The Perpetual Motion Club

by Sue Lange

  General groans all around.

  “Is Jason coming?” May asked in her favorite sing-song style.

  “No!” Elsa answered instantaneously. Then she composed herself and, mimicking the sing-song chant, added, “He’s not going to be invited.”

  “How much is it?” jWad asked, “because I ain’t—”

  “It’s half-price for students. You still have your Northawken ID card, don’t you Jethro Wadmer?”

  “Hey, that’s my hegemonic imperialist name.”

  “Yeah, okay, white boy,” Elsa answered. “Maybe you should hold off buying guitar strings this week so’s you can afford to go.”

  “I’m a drummer,” jWad scowled.

  “I have to work,” Jimmy said, cutting into the argument.

  “Work? I didn’t know you had a job.” Elsa swung her attention over to him. “Oh, I remember. Your other friends need help with their graphics.”

  He hung his head revealing the Artsmart logo on his beret and said, “No.”

  “No?”

  “I mean, maybe.”

  Elsa’s knee jerk reaction was to kick him back out of the club. But she held her tongue. Jimmy Bacomb wasn’t worth giving a second thought about. All she wanted right now was to move forward. What difference did it make to her if he stayed or went? He was a twerp.

  After Jimmy declined to go, a litany of excuses from all the members bombarded her. In the end she convinced May, jWad, and Christine to show up, but it was not easy. May agreed to go after Elsa threatened to not validate her membership if she so much as considered not going. Once May agreed, jWad followed. Elsa promised before the event they could visit the big city’s notorious Browning Street where all the head shops and music stores were located, so jWad actually ended up looking forward to the trip.

  She didn’t pressure Jimmy because truth be told he’d been making her uncomfortable lately. She’d forgotten about the beret he gave her almost immediately, but somewhere in the back of her mind a light had gone off and she preferred to stay in the dark where Jimmy Bacomb was concerned. It was as if he knew all about her feelings for Jason and was losing a lifetime of respect for her. It made her uncomfortable, and sad in a way.

  She moved on from Jimmy to Christine who said “I’m going,” as soon as Elsa looked at her. Threatening May was enough to have an effect on the sickly girl. “I can’t wait,” she asserted before sneezing into her Kleenex.

  The meeting ended on an optimistic note. Things looked up even more the next day when jWad texted that he’d snagged a CarboStick sponsorship.

  “Great,” Elsa texted back. “What is a CarboStick? Low-protein diet health food?”

  “Drum kit thing. Sticks are made of graphite. I’m buying a car with the stipend.”

  “VCool. Did you mean to text May with this news?”

  “No. I got wheels for our fly by for the high buy.”

  Elsa blinked rapidly for a few seconds, but then caught the significance of jWad’s apparent musical talent and what it meant for the Perpetual Motion Club. She would not need to bargain with her mother for transportation to Gerry Martin’s exposition. It would never have been forthcoming anyway. Problem solved.

  With things moving along so well, Elsa felt sure that soon all other problems would be solved. Even Lainie would come around, maybe even discuss the subject, or perhaps acknowledge Elsa’s undaunted enthusiasm for it. Of course that wouldn’t happen until Elsa won FutureWorld.

  The goal had turned into her personal holy grail at this point. Winning that trophy, the bronze beaker, would return her mother to her. Jason Bridges would see her for what she was. Her father would be exonerated. The sponsors would start paying attention. Maybe she’d even get a logo or two to wear. Even Jimmy would return to his normal admiration of her, as if she cared.

  Point was, all that prologue—the problems of her current situation—would be just so much scrap paper for the incinerator. After the FutureWorld competition, life would begin. Possibly the right schools would drop hints about junior year fast-tracking so she’d graduate a year early. She’d be even with Jason then. He’d take her to the prom (if he was out on bail). They’d both get scholarships to MIT. Did MIT have a basketball team? No matter, she’ll cross that bridge when she came to it.

  So Elsa prepared and planned. She needed vital information—the secrets of free energy—for the final strokes of her PMM. Only one person could help her with that: the Queen herself. Each night for the entire week before the date at the Red Rapids Center, Elsa imagined herself at the rally.

  She pictured the big theater filled with the eager students of perpetual motion. Up front the revered maestro would speak on the mysteries, the missing pieces in the puzzle, what it was that wasn’t friction that needed to be overcome. Gerry Martin would entertain questions, and reveal amazing information. It would be just like the free MIT courses online. Only instead of emailing comments, the students would raise their hands and speak when called upon. Detailed discussion would ensue. It wouldn’t just be the quick answers you get online where the distance of hyperspace separates expert from questioner. Elsa imagined overhead projections of torque and moments of inertia, the right-hand rule of electron flow, and dielectric constants.

  She visited Gerry Martin’s webpage daily for the latest updates on her ideas and lectures. Always a piece was missing, something too big to elaborate on in the space of a website. Only an auditorium was big enough for the Big Idea.

  Saturday’s engagement was shaping up to be the biggest event of the year according to Dr. Martin’s emailed announcements. Her current tour was ending with the Red Rapids performance in which she promised to unveil a working PMM—her latest, greatest invention. She had advice for those in Elsa’s position: Do not let others dissuade you from your beliefs. Modern science does not have all the answers. It is not complete. It is merely a process. Every day new geniuses might be born who will one day throw current scientific thought on its head. Galileo did it. Kepler did it. The history of science is filled with those who have not gone along with the crowd. They become legends because of it. You will become that legend if only you BELIEVE. The word “believe” was in all caps, bolded. It blinked on and off to show how important believing was. Elsa believed. And she was beside herself with excitement for Saturday night.

  The week dragged on. Finally Friday came.

  As she walked home, a thousand thoughts swirled through her mind. The world outside her head barely existed. She almost missed it when someone behind her called her name. Not exactly her name. A voice said “Ethel,” in a slightly projected way. She was sure at first it was part of the thoughts swirling in her brain. But then it came again out in the real world: “Ethel.”

  No one else besides Elsa was walking on the sidewalk. No one was hanging in a window. No car was driving by with its windows rolled down. The call must have been for her. She turned to see a lone Jason Bridges. Her mind was so fuzzy, she almost didn’t recognize him.

  “Hi,” she said, forcing herself to not gush. She smiled a little, doing her best to be coy. The smile widened into a grin much too quickly. She so wanted to ask how the police investigation was going, but she sensed it would be impolite.

  Jason walked up to her and asked, “What you up to?” as if there was no police investigation going on. Fortitude.

  Her heart jumped a few meters skyward.

  “Nothing,” she said, forgetting completely the thing that had occupied her mind for the previous eight months, the subject that even Geometry could not dislodge. Those thoughts slowly started dissipating the moment Jason called not-quite-her-name, but close enough. Instead of remembering important things, she chose instead to revel in a fantasy starring Jason Bridges who hoped she might hang out with him because he no longer had his sycophantic friends and sexy but vapid girlfriends. He was now searching for the true meaning his life needed. Elsa, or Ethel rather, could provide that true meaning if only she’d come out of her shell and get drunk with him.

&n
bsp; “You know your mom’s my lawyer,” he said. Bam! Right off the wall. A fantasy-killing statement. Not only did it have nothing to do with what she’d be dreaming about, but it made no sense.

  He was ahead of her now, as she cogitated on the sidewalk, unable to move forward. “But you said . . . ” she ran to catch up.

  “I guess,” he answered, knowing she was referring to that day in the hall at school. “But you said she was a real lawyer, remember?”

  The thoughts in Elsa’s head collided with each other. Her mother Jason’s lawyer. How did that happen? Without her knowing about it? As if she needed to be consulted. As if Lainie and Jason were required to submit their plans for her approval.

  “Why? I mean, when?” she asked.

  “Budzynski found me a lawyer, but when he told Coach I couldn't play ball, even on my own, while this is going on, Budzynski stopped paying the guy. He figures I'm going to lose my touch without practice. I'm no good to him anymore.”

  “Oh.” And then: “She’s a good lawyer. She’ll do a good job.”

  For half a second she considered asking Jason to the Red River outing, but then she remembered the last conversation they’d had. The way he had said she was “not that kind of girl.” She still wasn’t sure what that meant, but she definitely knew she wasn’t going to set herself up to hear him say “sure,” and then not show up. She laughed a little to herself, then remembered where she was. “Well, gotta go!” she said abruptly and then took off running. At the corner of Beat Lane, she turned quickly and waved, then resumed her journey home, leaving Jason to his thoughts. Thus came the end of the fantasy and the happy return of anticipation for the great Gerry Martin.

  One interesting thing occurred to her in the midst of all the giddy planning: her mom was Jason’s lawyer. She’d have intimate knowledge of the police investigation. The niggling feeling Elsa had about Jason’s predicament moved to the forefront for a short moment. Maybe she could seriously help Jason. All she had to do was get the last bit of information she needed from Gerry Martin, build her perpetual motion machine and her mom would be back on her side. And she’d be more than happy to share Jason’s secrets with her. Things were wrapping up quite nicely.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The following day, Saturday, the four devout club members pursued perpetual motion all the way to Red Rapids. Traffic was light. jWad made record time in his busted out Taurus. “It gets better mileage without the muffler,” he shouted at one point. It was the only conversation the group engaged in during the 45-minute ride.

  Once in the city they found a municipal parking lot as close to the downtown center as their pooled funds would allow, which is to say they were two miles away. They ate lunch at Hamburger Hut on the corner of Fifth and Place. Following that, they visited the head shops up one side of Browning and down the other. jWad bought some incense and May bought some scarves. Elsa occupied herself with the water pipe technologies. Christine lagged behind everyone, eying the pill stashers and botanical ID books.

  The streets were festive, the day was seasonably warm, everyone wore bright colors. A park on Place and Water had groups of five to ten young people scattered about under the spring-budding cherry trees and Lawn-Gro billboards.

  A young woman strummed a guitar in the middle of one large contingent. She wore an oversized Gibson t-shirt dress. Near to her, a ring of sneaker-clad Spaldingsackers kicked and bounced their little ball. At one point the sack landed in the group with the guitarist. The audience laughed when a player ran up to apologize. Someone seated in the group offered up something to the player. He accepted it, lifted it to his mouth, and momentarily a puff of smoke emanated from his lips. The guitarist resumed. The game resumed. The spring birds sang in the rapidly budding cherry trees, reminding everyone that perhaps they should get a move on with the mating thing. In short, life was slice.

  Seven p.m. rolled around and the happy group of four walked the few blocks to the Met-Life sponsored Center. The park had been pleasurably crowded with people, but the Center was uncomfortably packed like sardines. Traffic was stalled at both the entrance and exit points of all garages in the area, creating a noisy jumble of honking horns, cursing drivers, and revving engines. Streams of pedestrians weaved between the cars, further slowing progress. A white-gloved patrolman in a neon apple green CareerApparel safety vest blew his whistle and motioned forcefully to the cars in a vain attempt to untangle the snarl of vehicles.

  The Center throbbed with excited believers. Flanking the multiple-door entranceway were twin posters, six feet high, and depicting a fierce Gerry Martin, looking down and pointing to the multitude flowing inside. The caption above her head asked “DO YOU BELIEVE?”

  Elsa’s heart jumped. It was as if the Queen was speaking directly to her. Through her. Because she believed in the Queen, Elsa would be part of her glory.

  Gerry Martin would bestow her message to the world tonight. Elsa would receive the message. She would go to Dr. Martin and commune with her. The Queen of PM would be astonished by Elsa’s grasp of the concepts. They would engage in private conversation. Dr. Martin would divulge her secrets, her answers, the bit of information required for Elsa’s work. After tonight Elsa would complete her project. She would win FutureWorld, her mother’s approval, and Jason’s love. Life would Improve.

  Inside the building, the auditorium slowly filled with fans seeking . . . something. In the orchestra pit, a rollicking band played a raucous version of Onward Christian Soldiers complete with sliding trombone and carousing clarinet straight out of New Orleans. A few of the faithful danced nearby.

  Purple two-story curtains on the stage were pulled back, folding the Met-Life logo into an unrecognizable garble. In the middle of the stage stood a lone podium with a microphone. Behind that and slightly off to the side, a large, possibly square, box three feet in width sat on a table. A black, possibly velvet, cloth covered the box.

  “The machine,” Elsa said out loud, but mostly to herself as the group traipsed timidly in.

  Up high along the walls of the auditorium, covering the Met-Life murals, a digital ticker-tape scrolled perpetual motion messages. Mathematical equations, lit up in foot-high symbols, promised something magical. Free work maybe. M = FA. Pictures of perfect solids interspersed with Da Vinci-like drawings of over-balanced wheels. Bits of magnets and iron balls and contraptions of mysterious design and function juxtaposed themselves between the laws of thermodynamics with variables sinfully switched and constants heretically crossed out.

  The stream of audience continued to file in long after Elsa’s club found its place. The more people filled the room, the louder the ambient noise became. Shouts passed back and forth between followers who recognized each other from previous fellowship meetings. One or two of them carried black books and raised them in greeting as if to say: “Here it is; I brought it with me this time. This time we will see.”

  Elsa felt intimidated. She hadn’t thought to bring her notes. Her questions resided in her head for easy access, but what if she forgot an important point when they got off on a tangent? Could easily happen. Earlier in the morning everything was set, her purpose defined and easy. Now she wasn’t sure. If all these people needed answers or had arguments, how would she get a word in edgewise? What if she’d missed something? A nuance that had been argued over for decades and easily found in numerous places, but missed somehow by Elsa. Was she terribly behind? Would the audience make her feel small? Would Gerry Martin?

  The lights dimmed and the crowd noise momentarily diminished to a few unintelligible whispers. But only momentarily as the choir filed in. Once the members found their places, the woman herself entered and the crowd reacted enthusiastically. “Hallelujah!” rang out. And “Praise Jesus.”

  Instantly it dawned on everyone in the PM Club that they might have gotten the date wrong. They stared at each other, mouths open. jWad alone joined the spirit of the evening. He shouted “Have mercy!” and “Amen!” at intervals, showing more enthusiasm fo
r this festive gathering than he ever did for mechanical advantages. He laughed and poked at May who snickered in response.

  The Queen raised her hands and all fell silent.

  “Perpetual motion . . . ” the Queen said with an elevated voice that paused for everyone to take in. “ . . . is an act of faith.” Immediately the crowd shouted “Amen!” Elsa breathed a sigh of relief. This was the correct night after all. And what a night it would be.

  The woman continued. “And as such . . . ” she shouted (emphasizing the word “such” by taking a breath beforehand and stretching it out like a salesman’s teaser), “ . . . one does not need . . . ” (“need” was likewise stretched out), “ . . . physical laws to support it. (large breath) To prove or disprove scientific principles to argue its case!” The audience inserted “Yeahs” and “Amens.” The woman said, “One does not need experts to believe in it.” The audience proclaimed one loud, unison “Yes!”

  Elsa’s eyebrows pinched.

  Gerry Martin stepped from behind the podium. She walked a few steps towards the enraptured audience before stopping abruptly next to the podium to stare out at the crowd. Slowly she lifted the mike to her lips as if a gem of an idea had just occurred to her. In a quiet voice she pleaded, “If you are a true believer, you will not be fooled by the scientific community that hopes to trap you in a box, or tie your hands, or bind your heart.”

  Elsa relaxed her eyebrows. Yes, that was how she felt. Yes, everyone in her life conspired to keep her ideas down. Yes, it was good to see the woman. She shouted, “Yes!” with the audience.

  Gerry Martin continued. “For they are of the devil. Satan’s workers. They have been sent out amongst us to sway us from the true path, the light, the truth. Do not succumb. Do not leave the paths of righteousness. You must believe!” Here she mashed her hand on the podium for emphasis.