Download - Document8
University of Northern Iowa
8Author(s): Scott SolomonSource: The North American Review, Vol. 291, No. 1 (Jan. - Feb., 2006), pp. 25-30Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25127515 .
Accessed: 18/06/2014 15:42
Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp
.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].
.
University of Northern Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The NorthAmerican Review.
http://www.jstor.org
This content downloaded from 195.34.79.176 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 15:42:17 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
N A R
i
?? "T~*\ veryone's a winner!"
I-H Repeated with relish, the words of the potbellied 1 J scoutmaster fell like inedible manna on the uniformed
sons and uniformly flanneled fathers filing into Adlai E.
Stevenson II Elementary School.
Mr. Gullett's catchphrase came with a catch. Chip Ironlord
had won Pack 618's annual Pinewood Derby against all comers
from the time he entered Cub Scouts at age six up through the
Tiger, Bobcat, Wolf, Bear, and Webelo ranks. He was a certain
victor, albeit in his final year of eligibility, after which his ten
year-old body would morph into a Boy Scout or some other
fauna.
Not that it mattered, but at the end of each year's race,
Professor Charles Ironlord bragged that Chip was a chip off the
ole block, having inherited his father's facility with chisel and
awl. Naturally, this innate ability superseded Charles's access to
facilities in the realm of mass, density, momentum, gravity,
graduate studentry, and other Dozier University tools that were
only theoretically applicable to the design and production of
the optimal Cub Scout pinecar. Funny, but even though each
year's miniature, unmanned entry in the gravity-propelled
Derby was supposed to be a new car carved from a new block
of wood, Chip's annual creation looked like a chip off the ole
block of the year before, right down to the black mustache
penciled on the mini-face inside the red helmet inside the black
Monte Carlo emblazoned with a red 13. Suppressing childish
underlying insignia and blue, Chip looked like a chip off the ole
block, too, right down to the black leather jacket to the black
sunglasses to the black, slicked-back hair to the sneer.
It had taken thought. It was thoughtful the way Charles
Ironlord had seen to the installation of two redundant comput erized cameras, one on each side of the Derby's two-lane finish
line, only one of which was programmed to flash at the first
sliver of a pinecar (even as its wide lens captured both contest
ants), thereby settling heated battles in lesser heats while
serving no purpose in Chip's. And it was thoughtful the way the
Dozier University Department of Physics had donated the 4
foot-high by 32-foot-long, downhill-sloping Pinewood Derby track five years earlier even as it maintained continuity with the
pre-Ironlord, track-in-exile past through the waxing and
polishing services of Tony Romero Sr., Tony Romero Jr., or
Tony Romero Jr.'s handpicked employees from Ten-Pin
Coliseum.
"Everyone's a winner!"
As 43-year-old Bobby Kirby entered the gymnasium with his
six-year-old son Davey, he did his best to play it cool. This was
his first Pinewood Derby since his last Pinewood Derby with
his father thirty-three years before.
"Step right up. Everyone's a winner!"
Bobby came to the Pinewood Derby late, because Dad hadn't
been around much until his late shift at the soy processing
plant shifted. Nonetheless, when the time came (when Bobby was nine), the Kirby contingent made up for lost time,
fashioning a hot, red rod that looked first-rate but ran dead
January-February 2006 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 25
This content downloaded from 195.34.79.176 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 15:42:17 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
N A R
last. When Bobby's one-way rant for failing to survive the first
round died down, Dad mentioned, just in passing, the car had
been of Bobby's design. Just before his second and final year of eligibility, Bobby saw
an old Mickey Rooney movie featuring roadsters on TV.
"You must be brave," said Dad.
"What makes you say that?" said
Bobby. "Because the roadster is what the lions
of Indy used to run. Hey, be careful with that saw."
"Aw," said Bobby. But he waited for Dad to reposition the front-loaded
block of wood in the vice, before cutting of the open rear cockpit could resume.
Everyone | except mothers, | daughters, and sisters ( cheered. 1
And he waited for Dad to give the signal with his soft voice, hazel eyes, flannel shirt, five o'clock shadow, salt-and-pepper top, and nicotine hands. "What made them lions?"
Dad stepped back from the vice and rubbed his shadow.
"Son, are you sure you want to know?"
Bobby resumed sawing. "Yup."
"Because a lot of them died in the hunt."
Bobby didn't flinch. Maybe it was because the news came in
the natural flow of sawing and carving and working with
shared hands. Maybe it was because someone knew, after this
final year of eligibility, the news about birds, bees, college, career, money, marriage, pregnancy, grandfatherhood, and
death wouldn't run as readily
on the same track.
"Don't worry," said Bobby as the sawdust flew. "Mine's make
believe."
Dad smiled. "Nice work if you can get it."
Painted glossy white with a lucky blue 7 on both body and
helmet, the roadster zipped through the first round, rarin' for more. Before more, however, a volunteer dropped 7. When the
roadster hit the floor, an axle cracked. The other father said
"I'm sorry" a million times as Dad said "Accidents happen" a
million times as the other father ferreted tape and Dad band
aged the axle as Bobby cried a million tears even though he
hated to cry especially in front of the other boys as the car kept on running and winning even with the tape until it reached the
semifinals and Bobby stopped crying because he was glad it lost
because it wasn't Dad and Bobby's car anymore.
"That's right. Everyone's a winner!"
Some three decades later, as he watched Davey work on an
original pinecar from the vantage of identical hazel eyes, soft
(though deeper) voice, and black (though dappled) hair, Bobby rubbed the five o'clock shadow on his supervisory chin.
Although Davey was too young to saw, he had done almost
everything else, including choosing the design (a futuristic
Formula One), reformulating the design via a liberal freehand
sketch on wood, sanding (both coarse and fine), uniting axle
and wheel (tiny nail through buttony disk through predrilled groove times four), spray-painting the chassis Day-Glo orange,
splash-dabbing the ornamental Lilliputian driver vomit-green,
hand-painting a port-wine 99?or was it a
667.?sideways on
the sides, planting a yellow Venus flytrap decal on the hood, and pinning a brown donkey decal upside down on the tail.
Like Dad, Bobby drilled a cavity, to be filled with added
weight, in the pinecar's bottom. Unlike Dad, who was versed in
molten ore, Bobby sheepishly handed over store-bought lead
pellets, which Davey embedded, puttied, sanded, and painted.
Chips off the ole block? Perhaps. But neither Bobby nor Davey had anything other than paint marking his hands.
"Everyone's a winner!"
Gullett the Scoutmaster, chomping on
complimentary Mr. Crispy chicken
through his snowy beard, lived for this
stuff. But before everyone could win,
everyone needed a car. Thanks to Santa
Gullett and Pack 618's annual Christmas party, every Scout
received a gift-wrapped box containing an ice-cream-sandwich
sized block of pine with loose nails and wheels and a stringy question attached: "We're gonna win this year, right, Dad?"
It was a question, aside from the inevitable loss to Charles and Chip in the faraway spring, begging for shades of gray. From October through March, the Dozier sky housed a low
ceiling of institutional gray scented with eau d'used washcloth.
Whether the cause was clamping atmospheric air or belching agro-industrial smoke, the effect of this gray was to flatten the
affect of many a Dozier citizen, particularly if that citizen was a
father entrusted with a pinecar. On the bright side, hibernal salves for the Dozier grays were
within arm's reach via eating, sleeping, and televisioning. For
the footloose, skidding forays through subfreezing tempera tures bereft of fluffy white precipitation in lieu of invisible
black ice could be undertaken to a tavern of choice in the name
of combating, while paradoxically exacerbating, seasonal affec
tive disorder.
On the other hand, for those who believed busy hands are
happy hands, there was always the hobby shop. Here, there, and everywhere, the neon beacons of slot, wing, train, and
Conestoga hobby shops stood as testament to a diversified
economy no longer dependent on soy smoke, cigarette smoke,
and ash. In fact, there were almost as many hobby shops as off
track betting and lottery outlets combined.
As Dozier's fathers and sons gawked at aisle upon aisle of
model automobiles and unrelated hobby shop merchandise, it was hard not to get ideas. Why not stage a Pinewood Tour de
France? Or a Pinewood Hot Air Balloon Rally? Or a Pinewood
Iditarod?
One idea was Spring. Some time after the ides of March, when all seemed lost, with fathers and sons frantically applying the finishing gouges to pinewood racecars, the flat fields of
Dozier thawed and clawed their way out of hibernation, filling the air with the warm fragrance of cow chips, rabbit pellets, possum poop, deer dross, bird droppings, and woolly
mammoth remains, overpowering the dank soy plant smoke with a blooming gaseous uprising that retracted the gray Dozier lid and let the sun shine in.
26 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW January-February 2006
This content downloaded from 195.34.79.176 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 15:42:17 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
SCOTT SOLOMON
"Do you think we'll get through?" asked Davey. The little scale from Mario's Super Warehouse Club knew
Davey's pinecar weighed 47/8 ounces, lead included. The little
scale from Mario's Super Warehouse Club knew it was impor tant to come as close to the legal limit of 5.00 ounces as possible
without going over. The little scale from Mario's Super Warehouse Club knew it was important for the sake of speed
and frazzled fathers everywhere. The little scale from Mario's
Super Warehouse Club knew everything. "Dad, we're on."
All Bobby could do was nod. A Boy Scout?it had to be a Boy Scout?was working at Tech, the long table serving as the
Pinewood Derby's official inspection station. The immacu
lately khakied Boy Scout was ostensibly on hand to set an
example. The four-eyed Boy Scout was indisputably on duty to
man a digital scale that read in decimals, unlike a certain cheap fractional model from a certain cheap warehouse club.
"4.81 ounces," said the trustworthy Boy Scout.
"Darn, we didn't make 5.00."
Davey's lower lip drooped, but only for a millisecond. At the
next Tech stop, a helpful Boy Scout managed to fit the Formula
One into the official 7-inch by 2 3/4-inch mini-shoebox. At the
third and last Tech obstacle, a loyal Boy Scout held the car aloft
in search of illegal bearings, bushings, springs, and fossil fuels
before kindly placing it in Quarantine. "Let's go look," said Davey.
"But not touch," said Bobby.
On the way to Quarantine, Bobby cast a backward glance at
The Pits. It was a short table?most of the sixty-four piney
candidates made it through Tech the first try?but not short on drama. On one side, Larry Pekin, the accountant, desper
ately scraped an overweight suv, his Bobcat alternately
pleading for haste and pining over falling flakes. On the other
side, Felix Allerton, the insurance agent, hammered an over
reaching Trans Am wheel span while his Webelo shouted, "You're wrecking my muscle car." And in a corner of The Pits,
Homer Sidney, Bobby's co-manager of liquid crystal debug
ging at Dozier Technology Park, riddled the rear of a
Munstermobile as his Wolf deadpanned, "You're driving without a license."
It could just as easily have been Bobby. Thanks to college
degrees made possible by their fathers' high school degrees and
hard work, Bobby, Larry, Felix, Homer, and the other fathers in
this elementary school gymnasium worked in an economy that
was, even beyond the booming hobby shop industry, far more
diverse than the soy plant and cigarette breaks that defined
their fathers' own. And yet, something was missing. In lieu of
squeezing oil out of soy, Dozier's latter-day fathers made and
took calls, sent and checked e-mail, and pushed and pulled paper, all in a day's work, all squeezing water coolers out of stone. For the fathers remodeling with their sons in The Pits, for the fathers who had already modeled and gotten over the
hump, the Pinewood Derby was one of the few ways left to
work with their hands while working things out.
"Look at that one," said Davey.
Quarantine was teeming with things: green logging truck,
purple polka-dotted cement mixer, brown imitation driftwood, black slab with mossy wooden headstone, blue tarmac with
yellow Lego tower, black-and-red Monte Carlo, orange-and
green Formula One, white branch clutched by equally whittled
bald eagle, hot dog with mustard, spotted banana, Beverly Hillbillies heap ...
"That's weird."
Bobby followed the angle of Davey's cocked, salt-free head.
At the farthest reach of Quarantine rested a block of wood
dressed only in standard-issue wheels and a black 8.
"Somebody must have been pretty lazy, huh?" said Davey. As his son rubbed the fuzz on his cheek, Bobby felt his
shadow.
"Fathers, sons, brothers," began Gullett, still working on his
chicken, "let the games begin!"
Everyone except mothers, daughters, and sisters cheered.
Somehow the Brownies' rustic annual campout at the Jericho
Suites?featuring partitioned living quarters, individual
whirlpool baths, video-on-demand, and room service?fell on
the same supervised weekend as the Cubbies' annual rite of
spring.
"And need I remind everyone, everyone's a winner!"
Everyone in attendance, except Charles and Chip, cheered.
"As you know, we have two contests: Beauty and Derby."
Gullett licked his fingers, smoothed his beard, and chucked a
breast. "So, without further ado, let's bring forth our hand
picked panel of judges: Pat the Pancake King, Larry the
Landscape Czar, and Matt the Matting Doctor!"
After the laughter died, the judges?none of whom had
been lucky enough to be among the forbidden hordes of ask
one-come-all hobby shop proprietors?said the choice had
been hard, harder than ever, as it had been each and every
year. In fact, they wished they didn't have to make a choice
and could carve their own pinecars the way they had once
poured batter, rolled sod, and placed matting with their own
hands before they farmed it out to their own handpicked
employees.
"Come on ... Stop blabbing
... Yeah, who won?"
The second runner-up was a flat gray street bordered by flat
gray sidewalk. The first runner-up was a flat gray field bounded
by flat gray sedge grass. "And the winner is: 45!"
A beaming Bobcat received a sitting ovation and a flat gray
plaque.
"In as much as this is all a learning experience," followed
Gullett, "how did the judges decide on the winner?"
Pat the Pancake King's eyes flipped from Larry the Landscape Czar to Matt the Matting Doctor and back. "Well, I guess you could say Larry, Matt, and I were looking for a planar aesthetic
and the gray root system in 45's prairie legumes practically oozed depth."
A low gurgle passed through the pack. "Well," said Gullett, clearing his throat, "I guess you could say
that's another way of saying everyone's a winner."
January-February 2006 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 27
This content downloaded from 195.34.79.176 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 15:42:17 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
N A R
Everyone almost forgot. But behind Gullett's ample rear, the
spit-and-polish racetrack shimmered.
"Just do it, Johnny!... Go get 'em, Wayne!... You're the man
... No, he's the man ... Heck, they're still just boys ... Let the
best man win!"
Johnny's Indy car beat Wayne's sedge. Soon the first heat
swept away hot dogs, bananas, hillbillies,
legumes, and all other beauties and
congenialities. The Ironlords had a
laugher against a Tiger's Edsel, except
nobody else was laughing. "It's my turn," declared Davey.
"Damn," muttered Bobby.
"What?" said Davey.
"Good luck, son," said Bobby.
Willy and Gullett looked at [...] each
other. The photos had
vanished, too.
Damn, there were umpteen ways to earn Bad Daddy Demerits,
procure Pathetic Papa Peer Pressure Points, mess up, screw up,
stink up, foul up, fall short, and, in short, lose. As Bobby peeked at the reincarnated prospect of failing to survive the first round,
Davey's race was close, too close, until the Day-Glo orange
pinecar with the vomit-green driver staged a late surge and won.
"All right!" Davey wheeled around. "Gee, Dad, are you all
right?"
"Y-yes." A handkerchief hovered under Bobby's mouth. "Nice
job, son."
"That's illegal," shouted Charles Ironlord.
"There's nothing wrong with my car," said Davey.
"Not you, twerp," snapped Chip. "No one's worried about
you. That one."
That one was 8.
"Why?" asked Gullett.
"Anyone can see no work's been done to it," said Charles.
Gullett looked at 8, fumbled through his pockets, pulled out
the rulebook, scratched his potbelly, turned to page 152, closed the rulebook, and looked at 8. "Now, Charles, it has had some
thing done to it. Somebody had to drive in the nails."
"You call that something?" Gullett re-scratched. "Well, urn, shucks, uh, ah, see, there,
something else has been done to it: 8." "I hereby submit a formal protest." "Me too."
Charles and Chip threw in a couple of scowls on top of their sneers for good
measure.
"Golly, nobody's ever done that before," said Gullett as he
tugged on tufts of ear hair.
"There's a first time for everything," said Charles as Chip
parroted his father's twitching nostrils. "Let's have 8 and his boy come forward and explain themselves."
Nobody came.
"I hereby demand 8 be disqualified." "Me too."
Gullett dropped his head. Then, after a good deal of effort, he
picked it up. He turned to page 152. It was quiet enough to hear a nail drop. "You know," said Gullett finally with the final word, "I believe Willy logged in 8 at Tech."
The Boy Scout who had manned the digital scale labored to
stand up. "Th-that's true."
"Who are they?" asked Gullett.
Willy squinted through his glasses at the ledger. "I can't
exactiy make out their names?you can see for yourself?but
I've got their measurements. They weighed exactly 5.00
ounces."
Almost everyone laughed, during which time the senior Ironlord and
Gullett corroborated the illegible signa tures.
"No names aside," pressed Charles,
"how could they weigh exactly 5.00
ounces? An untouched block of pine just out of the box weighs three, maybe
four ounces, and that stupid 8 hardly makes up the difference. Even my?I mean
Chip's car came in at only 4.99 ounces."
"What did they look like?" went on Gullett.
Willy readjusted his glasses and smiled. "Oh, I remember
them well. Big 8 had gray-and-black peppered hair and a
flannel shirt and Little 8 had a yellow neckerchief and a blue
uniform."
Almost everyone laughed. Before Charles Ironlord could
spew molten ore, Gullett said, "Son, that covers just about
everyone."
Willy turned a pale red, teetering between thoughts and
teardrops, shaming any remnants of laughter as he searched for
a voice that wouldn't crack under growing pain strain. "M-Mr.
Gullett?"
"Yes?"
"There was something else about 8."
"Goon."
"The father had these strange marks on his hands."
"What kind of marks?"
"Strange."
The gymnasium inspected its hands.
"Enough with the metaphysics," pronounced Professor Ironlord as he looked up from his hands. "You're afraid of
taking a stand, old man."
The gymnasium turned to Gullett.
"And you're afraid of losing, Professor Peabrain," said the
Edsel Tiger. The gymnasium turned to Professor Peabrain.
The professor pushed up his sunglasses. As did his prize
pupil. "Go ahead. See if I care."
In its first heat, 8 went up against an unbalanced dune buggy
doing an unintentional wheelie and still only won by way of a
photo finish.
Charles and Chip laughed. "Like I said, see if I care."
Heat 2, with half the cars eliminated, ran faster until a caution
flag came out. A volunteer had dropped 7. When the Corvette
hit the floor, an axle cracked. The other father said "I'm sorry" a
million times as the Corvette's father said "Accidents happen" a
million times as the other father ferreted tape and the Corvette's
father bandaged the axle as the Corvette's Bear cried a million
28 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW January-February 2006
This content downloaded from 195.34.79.176 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 15:42:17 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
SCOTT SOLOMON
tears even though he hated to cry especially in front of the other
boys as, for the first time in his life, Bobby saw the other father's
heart break a million times.
The heats went on. Chip's car trounced one also-ran after
another. The Corvette kept on running and winning, as its Bear
kept on crying, even with the tape. Davey's Day-Glo Special
kept on keeping on, too, even in the face of its vomit-green driver's repeated revivals of a relapsing case of motion sickness.
And then there was 8.
Regardless of opponent?GTO, Jaguar, Ferrari?8's heat
always came down to a wide-lensed photo finish tripping only one of two parallel cameras (as per infallible computer
program) at the first car to the finish's lane.
"There's something funny about that car," said Charles.
"What's so funny?" said Chip.
Funny, but after Chip's black-and-red Monte Carlo whipped his tainted red-and-white Corvette in the semifinals, the blue
Bear stopped crying. Still, Bobby had only a second to assimi
late the moment. 8 had beaten 99/66 by less than that.
"Darn."
"Sorry, son."
"We were this close." Davey held his thumb and forefinger an
eyelash apart.
"Look at 7," said Bobby. "Hmm. He's taking it pretty well."
Bobby grinned. "Something like that."
A hand unfolded, losing its frown. "I'm going to root for 8
in the finals," said Davey. "If he beat me, he can beat
anybody."
"Gullett," blared Charles Ironlord, "I hereby resubmit a
formal protest."
"Like I said, me too," said Chip. The gymnasium, once again, turned.
"On what grounds?" asked Gullett. The gymnasium, once again, turned back.
"On the grounds that 8's father isn't present."
The Pinewood Derby had turned into a tennis match. "Now,
Charles," said the portly volleyer turning to page 152, "there's
nothing in the rulebook that says once a car has passed Tech its
father has to hang around."
"What about a son?" added Charles.
"Yeah," chipped in Chip. Gullett rescanned page 152. "Now, Charles (and you, too,
Chip), there's nothing in the rulebook that says once a car has
passed Tech its son has to hang around."
"Yes, but doesn't at least one have to be present?" "Yeah."
Gullett looked at 8, page 152, his potbelly, Willy, the Edsel
Tiger, the Bear cradling the crippled Corvette, the father of the
Corvette, the father who had dropped the Corvette, Bobby,
Davey, untold fathers and untold sons, and Charles and Chip. "What's the matter, are you chicken?"
The race between 13 and 8 was a silent scream. At first, the
Monte Carlo darted ahead before the primitive challenger
caught up. The undefeated champion advanced again only to
see the pine box reel it in. Red-and-black 38, black-and-red 81, back and forth they went, like a saw cutting wood, faster, faster, faster...
Both cameras flashed.
The gymnasium remained silent as the photos cleared
the judges, roamed the pack, reached Willy, and found
Gullett.
"Before I announce the final results, I would like to take this
opportunity to say everyone's a winner."
Dead silence.
"Right." Gullett reread the piece of paper from the judges and
sighed. "The winner of the Pinewood Derby is ..."
"8!" howled the pack. "Did you see? 8. Did you? 8. Yeeha! 8.
8. 8."
The results were unmistakable. In the photo taken from 8's
lane, a single splinter of light separated the virgin pine flush
with the finish line from the adulterated pine just behind. In
the photo taken from 13's lane, a single splinter of light sepa rated the adulterated pine flush with the finish line from the
virgin pine just ahead. "Will the winner please come forward to receive the trophy."
Nobody came.
"Oh, this is clearly a violation of the rules," said Charles with a sneer and a scowl and a snarl and a Chip.
Gullett, beard bopping, digits doing a jig over his jiggling
potbelly, giggled without a page 152 in sight. "Now, Perfesser, there's nothing in the rulebook that says the winner has to
claim his prize." "What kind of winner is that?"
"Shut up, Charles," said somebody. "Yeah, shut up," growled a pack of somebodies.
"What are you going to do next year, Dad?" asked Chip. "Shut up," said Charles.
The ensuing minutes proved the most fun 'most everyone
had encountered cleaning up after the Pinewood Derby in
years. By the time Davey went to retrieve his car from
Quarantine, his father was among the last ones left.
"Say, Willy."
"Yes, Mr. Kirby?"
"You got a good look at those photos, didn't you?" "Yes."
"Did you see anything unusual?"
"You mean the light?" "No, besides that."
Willy fiddled with his glasses for a moment before he met
Bobby's eyes and spoke like a man in return. "Yes."
"Say, Gullett."
"Yes, Bobby, I saw it, too."
"Did anyone else mention it?"
"Nope," said Gullett.
"Not even Charles and Chip?"
"Negatory," said Willy. "Good." Bobby stopped rubbing his shadow. "I thought I was
going crazy."
99/66 pulled up. "Hey, where's 8?"
January-February 2006 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 29
This content downloaded from 195.34.79.176 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 15:42:17 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
N A R
Willy and Gullett looked at Davey, Bobby, and each other. The
photos had vanished, too. Then, out of nowhere, everyone laughed. "Can I give you a ride home, Willy?" said Bobby. "No, thanks." He picked up a helmet. "I've got my board. Got
to meet my girlfriend at Skatersaucer."
"How about you, Gullett?"
"No, thanks." He picked up a helmet. "I've got my hawg. Got
to meet my babe at Exit 74."
Davey sat next to Bobby in the front seat of a more conven
tional mode of transportation on the way home.
"What did you like best about the race, son?"
"Sanding."
Bobby smiled. "Do you want to do it again next year?"
Davey made a sawing motion against the Day-Glo pinecar in
his lap. "Uh-huh."
"What kind of car would you like to be?"
"Roadster."
"Roadster?" Bobby blinked through the sunstruck wind
shield.
"Yeah. I saw a show about them on ESPN." Davey smiled.
"They had some cool wrecks."
"Isn't that dangerous?" said Bobby. "Yeah."
"Didn't the lions?I mean drivers die?"
Davey didn't flinch. "Yup." "Well?"
"Don't worry. Mine's make-believe."
Nice work if you can get it. The reflection in the sunny wind
shield blinked back.
"Dad?"
"Yes?" Davey had his grandfather's eyelashes, too.
"What were you and Willy and Mr. Gullett talking about?"
"The photos."
"You mean the light?" "Yes and no."
"What's that supposed to mean?" pursued Davey.
"I guess in all the fuss," hazarded Bobby, "most people saw
only the finish line."
"Isn't that all that matters?"
"No."
"What else is there?"
"8."
"Huh?"
"Did you notice anything unusual about it?" said Bobby. "No."
"Well, son, it was kind of blurry, but if you looked real hard,
you could see 8 had turned."
"Turned?" said Davey.
"Yes, it turned sideways."
"So?"
"That wasn't an 8."
"What was it?"
A father reached down and touched a son's hand. "Infinity." "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Everyone's a winner." D
JAMES HARMS
Pastoral by Frank Gehry Panama Museum of Biodiversity
Galvanized nails and sheep. The corrugated cardboard rolled into shade beneath tin trees or leaves like curled shavings in the lee of a rusty knoll.
And the quietest little robot boy, arms in pieces on the factory
floor of afternoon in the far field, his flock as scattered as wind-up sparrows
... O, robot boy with
no way to hold the nothing left to hold, lie down and sleep.
All told the ashen sky breaks
twice each night: to let in
the electric moon, to let it out,
though every other minute
the halogen burns those bits
of air left over, this small dome
of glass fogging up with old
breath, this little Earth below, so ragged and used. The silver stream slows to quicksilver, to liquid lead, the long mirror.
And the far field fills with shattered
glass, a thousand years of broken
wine bottles spread carefully on the meadow, green on green,
light roaring in all the in-between.
Robot boy would dream of singing to his sheep, of hooking fingers in thick wool, if anything so tired
and wrecked, so filled with circuitry and grief could really dream.
Sleep, my robot boy, and wake to a world as empty of anything as you. By then your arms
will be ready, repaired and
reattached. The dreamless
reinvent themselves each morning?
they find the strength to take
whatever at all in their arms,
to comfort the near at hand.
Those without hope are nearly as able, though each night
they are forced to dream.
Therein lies the difference
between my robot boy and me.
30 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW January-February 2006
This content downloaded from 195.34.79.176 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 15:42:17 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions