“Your rack?” Stella repeated as she bent down to place the last pamphlet into the box.
“My instrument rack,” the man clarified before placing a hand on one knee and pushing himself upright, sending an Allen key tumbling from the front pocket of his blue denim work shirt in the process. “Damn it,” he exclaimed before picking up the tool and placing it in the back pocket of his jeans. “I was talking about my instrument rack. I’m with Salvage Symphonies. The name’s Dan but most people just call me the Salvage Guy.”
Stella extended a hand to the Salvage Guy. “Hi, I’m Stella. And this is my husband, Nick.”
On cue, Nick stood up and shook Dan’s hand.
“Nick’s here with the U.S. Forest Service,” Stella continued. “I’m here to assist, when necessary, and to enjoy the weekend.”
“Hey, the ladies at the registration table told us about you. They said you make music from…” Nick struggled to find a term that would not offend. Trash? Garbage? Salvage? Recyclables?
“Junk,” the salvage guy stated matter-of-factly. “Yeah, I make music from junk. It’s kind of cool. You wanna see?”
“Sure,” Nick shrugged. Taking the box of marketing materials with them, he and Stella followed the salvage guy into his tent.
The list of items collected within the twenty foot square space was so broad, so diverse, that one could easily imagine that he or she had stepped inside one of those hidden object games published in children’s magazines. Wires, amplifiers, and audio equipment mingled freely with soup pots, hubcaps, road signs, skateboards, saw blades, plastic food containers, tin cans, bricks, blocks, rocks, a car fender, and even an old cafeteria lunch tray.
“It’s usually more organized than this,” the salvage guy apologized. “But as I said, the whole rack collapsed and sent everything crashing down.”
“Some of this stuff is pretty heavy,” Nick noticed. “What do you use as for a rack? I mean, I assume you travel with all this… junk. You’d have to use something sturdy, but lightweight.”
The salvage guy nodded and pulled a length of pipe from the wreckage. “Aluminum alloy. It’s the handrail from a baseball stadium that got torn down. I fit these pieces together, attach all my junk with elastic and hook and eyes so that it looks like a drum kit, and I’m all set. Compacts easily, too.”
Stella, meanwhile, had picked up a heavy metal pot lid from the pile. “Is this a pressure cooker lid?”
“Sure is,” the salvage guy conceded.
“Wow, my mom had one of these when I was growing up. Haven’t seen one in ages!”
“Yeah, my mom had one too. That’s it, actually. It was one of my first pieces of junk. Wait until you hear it,” he grinned, as he picked up a wooden stick with a wooden ball at the end and padded with some sort of fabric, took the lid from Stella, and struck it.
The tent was suddenly filled with a rich, low gong-like sound. “That’s amazing,” Stella marveled.
Nick, meanwhile, had discovered a man’s single sport sock, lying alone in the corner of the tent. “What do you use this for?”
“Oh, I put my empty wine bottles in socks.”
“Wine bottles?”
“Yeah, I pack them in socks, so that they don’t break while traveling. Thank goodness I hadn’t finished unpacking all of them when this came down.” From another corner of the tent, he produced a shopping bag filled to the brim with sock covered bottles. “See? I attach them to a wooden frame and they become a xylophone.”
“And what about the banana?” Stella asked, pointing to the slightly speckled yellow fruit, which rested atop an amplifier.
“Oh, that’s the rest of my lunch,” he smiled. “Good thing that wasn’t near the rack either, huh? Would have gotten squashed.”
As the Salvage Guy grabbed the banana from the amplifier and began peeling it eagerly, Stella and Nick exchanged knowing glances.
“Well, we had better head over to our tent and set up,” Nick excused as he picked up his box of Forest Service paraphernalia.
“Yeah, it’s getting pretty close to preview time isn’t it?” Dan acknowledged. “What time is it anyway?”
“Quarter past two,” Stella announced.
“Jeeze,” the Salvage Guy exclaimed as he tossed his banana aside. “I’d better get moving! Hey, feel free to pop over here whenever you get a chance. I’d like you to see my rack when it’s all together.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” Nick agreed. “We’re here for the whole weekend, so we’ll have plenty of time to stop by.”
“Oh, hey, that’s right. Meagan said you two were staying at the house. I’m in the room between the robotics guy and Morehouse’s stepson.”
“We’re on the other side of the robotics guy and across the hall from the glass blower,” Stella explained.
“Cool,” Dan said approvingly. “I’ll catch up with you folks later, then. For drinks and dinner.”
Stella nodded as she and Nick edged their way to the perimeter of the tent. “Absolutely. See you then.”
“Bye!” Dan shouted after them.
“Glass cadavers and a junkyard serenade,” Stella remarked when they were safely inside their own tent.
“I know. You can’t make this stuff up.” Nick plopped the box of marketing materials onto the long collapsible table provided by the fair and removed the lid. “The Salvage Guy seems nice enough. Bit eccentric of course, but nice enough.”
“Mmm,” Stella grunted her agreement. “You think he’s married or am I going to be listening to the two of you talk shop all weekend?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “You saw how much junk the guy came with today. Even if he had a wife, I’m not sure he could fit her in his car.”
“Car?” Stella challenged. “Can you imagine what his house looks like? Yeah, he’s probably single. Most women are on their husbands to get rid of all the junk that gathers around the house. This guy just brings more home. I don’t see how anyone in their right mind would ever put up with that.”
Chapter Three
At three thirty on the dot, a wave of school buses descended upon the sheep pasture that lay just beyond the fairgrounds, transforming the mottled green and gold fields into a sea of bright yellow and black. Approximately two hundred and fifty children fitting every size, shape, and physical description bounded through the Creator’s Cavalcade gates with an exuberance and enthusiasm reserved for holidays and beautiful Friday afternoons early in the school year.
As Stella and Nick watched the children draw near, a boisterous metal clank erupted from the tent next door, followed by a mesmerizing, tribal-like rhythm played at a moderately high volume.
After a few moments had elapsed, Stella, who had begun swaying in time with the music, shouted to her husband, “It’s a bit on the loud side, but it’s good.”
“Yeah,” Nick agreed, his voice booming. “I like it. And it’s no louder than a club on a Saturday night.”
Stella nodded. “Not sure why that woman warned us about the noise level.”
Nick shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t know. I think we’re going to be fine.”
With that, a group of six or seven mop-topped boys ran into the adjacent tent. Nick and Stella stepped forward to watch as they rushed the Salvage Guy, who was busy keeping the beat on a rack loaded with saw blades, tin cans, and buckets.
“Hey, kids,” he greeted. “Grab a stick and a piece of junk and play along.”
The boys scurried to the corner of the tent where a giant pile of objects had been amassed. Within seconds, all manner of junk – maple syrup bottles, wooden planks, frying pans, paint buckets, trash can lids, food storage containers – were snatched by eager hands ready to beat them with a drumstick, or, in this case, a wooden dowel cut into child-friendly lengths.
“Um, we may have spoken too –” the last of Stella’s words were drowned out by the din of the boys’ enthusiastic clashes and clangs, which never quite kept in time with the rhythm the Salvage Guy was playing.
> “Did you happen to pack some Tylenol in that steamer trunk of yours?” Nick shouted over the racket.
As Stella shook her head in the negative, Meagan McArdle appeared at her side. She beckoned them to follow her toward the alternative energy vehicle tent. “I stopped by to see how you were faring,” she stated when they were far enough away from the music to speak in normal tones.
“Yeah, we’re, uh…” Nick scratched the back of his head. “We’re okay, I guess.”
Meagan flashed a knowing grin. “Today will be the worst of it, I assure you. This is the fifth year in row that Dan – the Salvage Guy – has played this event and he always lets the kids run a little wild during the preview. He knows he only has them here for a couple of hours and that most of them won’t be back for the rest of the fair, so he encourages them to explore all the different sounds the junk can make. The rest of the weekend he’ll be holding instrument-making workshops and playing concerts. Solo concerts. There will only be two or three ‘jam sessions’ with the kids. So the whole thing will be far more structured and less…”
“Migraine inducing?” Nick offered with a grin.
Meagan’s grin grew broader. “To put it in colorful terms, yes.”
The music, as well as the discordant clanging, came to an abrupt halt. Meagan, Nick, and Stella watched in bewilderment as the group of boys ran past them and down the aisle. A matter of seconds later, another group of children ran past them heading in the same direction.
As they passed, one boy shouted, “Iron Man is this way!”
“Iron Man?” Meagan frowned in puzzlement. “Excuse me. I’d better go see what the fuss is about.”
“Sure,” Nick excused as he and Stella watched as large groups of kids bustled past them. “Maybe we should check it out too?”
“Why not?” Stella agreed. “It’s not like anyone’s going to want to hear about the Junior Rangers while Iron Man is hanging around.”
They followed the crowd of children to a clearing beside the hospitality tent, where a small makeshift stage had been erected. There, on the elevated plywood platform, stood a man in his late twenties to early thirties. He was bearded, slightly paunchy and dressed in a Radiohead t-shirt, a pair of well-worn khakis, and a blue and green plaid flannel shirt. Beside him stood a man of slight build, in his mid to late fifties, who bore more than a passing resemblance to the late actor James Mason. However, more incredible than this likeness was what the man was wearing over his street clothes: a fully articulated robotic exoskeleton seemingly made entirely of white plastic.
When the murmurs, squeals, and giggles of the young crowd had settled to a dull roar, the man in the robotic suit stepped to the microphone. “Good afternoon and welcome to the Sixth Annual Creator’s Cavalcade Arts and Technology Festival. My name is Philip Morehouse, founder of the Creator’s Cavalcade and the Wanda Rousseau-Morehouse Foundation. The gentleman to my right is Creator’s Cavalcade’s resident robotics expert, Kenneth Zolar.”
Morehouse’s speech was interrupted by a small smattering of applause. “Thank you,” he resumed. “And thank you for being here on such a beautiful fall day. I hope that you enjoy exploring the fair and that our presenters inspire you to do some creating of your own. Now, before you all ask me why I look less like Iron Man and more like a Star Wars stormtrooper, allow me to present to you what Mr. Zolar and I call HALLE: Hydraulic Assistive Lifting & Loadbearing Exoskeleton. Designed to assist in military, construction, and rescue missions, HALLE amplifies and expands physical function, making what previously seemed impossible, possible.”
The crowd of children fell silent as they watched with highly interested eyes. Meanwhile, Stella caught a glimpse of Meagan standing to the side of the stage, her mouth pursed in obvious disapproval.
Morehouse continued the presentation: “When a person attempts to move their body, nerve signals are sent from the brain to the muscles through the motor neurons, moving the muscular and skeletal systems. When this happens, small biosignals can be detected on the surface of the skin. HALLE registers these signals through a sensor attached to the skin of the wearer. Based on the signals obtained, the power unit moves the joint to support and amplify the wearer's motion. Watch.”
Morehouse stepped down from the stage. As he moved, the articulations of the suit – which matched Morehouse’s own shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints – became illuminated with an eerie green glow. The crowd ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed.’
“Don’t get too excited just yet. It does more than that,” he announced as he gestured to an industrial sized trash container, that had clearly been placed near the stage for the purpose of the demonstration. “Made from heavy gauge steel, this empty dumpster was constructed to hold three thousand pounds of trash. Unfilled, it weighs approximately 450 pounds.”
As the robotic exoskeleton whirred and buzzed and the green lights flashed on and off, Morehouse bent at the knees and proceeded to lift one end of the dumpster as if it were a pallet of egg cartons.
The audience of children and teachers gasped and squealed in awe and delight, with the exception of one boy in the back of the crowd, who shouted quite loudly, “Fake!”
“Fakery?” Morehouse challenged. “Come up here and see for yourself.”
The boy, who appeared to be approximately twelve years old, simultaneously smirked and blushed as he was waved forth by one of the adult chaperones.
“What’s your name?” Morehouse asked when the boy reached the dumpster.
“Liam,” he answered, still smirking.
Morehouse shook hands with the boy and then challenged him to try and move the dumpster. “Kick it, lift it, push it. Whatever you can think of to move it.”
As instructed, Liam pushed, kicked, and lifted from various positions and angles but to no avail. “It’s a trick. You must have pushed a button or something.”
“It’s not a trick, Liam. This is science, not a magic show.”
“Well, how is the thing powered?”
“Excellent question! As you can see, the version I’m wearing is plugged into an external power source.” Morehouse held the power cord aloft for all to see. “However, the working version of HALLE will have its own revolutionarily lightweight, incredibly long-lasting, individual power pack.”
“Cool,” Liam noted. “Can I try it on?”
Liam’s question unleashed a frenzy among the audience, prompting children to raise their hands, beg, whine, and plead to be the next to try the suit.
Morehouse raised a hand in a bid for silence. “No one gets to try on the suit, unfortunately. However, if you’re interested in the mechanics behind the suit, you can check out Mr. Zolar’s tent. He has some interesting activities for you all. Right, Mr. Zolar?”
Zolar looked like a deer trapped in headlights. “Um yeah, yeah, we have… we have lots of cool stuff over at the robotics tent. Arduino and simple robots and the computers to program them. I uh, I’ll head over there now.”
With that, Zolar left the stage. As he brushed past Stella and Nick, who had moved to the sidelines so as not to block the children’s view, they could hear Zolar mutter under his breath. “God damn dog and pony show. I get no respect at all.”
No sooner had Zolar left the stage area than more than half the audience took off to follow him.
“Stay inquisitive, everyone,” Morehouse exclaimed to the crowd as they filtered out of the stage area. “And enjoy the fair!”
Meagan smiled and nodded in greeting to a few of the adult chaperones before flying to Morehouse’s side. “What do you think you’re doing, Philip? Has that suit even been tested? You could have been injured pulling a stunt like that.”
“I’m fine, Meagan. The suit has been tested several times and hasn’t failed yet.”
“And the battery pack? You know you shouldn’t be near such things.”
“The battery has been removed. That’s why I’m plugged into a generator.” He motioned to a machine positioned behind the stage. “By the way, would you
mind unplugging me, please?”
Meagan complied and then returned. “I’m sorry for attacking you, Philip. It’s just that you were scheduled to demonstrate the suit tomorrow, not today. The change caught me off guard and I… well, you know how I worry about you,” she apologized sheepishly.
“I know,” Morehouse smiled, tenderly. “You need to understand that I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize things – especially now. And, as for the demonstration, we’re still on for tomorrow. I just wanted to trot it out today – for them. The majority of those children come from households that can barely afford food, let alone an afternoon at a science expo. That means we need to make the most out of the little time they’re here.”
Meagan returned Morehouse’s smile. “You’re incredible. You know that?”
“Bah, not really,” Morehouse dismissed. “I simply want every child to leave here feeling charged. Our job is to get them to go home talking about what they’ve seen and going back to school on Monday wanting to learn more.”
“I think you succeeded. Those kids barreled toward the robotics tent as if we were handing out free pizza.”
“I’m sure Zolar is delighted,” Morehouse stated drolly as he slid an arm around Meagan’s waist.
Stella gestured to her husband and they turned away from the stage area, back toward their tent. Along the way, they nearly collided with the Salvage Guy, who was flustered, sweaty, and running toward the now-vacant stage. “Hey, I was fixing my rack after those boys left – one of the dang saw blades came loose – and when I finished I saw that everyone had gone. What’s going on?”
“You just missed it. Morehouse just demonstrated a robotic suit,” Nick informed the percussionist.
“Really? How cool!”
“”Yeah,” Stella chimed in. “With the suit on, he was able to lift an entire dumpster by himself. The kids loved it.”
“A dumpster?” the Salvage Guy repeated excitedly. “Was there any good junk in it?”
“No, it was empty,” Stella replied.
“Oh,” he sighed in disappointment. “Well, at least the suit is still kinda cool.”
Short-Circuited in Charlotte: A Pret' Near Perfect Mystery Page 3