Joni Evans, incomparable agent and friend, who laughed, then took the leap, and touched every page, and who makes dreams come true.
And finally, my family, Elizabeth, Jeffrey, Richard, and William Randall for what matters most, and Dorothy Sherwood for her relentless pencil and love of words.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BEN SHERWOOD is senior broadcast producer of the NBC Nightly News. His nonfiction writing has appeared in many places, including The New York Times, The Washington Post, and the Los Angeles Times. Educated at Harvard and Oxford, he lives in New York, where he is at work on his next novel.
THE MAN WHO ATE THE 747 is being published in fifteen countries, including Britain, France, Germany, Italy, and Japan. The novel is also being adapted as a major motion picture from Bel Air Entertainment and Warner Brothers.
Visit the author’s website at
www.bensherwood.com.
Watch for Ben Sherwood’s
remarkable new novel…
“I’ll never leave you.”
After returning from the brink of death following a horrible car accident, that’s what Charlie St. Cloud had promised his younger brother.
He kept that promise all his life.
And then, much to his surprise, Charlie St. Cloud fell in love.
THE
DEATH
AND
LIFE
OF
CHARLIE
ST. CLOUD
A novel by
BEN SHERWOOD
To be published as a Bantam hardcover in 2003
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint:
Guinness World Records Ltd. for use of actual records from their various publications; lyrics from the song “The Nearness of You” by Ned Washington and Hoagy Carmichael, copyright © 1937, 1940 by Famous Music Corporation, copyright renewed 1964, 1967 by Famous Music Corporation; “LVI by Narihira” by Kenneth Rexroth, from ONE HUNDRED POEMS FROM THE JAPANESE, copyright © All Rights Reserved by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation; “Love Walked In” by George Gershwin and Ira Gershwin, copyright ©1937, 1938 (renewed 1964, 1965) George Gershwin Music and Ira Gershwin Music. All Rights Administered by WB Music Corp. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission. WARNER BROTHERS PUBLICATIONS U.S. INC., Miami, FL 33014.
This edition contains the complete text of the original trade paperback edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
THE MAN WHO ATE THE 747
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published September 2000
Bantam mass market edition / February 2002
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2000 by Ben Sherwood
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-023713
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-42856-1
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
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