by Tim Kehoe
“Well, now, come on, your dad said you wanted to see that inventor’s stuff and it’s all downstairs being unpacked.” Bonnie walked toward the elevators. Vincent and Stella followed.
The artifacts were being unpacked, photographed, and cataloged. Dozens of devices had already been tagged and were spread out on two twenty-foot tables in the middle of the room. Vincent walked back and forth along the tables taking it all in. He was shocked at the detail given to the prototypes. Each one looked like a work of art. The wood bases were stained and hand-carved with elaborate moldings. Most of the brass still had its luster. He recognized one of the devices, a device called a Tesla coil. He touched it.
“What do you think this does?” Stella asked.
“Oh, hon, I wouldn’t know,” Aunt Bonnie said, assuming the question was directed at her.
“It’s a Tesla coil. It produces high-frequency alternating currents,” Vincent said, having just read about them the night before.
“Oh, oh dear,” Aunt Bonnie said.
“What’s this?” Stella asked.
She was standing in front of a small device with handles attached to two large discs.
“Geez, I have no idea. Wow, look at that!” Vincent pointed to a device that looked like a small ship engine with metal tubing and gauges sticking out on all sides.
“Look at this wild thing,” Stella said, standing in front of a small invention with a series of nine evenly spaced discs. “Do you think it still works?”
“I don’t know.” It hadn’t occurred to Vincent that the inventions might actually still work.
“This thing looks like a crank. Should I try it?” Stella asked.
They both looked at Aunt Bonnie.
“Knock yourself out,” she said. “Just don’t let anyone see you.”
Stella carefully began to turn the crank. Vincent could feel a breeze coming from the device, even though there were no moving parts. Stella turned the crank faster and a spark jumped from one of the middle plates. She let go of the crank and jumped too.
“Oh, careful, hon,” Aunt Bonnie said. “Who knows what these things can do.”
“Well, is it everything you hoped for?” Norton asked as he entered the room.
“It’s pretty cool,” Stella said.
“It’s amazing!” Vincent was so excited he forgot all about Minnesota. He opened his notebook and started to sketch the device in front of him.
“I just want to sketch a couple of these inventions,” Vincent said, his pencil already moving quickly over the page.
“Wow, Vincent, I had no idea you could draw like that. That’s incredible,” Stella said.
“Thanks.”
“Just like his mother,” Norton said. “Take as much time as you need, Vincent. Come on up to my office when you’re done.”
SECRETS FROM THE PAST
12
Vincent sat on his bedroom floor that night, surrounded by books about Tesla. He had spent hours sketching all the devices at the Met. His hand hurt, and he wished he had thought to bring a camera. But he hoped his sketches would help him figure out which Tesla inventions he had seen. He was sure one of the devices had to be the famous death ray or the earthquake machine.
In one of his books, Vincent managed to find a picture of the invention with the two handles attached to the discs. It was not a death ray, but some sort of high-voltage medical device. He also found a photo of the device with the tubes and the gauges sticking out of it. Unfortunately it was only a steam turbine. Vincent had been sure that it was the earthquake device.
By 3:00 in the morning, Vincent had identified all but one of the inventions from the Met. He could not find anything that looked like the bizarre device Stella had fired up. He looked through a book containing over 300 Tesla patents and found nothing. Why hadn’t Tesla patented this one? He had patented all the other inventions in the basement of the Met.
Maybe it wasn’t finished? Vincent thought to himself. Or maybe it was finished and Tesla didn’t want anyone to know about it? Maybe it was the death ray!
LAST CHANCE
13
Vincent was wearing his favorite New York Yankees jersey with the number “2” and the letters “SHADOW” stitched on the back. He had his kneepads and padded vest on for protection. He wore his catcher’s mask with his Yankees hat turned backward. It had been a long time since he had worn this stuff and he was surprised it still fit. He reached down into the box of supplies he had gathered from various rooms and people in the house: one tube of toothpaste, one electrical cord, a bottle of dishwashing detergent, two bottles of contact lens solution, WD-40, an electric golf ball return with a high-powered electromagnet, twenty-four soft rubber worms, and one Whizzer Mega Doodlez. Check.
Vincent hadn’t worked on Pop Tunz in nearly two years, but the scars from his last batch of bubbles were still visible on his hands, and he had a permanent white spot in his hair where a bubble had landed. He knew from experience that the baseball equipment would most likely prove to be no match against the bubbles, but he had to try. Before it was too late.
A few nights after his Met visit, Vincent’s dad had finally told him about the job in Minneapolis. And he was quick to point out all the wonderful things the Midwest had to offer and the wonderful new life they would have in Minnesota. Vincent didn’t listen. He didn’t want a new life. He wanted his old life. But thanks to his father’s new job, the moving truck would arrive in the morning.
Vincent had packed up his room. His books. His posters. Even Nikola’s bird toys were carefully packed in a box. But he couldn’t pack his lab. Pop Tunz had been his biggest disappointment. He had always planned to work on it again. He thought he had time. But now he was out of time. This was it. His last night in the lab. He needed to focus. He also needed a lot of luck.
Vincent pulled the old sheet off his bubble still, and dust filled the air. He went straight to work. He took a handful of the rubber worms he had borrowed from his dad’s tackle box and began melting them in a pot. Then he mixed in a half cup of detergent and a dab of toothpaste. Next he cut open Anna’s Mega Doodlez and dumped the metal shavings into an old coffee can. He poured in two bottles of contact lens solution. Vincent knew from experience that the salt in the contact lens solution would speed the rusting process. He placed the coffee can under the blender and turned it on.
Vincent let the blender run and started to work on the Pop Tunz bubble-blowing device. He grabbed one of the large bubble-blower prototypes off the top shelf and removed the battery panel. He took out the six D batteries. He needed more voltage than Gwen’s portable stereo batteries could provide. So he decided to test the bubble blower using 110 Tesla-invented volts right out of the wall.
He pulled out the electrical cord he had borrowed from the Shadow family DVD player and wired it into the bubble blower. Then he cut open his father’s golf putt return and removed the powerful electromagnet. He duct-taped the electromagnet to the bottom of Vibs’s large metal mixing bowl.
Vincent turned off the blender and poured the rust-colored liquid into the mixing bowl. He plugged in the electromagnet, and the rusty liquid clung to the sides of the bowl. He unplugged the electromagnet, and the metallic liquid let go of the side of the bowl and ran to the bottom. He poured the liquid from the bowl into a tall glass bottle, boiled the solution until it turned black, and then poured it into a clean glass jar.
He looked at the clock on the wall: 6:30 AM. He would have to move quicker. The movers would arrive soon.
Vincent reached into a drawer and pulled out a large metal loop he had fashioned out of a kitchen utensil. He rubbed the metal loop with sandpaper to remove the rust buildup and then placed it in the bubble-blowing device. He screwed the glass jar with the black liquid onto the bottom of the device.
Vincent pushed down on the red button and said “testing, testing” into the microphone mounted near the back of the bubble blower.
He switched on the device and it made a dull hum. He smiled. T
hat was the sound he had hoped for. He pulled the trigger on the blower and the liquid started to twist and turn inside the glass jar. Vincent clenched his teeth, hoped for the best, and released the trigger.
The liquid leaped from the jar and disappeared up inside the bubble blower. He held the blower high into the air. Dozens of two-inch solid black bubbles started to fill the room. They floated silently through the air. The first bubble to hit the floor was a perfect two-inch bubble. By Vincent’s calculations, that should have been large enough to replay his message, but all he heard was the crackle of electricity. Although it was louder than any bubble he had made previously, Vincent was disappointed. He had hoped the increased voltage would amplify the sound waves enough to deliver an audible message. He would need even more volts.
The bubble blower began to glow blue as more than a dozen bubbles hit the floor in what sounded like a nest of angry rattlesnakes. The side of the blower sparked, exploded, and sprayed electrified bubble solution in every direction. Vincent dropped the blower and tucked himself into the fetal position.
Liquid lightning shot up and created a blast that left a large burn mark on the ceiling. A stream of electric bubble solution hit one of the sketches taped to the wall. The sketch burst into flames. Vincent stood up to grab the fire extinguisher as another row of sketches quickly went up in flames. He managed to avoid the electrified bubbles as he pointed the extinguisher toward the fire and pulled the trigger.
THE WHIZ KID
14
“One hundred, one hundred, do I hear one hundred? One, one, one, great. One hundred thousand dollars to the man in back of the room. Two hundred, two, two, two, do I hear two? Two, two, two hundred thousand to the tall man in the white suit. Three, three, can we get three hundred? Three, three, three hundred thousand once again to the man in the back. Five, five, five, five—come on—five hundred thousand. Five, five, five, five hundred thousand to own a piece of history. Five hundred. Five hundred. Come on, people, Tesla is one of the greatest inventors of all time. Let’s go. Five, five, five hundred thousand to the man in white. Six, six, now do I hear six hundred…”
Howard G. Whiz had worn a white suit every day for the last sixty-one years. He had an entire closet full of white shirts, white jackets, white pants, white belts, white socks, white shoes, and white ties. But his ties didn’t stay white. Every morning at precisely 5:30 AM, he put on a pot of coffee and painted a white tie to wear that day. He painted the tie to match his mood. He painted a new tie every day and never wore the same tie twice. Each night he would nail that day’s tie to the wall in his mansion. This was Howard G. Whiz’s diary, and he had done this every day for the last 22,297 days. Today, Howard G. Whiz’s tie had a single gold lightning bolt painted on it.
“One, one, one, do I hear one million. One million, one million, one, one, one,” the auctioneer said. “Come on, people. Look at the condition of these artifacts. Untouched by human eyes until just last month. One, one, one, can I get one, one, one…”
A rather large man in the front row raised his hand and was immediately jabbed in the ribs by his wife’s elbow.
“Well, honey, they have been untouched by human eyes for centuries,” he explained.
“Great, one million from the fat man in the front row. Do I hear two, two, two million. Looking for two, two, two, two, who will go two, all right. Two million from the man with the giant scar in the second row. Three, three, three, who’s gonna give me three? Three, three. People, we are looking for three, and three million dollars from the man in back. Four, four, four, do I hear four million? Who wants to own a slice of history? Four, four, four, four, where are the Tesla lovers? We need four, four, four, for all these wonderful inventions. Terrific, Colonel Sanders is willing to pay four million dollars. Now who will give me five, five, five…”
Much to his father’s regret, Howard G. Whiz’s parents knew that Howard was unusual almost at birth. At the tender age of three, Howard weaned himself off his pacifier by biting an eighth of an inch off the tip of the pacifier each morning for two weeks. By the end of the second week, his pacifier was gone and so was his desire for one.
“Five million, five million, do I hear five million? Five million to the man with the scar. Six, six, will anyone go six?” the auctioneer asked.
“Say here.” Howard stood up. “Ten million, good boy. I will give you ten million dollars for Mr. Tesla’s fine inventions.”
Howard G. Whiz could bid ten times that amount if he wanted to, and everyone in the room knew it. Howard had been famous his entire life, thanks mostly to an invention he created when he was just seven years old.
In 1922, Thomas Fairbairn invented an artificial grass from a concoction of cottonseed hulls, sand, oil, and dye. This invention fueled the development of a new game called miniature golf. By 1935, America had become obsessed with miniature golf. And so had Howard G. Whiz’s father, Gordon Whiz. Gordon spent hours practicing miniature golf in his living room by putting a golf ball into a coffee can. Gordon made his son Howard sit next to the can, rolling the balls back to him all day.
Obsessed with the new science of electricity and tired of rolling the balls back to his father, Howard decided to invent a device that would automatically return the golf balls. He decided to turn the coffee can into an electromagnet.
When the golf ball entered the coffee can, it would trigger a switch that would run electricity through the wires Howard had wrapped around the outside of the can. The entire coffee can would become an electromagnet, attracting the hammer Howard had mounted to the back of the can. The hammer would swing forward, knocking the ball out of the can and back to his father. It was Howard’s first invention and he thought his father would love it. But Gordon was irritated at his son’s elaborate attempt to get out of work.
Gordon’s irritation quickly turned to glee when visitors started inquiring about buying a coffee can putt return for themselves. Gordon seized the opportunity to make money and forced Howard to spend his days in the cellar building coffee can putt returns. Soon, young Howard was spending fourteen hours a day building the putting devices. He now hated his invention and hated his father for making him build it.
In an effort to have a little fun, Howard nailed several of the electromagnetic coffee cans to a large board. He tilted the board and would roll a golf ball up the board and watch it bounce and shoot from one can to the next as it rolled down. He did this for hours at a time until his father took the board away and told him to focus on his work.
Soon however, Howard’s father became fascinated with the board too. Howard’s father was sure others would also find the board fascinating, and he sold it to the Bally Manufacturing Corporation a month later. Bally built tens of thousands of the boards over the next fifty years. They called it pinball.
On his eighteenth birthday Howard G. Whiz moved out of his parents’ house and never spoke to his father again. Robbed of his youth and weary of the greed that had surrounded him, Howard started the Whizzer Toy Company and vowed never to invent an adult product again. And he never did.
Howard was famous for giving young inventors the support he never received. He held an annual toy contest and always encouraged young inventors to follow their dreams and invent their futures.
“Going once, going twice—sold to the lightning bolt gentleman for a cool ten million dollars. Enjoy your new inventions, sir,” the auctioneer said.
“I shall,” Howard G. Whiz replied.
FOUR MONTHS LATER
15
Maybe it was because Vincent was the only boy. Or maybe it was because his bird, Nikola, made too much noise. Or maybe it was simply because Vibs was evil. Whatever the reason, when the Shadow family moved into their new house in Minnesota, Vibs decided Vincent should sleep in the basement “bedroom,” which actually wasn’t a bedroom at all. It was more of a closet. A small closet with no door. A small closet with no door, a concrete floor, and the world’s oldest and loudest washer and dryer located just a few feet away
.
And maybe it was the cold Midwestern climate or perhaps the noise from the washer and dryer, or just the simple fact that Vibs was evil, but whatever the reason, Vincent hadn’t had a single toy idea since they arrived in Minnesota four months earlier. No flashes of light. No blindness. Not a single idea. And that was okay with Vincent.
He was leaving his failed attempts at inventing behind. He had decided that the move to Minnesota was a chance to start over. No more silly dreams of becoming a great inventor. He left his notebooks, tools, and inventions hidden away in his secret lab forever. He had failed as a toy inventor, but at least no one would ever know.
Vincent, Gwen, Stella, and Anna all attended the Minneapolis School of Art and Design now. MSAD was a small K–12 school connected to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. The students took a few traditional classes, but most of the focus was on art. A typical day might start with Oil Painting, followed by Ceramics, Metal Sculpture, lunch, Math, Art Ideas, and then a Graphic Design class at the end of the day. In fact, that was Vincent’s schedule. And he liked all of his classes. All of them except Math. He loved Art Ideas the most. Mr. Dennis taught Art Ideas and Mr. Dennis was crazy.
FOOBEEZOOBEE
16
“Come on, come on, find a seat, everybody. We have a lot to talk about today,” Mr. Dennis said, standing on top of his desk.
No one seemed surprised to see Mr. Dennis standing on his desk. No one would have been surprised to walk into the room and see Mr. Dennis hanging upside down from the ceiling wearing a space suit. Mr. Dennis was crazy and Vincent liked it that way.