The Thumper Amendment

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  “Go for it!” said Alan. “We’ll stock up on more after we land.”

  Jar empty, I got up to toss it into the recycle bin, when I accidentally stumbled over my travel bag. In all the excitement, I hadn’t taken time to unpack.

  A dresser sat just inside of The Lounge. I pulled open a drawer and discovered that it was full of odd-looking items, buried under a jumble of electronic components.

  “These yours?” I asked Alan.

  “Those are some of my inventions that never got off the ground,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I keep meaning to clean that drawer out. Better use the next one down.”

  I was about to follow Alan’s suggestion, but my adolescent curiosity egged me to dig into the buried treasure. Beneath the switches, push-buttons, and circuit boards, a shiny object caught my eye. It was the size of a toaster, and had a keypad mounted on one side. I couldn’t decide if it was a high-tech kitchen appliance, or a relic from Ray Bradbury’s basement?

  “What’s this thing,” I asked, holding up the odd-looking object.

  “The first cell phone, if you can believe that,” said Alan.

  I remembered hearing about this. Alan had invented what he dubbed the “Roam-a-phone,” but being famously absentminded, neglected to secure a patent for it. The rights to it were immediately snatched up by Chester Fields, robbing Alan of his vision of a wirelessly-connected world.

  Digging a little deeper, I found an old transistor radio with a camera lens attached to it. “What about this one?” I Inquired.

  “A crude digital camera. Now, please put all that stuff away.”

  Alan was getting a little perturbed with my nosiness, so I closed the drawer, but not before noticing a photo of Alan, posing in front of a hundred grazing sheep. Stapled to the back was a brochure that I had seen before. It was for a place I had once visited: Bonehead Bootcamp.

  “What’s up with you and the sheep?” I asked.

  “That was one of my bio-chemical experiments. I developed a genetically modified feed to make sheep grow bigger than normal. It didn’t take. The farm went broke the next year, no thanks to me. It was later turned into one of those boot camps for disruptive teenagers.”

  I was one of those disruptive teens! My dad sent me there after we butted heads one too many times—but that’s only half the story.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “those sheep you treated, were there any unusual side effects?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I went to that boot camp. My drill instructor was a mean old bugger they called Sergeant Sheep, and . . . well . . . you’re going to think I’m crazy, but he wasn’t all human.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying he was half-sheep!”

  “You mean he only looked half-sheep. He had a physical deformity of some kind.”

  “Maybe so, but maybe not. He had a sheep’s head on his human body. You don’t suppose your experiment created a mutated drill sergeant do you?”

  Alan thought a minute. “A sheep-headed human? No side effect I ever saw.”

  “Well, sheep or not,” I said, “he was tough as nails on the surface, but inside he was gentle as a lamb.”

  “You don’t say,” said Alan in a sarcastic tone.

  “I told you you’d think I was crazy.”

  Alan took a long pause. “You’re right . . . you are!”

  Marge lit up. “For what it’s worth, Amy” she said, “I think you’re perfectly sane.”

  “Thanks, Marge,” I said. “At least someone around here believes in me.”

  “I believe in you,” said Alan. “I just don’t believe in talking farm animals.”

  “Men!” grumbled Marge.

  Opening another drawer, I uncovered one more crazy invention—the weirdest-looking one of the bunch. It was a common football helmet. Sunglasses were mounted in the front, with a red clown nose hinged between the lenses. Audio speakers substituted for ear protectors. Dozens of resistors, diodes, and I don’t know what all, were haphazardly wired together above a row of AA batteries, that encircled the Wonka-esque device.

  “And what do you call this?” I asked, holding up the contraption.

  Alan’s eyes widened. “Oh! Bring that up here.”

  I sat down in the passenger seat, holding the helmet in my lap.

  “That’s one of my greatest failures,” said Alan, “the What’s-next Specs.”

  “The what’s what?”

  “What’s next. It shows you the future.”

  “No way!”

  “Who’s not believing who, now?”

  “What ever possessed you to create such a thing?”

  “Peabody and Sherman.”

  “Never heard of them. Were they famous inventors?”

  “In a way. They were part of the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon show. Peabody was a dog-genius, and Sherman, his pet boy. They would travel back in time in the Way-back Machine, and visit events in history—only what they saw was nothing like what we were taught in school. I wanted to take the same journey, but into the future, to see if the time before us matched our predictions.”

  “You mean, this thing actually works?”

  “Not entirely. It only gives you a sense of the future; a representation of what lies ahead—sights, sounds, and smells, but nothing specific. This is as far as I got with it.”

  “How does it work?”

  “It analyzes your brain waves, extracts your worst fears and your fondest dreams. Then, through sophisticated algorithms, the onboard computer calculates what the likely outcome will be.”

  “This is amazing! Why wouldn’t a company want to sell something like this?”

  “I pitched it to a few corporate executives, but each time they put it on, it showed reflections of financial ruin and their ultimate demise.”

  Alan flipped a switch on the back of the helmet. “Here, try it on.”

  The gizmo began to hum. Bright LED lights pulsated. Then a thin column of smoke rose from the battery connectors.

  “It’s okay,” said Alan. “It’s just a little dusty.”

  The helmet was warm to the touch, as I lifted it up and lowered it onto my head. Alan reached over and turned a knob in the back, cinching it against my head for a snug fit, then lowered the clown nose over my own.

  “I can’t see a thing.” I said.

  “Give it a few seconds,” said Alan. “Those shades are really small video screens.”

  Sure enough, the glasses began to brighten. I saw an array of intense, lush colors that leaped and danced like a watercolor ballet, then melted into a stream of pastel light. Enchanting melodies floated on a gentle breeze, that carried the smell of freshly-cut roses.

  “See anything interesting?” asked Alan.

  “Yes!” I said, “This is beautiful!”

  Suddenly, a loud, piercing screech filled my ears. My head jolted backwards. The lilting music became beastly growls. Blues turned to black. Yellows turned to brown. Then, sharp daggers and butcher knives came hurling through the air straight at my head! I dodged the sharp objects to keep from being struck by them—as if that would do any good.

  I pried the crazy helmet off my head in a panic. “Jesus!” I said, panting like a greyhound after a dog race. “That was awful. Is that what I have to look forward to?”

  “Hard to say,” said Alan. “This thing’s only a prototype. Its accuracy can’t be judged until we catch up to the time ahead of us.”

  What I saw and felt under that thing was like being on an acid trip—or so I assumed, having never done drugs myself. But if it was anything like that, hallucinogenic experimentation was definitely out of the question.

  I wondered why such breathtaking beauty mingled with such bone-chilling horror. What was it telling me about my future? Probably nothing. It was more likely the result of a short-circuit or a faulty switch. Who knows how long that thing had bounced around in that dresser?

  I put the goofy contrapti
on back in its drawer, finished unpacking my stuff, and returned to my seat, up front.

  Enough of predicting the future. My attention was now on the present. I focused on the spectacular hotels of the Las Vegas Strip—or what I could see of them, for the closer we got to the city, the harder they were to make out. Whirlpools of dust had started blowing across the highway. Sand pebbles pelted our windshield like tiny marbles. Before long, the entire Vegas skyline had been submersed in an ocean of sand.

  “Sandstorm!” cried Alan.

  Chapter 5

  The Border

  The bus lurched forward, then back as the temperamental rocket engines sputtered and misfired. Alan pumped the gas pedal, but the thrusters complained even more.

  “What a time for a breakdown,” said Alan. “I knew I should have joined the Auto Club before we left.”

  We could barely see the road ten feet in front of us, as a great curtain of sand wrapped around us like we were a giant burrito.

  Marge’s screen lit up. “You’d better pull over until this thing passes.”

  And that’s exactly what we did.

  The sandstorm didn’t let up, rocking us from side to side, like a Tonka toy in a wind tunnel. There was nothing to do but heed the fury of the storm, and pray it would be over soon.

  Fifteen minutes past . . .

  then twenty . . .

  then thirty.

  My throat was so dry I could hardly swallow. Mounds of sand crept up the windows on one side of the bus, like snow drifts pressing against the walls of a mountain cabin. “I hope you brought a shovel,” I shouted to Alan above the a howling wind.

  Finally, after more than an hour, the sandstorm died down. We could see the sky above, and the long road ahead—only, where was Las Vegas? We were now surrounded by a flat, lifeless desert, not a tree or shrub as far as the eye could see. It was as if the mountains, the snakes, and the Vegas casinos had all fallen into quicksand.

  Alan turned the starter key to get the bus going, but the powerful rockets wouldn’t so much as cough. “The sand must have gotten in the propulsion system,” said Alan. “Are we still on course, Marge?”

  “My positioning software says, yes,” she answered.

  “Are we in New Mexico yet?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “I’m not really sure. Only Breadcrust would know.”

  Breadcrust! The reality show guru, famous for subjecting his TV guinea pigs to unspeakable brutality, had created an impossible situation for us, all for the pleasure of his viewing audience.

  “We’re not anywhere near Roswell, are we?” I asked Marge. “You know, the land of UFO sightings and alien abductions?”

  Marge hesitated. “I’m afraid that data has been erased from my memory for national security reasons.”

  “Not surprising,” said Alan. “Ever since that space alien scandal in the 1950s, the government has denied that space ships ever landed here.”

  “So, now what?” I said.

  “Let’s have a look outside,” said Alan.

  We pushed open the door and stepped out onto the parched desert floor. It was hot as blazes. Deep cracks in the clay surface ran in all directions, like a giant jigsaw puzzle.

  There was no sign of life, save a lone vulture circling above us.

  “Another hungry buzzard ready to devour us,” said Alan, of the winged scavenger, “only this one’s not a news chopper.”

  “So long as it’s not a UFO,” I said. “This place creeps me out.”

  Alan examined the defunct rocket engines. He poked around, but accomplished little more than making a lot of noise. Then he popped open the hood at the front of the bus, then just stood there, facing the engine with a blank stare. Some genius. Alan was great at creating electronic miracles, but didn’t know a spark plug from a radiator cap.

  I brought out a folding chair from the bus, and sat down in the shade of the beached, yellow whale. With no way to call for help, it looked like we would be there for a while. The show certainly wasn’t going to rescue us, either. Our audience was having too good of a time watching us suffer—just like that pesky vulture.

  Suddenly, I heard a voice:

  “Buenos dias!”

  I jumped to my feat. A man, literally appearing out of nowhere, stood twenty feet in front of me! (Now, I knew I was in Roswell!)

  Alan came over and stood beside me. “What the hell is this?” he said, at the sight of our unexpected guest.

  The stranger’s face and hands were scorched, like he had been wandering in the desert for days. The sweat of his journey soaked his white shirt. He set down the plastic water bottle in his hand to wipe his brow.

  “Buenos dias,” the man repeated, his foreign accent unmistakable.

  Then, an even more astonishing thing happened. Out from behind him stepped a woman, balancing an infant child on her hip!

  “Dear God,” I said softly.

  Alan called out to the couple. “Hello! Do you speak English?”

  “Si,” the man replied. “You have any food you can a-spare a hungry family, señior?”

  “We do.” said Alan. “Come closer, and we’ll see what we can get for you.” The man whispered something to the woman, then cautiously approached the bus alone.

  “Ya know,” said Alan, “if you’re looking for agricultural work, you might think of heading west to California. I think it’s strawberry season there, now.”

  As the man moved closer, his attention turned to the rocket engines. “This is a-not a Border Patrol vehicle. Yes?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Alan. “We’re not with U.S. Immigration.”

  The man turned toward the woman. “It’s okay, honey,” he shouted, suddenly losing his thick accent. “They’re not the feds!” Then he turned back to the rockets. “Man, these are some awesome firecrackers.”

  I suppose I should have feared the mystery man, but his actions were way too amusing. Still, Alan and I used caution as we crept toward him.

  “Sorry about this,” the man said to Alan. “Dude, you should see the look on your face.”

  Alan was peeved. “What’s this all about?” he said. “Who are you, and why the phony accent?”

  “You’d be surprised how much sympathy we get talking that way.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Luis, sir.” His fellow travelers joined him at his side. “And this is my wife and daughter.”

  Alan hesitantly shook the man’s hand. “My name’s Alan, and this is Amy. I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you, though.”

  “Well, you should,” said Luis.

  “Why do you say that?”

  The man and his wife looked at each other and chuckled. “Because I can fix your machine.”

  “You can?” I said, with great joy, tempered with suspicion.

  Luis shook his head. “Man, you guys kill me. You think we’re all just a bunch of ignorant day-laborers. It so happens I majored in Space Aeronautics at an American university.”

  “And I suppose your wife is an astrophysicist,” mused Alan.

  “Don’t be absurd! She barely made it through Quantum Physics.”

  “And the baby?”

  “Harvard Law . . . just kidding. But she is fielding offers from three different preschools.”

  “Then, what are you doing out here?”

  “Ah, man! A clerical screw-up with Immigration got us deported. We’ve been trying for years to get back in. Not much need for aerospace engineers where we come from, and starting a Space Program isn’t a big priority with them.”

  Luis opened a small door below the rocket engines. Inside were a jumble of hoses and pipes. He turned a valve and sniffed. “Thought so.”

  “What is it?” asked Alan.

  “Typical tourists. You’re out of gas.”

  “But the tank was full when we left.”

  “It’s empty now, pal.”

  Luis unscrewed a small cap and pulled out a dipstick. “Looks like you’ve got plenty
of unleaded, though. I can get the engine up front running with no problem. Should get you to wherever you’re going. Just, no more rocketing around the desert for you.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said.

  “I gotta ask,” said Luis. “I know why I’m out here, but what are you two doing in the middle of the desert, in a bus from a NASA salvage yard?”

  “I’m running for President of the United States,” said Alan, proudly, “and this is my campaign bus.”

  Luis picked up his water jug, grabbed his wife’s hand, and started to walk away.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  “Back to the border,” said Luis. “I’ve changed my mind about living in this country. You people are crazy.”

  Alan laid his hand on Luis’s shoulder. “Only some of us,” said Alan.

  The baby had been fidgeting throughout this whole conversation, and her mother was starting to lose her grip.

  “I remember hearing some mention of food earlier,” I said to the young woman. “Let’s see what we’ve got inside for you and the baby, while the men try to fix this bucket.”

  I escorted the mother and child into the bus and checked the fridge. “We’ve got ham and cheese,” I said, “and Cheerios for the baby. All babies like Cheerios.”

  The mother sat her child at the kitchen table. “Any peanut butter?” she asked.

  “Uh . . . sorry, someone must have eaten it all.”

  A bowl of Alan’s organically-grown fruit sat on the kitchen counter. “May I?” asked the woman, pointing to an orange.

  “Be my guest,” I said.

  I set the adorable baby on a stack of books, and scattered a handful of Cheerios across the table. “There,” I said, “now you can reach the table and play with your cereal.”

  Then I pulled a chair out for the young woman. “I didn’t catch your name,” I said.

  “Morena,” she said, taking her seat. “And this is Olivia.”

  With introductions out of the way, Morena and I shared a pleasant time chatting about ordinary things: the weather, motherhood, things like that, every topic except what her family was doing there. I felt that a little girl-talk was something she needed more.