Billy Sure Kid Entrepreneur and the Everything Locator

by Luke Sharpe

  “Well, let’s see if we can pull the finder mechanism out of the backpack,” I say. “Then we can break it down and see how to expand it to find anything, anywhere, and make it come to us.”

  “Okay then,” says Clayton, rubbing his hands together.

  “If this works like we hope, it’ll have so many applications,” Manny says. “Just think—no more lost dogs and cats. This could be huge!”

  Clayton looks over his shoulder at Manny, who is filling out a marketing plan for the Everything Locator, and then back at me.

  “Manny really does plan everything before the invention even exists,” he says.

  I smile. “WELCOME TO SURE THINGS, INC.”

  Clayton works steadily, with me making suggestions as we go. About an hour later we have a working prototype. Well, a prototype. We’ll find out in a minute whether it works.

  “I set it up so that this device can plug into the headphone port of a smartphone,” Clayton explains.

  He holds up a long thin plastic box with a single wire coming out of it.

  I like the way he thinks. Making an invention more accessible! Now let’s see if it works.

  Clayton plugs the device into his phone.

  “What should I ask for, Billy?” he asks.

  “How about something you already know is in this room?” I suggest.

  “Hmm . . .” Clayton thinks, rubbing his chin exactly the way Manny does when he’s trying to solve a problem.

  “I got it,” I say. I take the device and walk over to Clayton’s lunchbox. I know that Clayton always has gummy bears in his lunchbox.

  I hold the device up to my mouth.

  “Gummy bears,” I say. Nothing happens. “Gummy bears,” I repeat.

  Still nothing.

  “Maybe you need to be closer, Billy,” says Clayton.

  I hold the device right above the lunchbox.

  “Gummy bears,” I say again. But again nothing happens.

  I open the lunchbox and say it again. Still nothing.

  I can see Clayton’s face drooping with disappointment. To me, failures, trial and error, and constant tweaking are all part of the inventing process. But Clayton is new at this and I can see it has really gotten him down.

  I lower the locator into the open lunchbox. It’s so close that it’s practically touching the gummy bears.

  “GUMMY BEARS,” I say, one more time.

  Finally the device lights up and starts saying, “I have found the gummy bears” in a robotic voice.

  Clayton perks up a bit.

  “Okay, so we know now that it works,” I say, trying to sound as cheery as possible. “What we need to do is expand the range of this invention. It’s got to find everything, everywhere, like something called the Everything Locator should.”

  “Yes!” says Clayton. He opens up the device again and gets back to work.

  A short while later we try it again.

  “Red pen,” I say. The device lights up. “I have found the red pen,” says the robotic voice.

  Something starts moving on my desk, then comes flying across the room, headed right for the Everything Locator.

  “It’s working!” Clayton shouts with glee.

  And that’s when we see what is actually flying across the room.

  “That’s not a pen, it’s a pin!” I shout.

  Fortunately, it’s a safety pin, which happens to be closed. I snatch the pin out of midair.

  “I think you need to tweak the device’s hearing unit,” Manny says. “Under the wrong circumstances, this could get really dangerous.”

  “Yes,” says Clayton. “Tweaking. More tweaking.”

  “I think we should call it quits for the day,” I say. “It’s getting late. But great work today, Clayton. Really great. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “You bet, Billy!” he says.

  When I pull up to my back door a little while later, I hear someone calling to me from Dad’s studio (also known as the old garden shed).

  “Can you come in here for a moment, Billy?” Dad asks.

  Is this something about the move?

  I take a deep breath, and Philo and I walk into Dad’s studio.

  Billy Sure, Kid Painter?

  DAD’S STUDIO IS PRETTY COOL. It’s got this kind of hip, dark lighting, and lots of sketches that will eventually become paintings. It just feels like my Dad’s space. I wonder if he’ll have a similar studio in Italy.

  Tacked to the wall I see sketches of Philo’s ear, Philo’s toenail, Philo’s nose . . . well, you get the idea. I also see the early sketches of paintings that Dad did about his favorite kitchen concoctions.

  I pause at the sketch of pineapple-artichoke lasagna. I remember when Dad made that, though I’ve tried hard to forget. I also see a sketch of a string-bean chocolate-pudding omelet—one of Dad’s Sunday morning “specials.” And there’s a sketch of a lobster and cheesecake wrap with a ketchup drizzle.

  My brain seems to have forgotten that one, although as I look at the picture, my stomach remembers with a sick feeling.

  Dad sits at his easel. His palette of paints—every color of the rainbow—sits beside him. His brushes are lined up neatly. On his art table, next to his easel, Dad has a line of shoes. Oh yeah, that’s another thing—no shoes can be worn in the studio. I take my shoes off and wipe down Philo’s paws.

  “How’s the painting going, Dad?” I ask, wondering why he called me in here in the first place.

  “GREAT! GREAT!” he says, almost too enthusiastically. “I just started working on a new project that I think will be perfect for my Italian portfolio. It’s a series of paintings of the bottoms of shoes—everything from work boots to sneakers to high heels. Take a look.”

  I look at all the sketches of shoes. Some even have gum splotches on them. Dad always goes for realism in his paintings. He even included boogers in his painting of Philo’s nose.

  I see the canvas Dad is working on. I find it pretty ironic that Dad is painting shoes but won’t let you wear them in the studio, but I don’t say anything. The canvas has a half-finished painting of the bottom of a roller skate. I guess that’s kind of cool—the roller skate looks really different from a regular shoe!

  “Can you do me a favor, Billy?” Dad asks. “Can you show me the bottoms of your shoes? You’ve been walking around all day, and I’d just love to see the dirt your shoes have collected!”

  Wait, what? Did he call me in here just to see my shoes? I take them off the shoe rack and hold them up.

  “Wow—that speck of dirt on the heel! Good stuff, Billy, good stuff!” Dad says cheerfully.

  “It’s cool how you can get inspired by stuff most people wouldn’t pay attention to otherwise,” I say.

  Then Dad gets an idea.

  “Would you like try painting something, Billy?” he asks.

  This really catches me by SURPRISE. I mean, I’ve never even thought about trying to paint outside of art class. I guess I’m just worried that my artistic talent is about as good as my singing talent—which is to say, pretty bad!

  “Here’s a fun thing about art,” Dad says, almost like he can read my brain. “It doesn’t matter if everyone else likes your painting or even if they think it’s weird. As long as you like it, that’s good enough. Remember, there are people out there who think the Mona Lisa is terrible!”

  Hmm. I never thought of it that way—painting for you, and not other people. That’s definitely not how it works with inventing. I do have to say, though, this makes perfect sense coming from Dad, considering the kinds of paintings he does. I suddenly feel REALLY PROUD of my dad. And I suddenly decide that, you know what? It might actually be fun to paint.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, picking up a paintbrush. “Let’s get this started!”

  Dad quickly sets up a second easel next to his. He pulls out a fresh canvas and another palette of paints.

  “So, what do you think you’d like to paint?” he asks.

  I think about it for a second.
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  “I want to paint things that I don’t want to forget when we move to Italy,” I say.

  Dad nods and goes back to his own painting.

  I start by sketching out what I hope looks like the World Headquarters of Sure Things, Inc. Only it doesn’t really look like the headquarters at all. It kinda looks lopsided and weird.

  Before I start to judge myself, I remember what Dad just said.

  As long as you like it, that’s good enough.

  I go back to work, adding colors to my sketch. Soon I have a painting of the World Headquarters—or at least the Billy Sure version of the World Headquarters, complete with aliens and elves, because I kinda think it would be cool to work with aliens and elves.

  I go on to paint a picture of the outside of Fillmore Middle School and the constant mess that is my room at home. I would paint Philo, but looking around . . . I think Dad’s got that covered. Also, Philo is coming to Italy with us.

  “What do you think, Dad?” I ask when I’m done.

  Dad puts down his brushes and walks over to my easel. He stares for a second, scratching his chin.

  “I like these,” he says. “They are unique. They are expressive. And mostly, THEY ARE YOU. Nobody else told you what to paint. I love that. Now, why don’t you try to push your creative boundaries even further?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I say.

  “One great thing about painting is that it’s not a photograph,” Dad explains. “It doesn’t have to show the real world as it would look if you took a photo.”

  I think I understand what Dad means, although, glancing at my paintings again, I can’t imagine anyone confusing them for photographs.

  “Let your imagination go,” Dad continues. “Think of a place you’d like to be, even one you’ve never actually seen, and imagine what it might look like. That’s a pretty good place to start.”

  Then Dad goes back to his own painting.

  Hmm . . . a place I’d like to see that I’ve never been to . . . oh, I know! Space! Before I got into inventing, I wanted to be an astronaut. I’ve also always wanted to see Earth from space.

  Excited and energized, I start sketching out the globe. Soon I have a picture of Earth as it might be seen from space.

  It doesn’t have to show the real world . . .

  And then I add a finishing touch. I paint another planet right next to it—this time, a Philo planet!

  “What do you think, Dad?” I say. “I guess you could say that Philo is in his own orbit!”

  Dad looks over and smiles. “I love it, Billy! I love how you used your imagination. After all, that’s what art is all about!”

  Dad’s a pretty smart guy. I think he knows how worried I am about this upcoming move and this really helped take my mind off of it for a little while. Painting also helps me feel a little closer to him. Yup, a pretty smart guy.

  I show Philo the painting, but he doesn’t seem to register the dog planet as him, even though I say, “That’s you, boy!” I wish I had the CAT-DOG TRANSLATOR on me right now.

  I grab my painting and head into the house. Dad is right behind me, having just finishing his painting of, um . . . my shoe. As soon as I walk through the front door, Emily comes over to me.

  “What’s that?” she asks, pointing at my canvas.

  I flip the painting around, bracing myself for whatever mean thing my older sister is probably going to say.

  “Ah, Philo sotto il letto,” Emily says. “For you Americans, that means ‘Philoworld.’ ”

  “Actually, honey, what you said means ‘Philo under the bed,’ ” Dad explains.

  I snicker. “Well, who’s to say that Emily doesn’t interpret my painting as a picture of a bed with Philo under it?”

  “Very funny,” Emily says. “Or as we say in Italy, molto finestra!”

  We say in Italy? So now Emily is suddenly a native Italian person?

  “You just said ‘VERY WINDOW,’ sweetie,” Dad tells her. “That doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Well, neither does Billy’s painting,” Emily says, shrugging. She heads to the kitchen.

  I don’t let Emily’s comments bother me.

  “I’m going to hang this at World Headquarters tomorrow,” I tell Dad. “That way, whenever Manny looks at it he’ll think of me . . . and Philo, of course. Philo didn’t do much inventing, but he did come to the office with me every day.”

  Philo yips in agreement.

  • • •

  The next day after school I bring my painting to the office. Manny and Clayton are already there when I arrive.

  “What’s that, Billy?” Clayton asks, pointing to the painting.

  I flip it around and hold it up for them to see.

  “A Philo planet!” Clayton says.

  At the sound of his name, Philo barks, trots over to Clayton, and licks his face. Clayton giggles.

  “I think it should go there,” Manny says, pointing to a spot on the wall above Philo’s doggy bed.

  “Great,” I say.

  With Clayton’s help, the painting is soon hung.

  “All right,” I say, stepping back and admiring my painting. I have to admit, this little exercise was a lot of fun, but the time has now come for my real work—inventing!

  Clayton and I head over to my workbench and take apart the prototype we built yesterday.

  “So the problem at this point is RANGE,” I remind Clayton. “We want this thing to find a missing object no matter how far away it is.”

  “If we increase the amplification level of the tracking sensor, that could help a lot,” Clayton says.

  “Which one is the tracking sensor?” I ask, staring into the open device at a jumble of wires, circuit boards, and connectors.

  “This thing here,” Clayton says, pointing.

  “That looks like a peanut shell,” I say. “What is it?”

  “A peanut shell made of metal,” Clayton replies. “I have found that it holds certain connectors together very well, and is just small enough to fit inside the device.”

  Clayton digs in. He pushes, bends, and adjusts most of the components. I pull out my boxes of parts, and he rummages through those, gathering what he needs. I help him when I can, but he seems to have this under control.

  After about an hour he’s ready to do a test. We plug the device into Clayton’s phone.

  “What should we have it find, Billy?” he asks.

  I look around. I spot a red phone all the way on the other side of the room.

  “How about that red phone?” I say. “That’s a pretty good distance away.”

  Clayton nods. Then he leans over to the device and says, “Red phone.”

  Ding! Ding! Ding! The device starts beeping and flashing. I hear a rattling from across the room.

  “It’s working!” I say.

  Suddenly, one of Philo’s dog bones comes flying toward us! It lands next to the device. Then another bone comes flying in our direction . . . only this one is still in Philo’s mouth!

  Eyes wide, ears flapping behind him, Philo comes soaring through the air, being propelled forward by the bone in his mouth. Thankfully, I catch him before he crashes into the workbench, and place him back down on the floor.

  “Looks like the device still has a hearing problem,” I say. “Red phone, not dog bone. Back to work.”

  Once again we open up the device and get busy. After a few more trials Clayton and I still haven’t come very far.

  “This is the point where I start to wonder if maybe I should give up,” I say under my breath.

  “Who said anything about GIVING UP?” Manny asks, speaking up for the first time since we began tweaking the device. Manny never interferes with the actual creative inventing process, but he’s always there to offer encouragement—like he just did. Reason #399 why I’m going to miss seeing Manny every day once I go to Italy.

  “What do we do now, Billy?” Clayton asks.

  Manny and I look at each other. We both know what nee
ds to happ0en next. “Sleep-invent!” we say in unison.

  “Can you do that, Billy?” Clayton asks hopefully.

  “I’ve done it lots of times,” I say. And I have. Usually when I’m in the middle of a project or close to being done with it, I sleep-invent. While I’m sleeping, I draft up some blueprints that solve whatever problems I’ve been having with my invention.

  “Cool!” says Clayton. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with!”

  With that, we decide to wrap things up for today. Clayton leaves and I walk over to Manny’s desk. It’s time for me to tell Manny something I’ve been mulling over for a while.

  “You know, Manny,” I say, feeling kinda nervous. “I think that once I’m gone, Clayton might be able to help you. I mean, having someone here in the office has always been good for us. Even though I’ll be video-chatting in, he could be my hands, so to speak.”

  To my surprise, Manny shrugs.

  “I like Clayton,” he says. “But we’ll have to see, Billy. Let’s not make any decisions right now.”

  I nod, then head for home.

  When I walk through the front door, I see all the paintings I made with Dad lined up in the hallway, waiting to be wrapped and shipped to Italy.

  Emily walks up and down the hall, looking at the paintings as if our hallway has become an ART GALLERY OPENING. She pauses and looks at each one, tilting her head slightly to the side, stepping back for a better view.

  Here it comes, some snarky comment, as if she were an art critic about to write a one-star review for a fancy art magazine.

  “You know, Billy,” Emily says after a few more moments of looking, tilting, and stepping around. “You are actually a pretty buono scoiattolo.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I think.”

  Dad speaks up from the next room where he is packing. “I know you are trying to tell Billy that he’s a pretty good painter, Em, but you actually called him ‘a good squirrel.’ ”

  “I meant to say that!” Emily says, then she heads up to her room.

  I follow her upstairs and go to my room where I stare at a bunch of empty boxes. In the morning, the move to Italy will be ten days away, and I still haven’t packed a single thing. I just can’t bring myself to start. How do you start packing all your stuff to move to another country?! If only I could SLEEP-PACK. . . .