The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun

by Paul Gallico

  “You could try.” Marshall studied Julian for a moment with considerably more interest. “Where are your folks?”

  Julian replied, “Home. In San Diego.”

  Marshall queried, “Do they know where you are?”

  Julian shook his head in negation. “. . . but I left a note saying I was g-g-going.”

  Marshall’s curiosity was driving him past the mild interest stage. He said, “It doesn’t make sense. What’s the plot, kid. Come on, give.”

  “My d-d-dad thinks I’m a sissy and no g-g-good. When I showed him my invention and said I was going to m-m-make a million dollars he laughed at me.”

  Marshall asked, “What do you mean, he laughed at you?”

  “He said to stop bothering him and to come b-b-back after I had made my m-m-million dollars. That’s why I’m g-g-going to Washington.”

  It was making less and less sense. A million dollars had a sweet ring in Marshall’s ears but, of course, it was crazy. The whole thing was absurd. A kid going to Washington because his father had laughed at him.

  He said to Julian, “You’ve got to be putting me on. What’s with your old man? What does he do?” The printing on the diagram caught Marshall’s eye again and he said suddenly, “Hey! West! Is your pop Aldrin West, the guy who owns the San Diego Bullets? Say, they’re going to have a good team this year with Korvalski throwing the passes. I’ll bet you’re a real football freak.”

  Julian shook his head. “I’m not. It makes dad mad. I think football’s crazy.”

  Suddenly a vista opened for Marshall as though a curtain had been lifted. A kid that didn’t like football. He said, “I get it. What do you like?”

  Julian shrugged and said, “I dunno. M-m-making things.”

  Marshall glanced at the diagram more intently and then again at Julian. He said, “He must know you’re gone. Your Pop’s probably having a fit right now. You say you left a note? Did you say where you were going?”

  Julian said, “No. Anyway, he wouldn’t care.”

  Marshall sat back for a moment and wondered just how true this was. These were such funny times that one couldn’t believe half of what one heard.

  But, of course, Aldrin West did care, his concern intensified by a feeling of guilt and further whipped up by one of his wife’s few genuine hysterics at the thought of Julian, to whom she only referred as “my baby”, somewhere loose in the United States to the point where there had to be a doctor and sedatives.

  The repercussion soon reached into a corner of the Missing Persons Bureau of the San Diego Police Department where a bored sergeant in shirtsleeves put on a headset to take a call and poised a pencil to take notes.

  He said, “Missing Persons Bureau, Sergeant Cassidy speaking . . . Who? . . . Oh, yes, Mr. West. Your address? . . . What’s the trouble, Mr. West? . . . Did you say bubblegum? . . . Oh, a Bubble Gun. A gun? Has he got a licence for it?”

  West’s voice nearly deafened him, “For Chrissakes, sergeant, will you listen.”

  “Sure, sure, Mr. West, I’m listening. You say he invented this Bubble Gun and left a note. Can you give me some details?” He repeated what he heard as he wrote, “Julian West, age nine and a half, reddish hair, wears glasses, has slight stammer . . . How was he dressed? . . . Oh, I see, you’re not sure. And he didn’t say where he was going?” He listened, wrote and repeated slowly, “Didn’t . . . say . . . where . . . was . . . going . . . Okay, Mr. West, that shouldn’t be too difficult. Kids usually hitch-hike. We’ll put it out on the radio. Some guy will pick it up in his car. I’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.”

  And a short while later the police teleprinter was tapping out the alarm for Julian, “MISSING FROM HOME, JULIAN WEST, AGE NINETEEN AND A HALF, RED HAIR, GLASSES, STAMMER. THOUGHT TO BE WEARING DENIM PANTS AND T-SHIRT WITH LEATHER JACKET. ANYONE SEEING PLEASE CONTACT LOCAL POLICE.”

  By mid-morning Bus 396 had metamorphosed from a Transcontinental transporter to a cosy social centre of passenger activity, relaxation and the usual familiarization. Two men, chess fiends, had already discovered one another by the thought transference that leads one player to find a second and were engrossed in what was to become a perpetual battle on a pocket set. They were already face to face, each with that gleam of fierce hatred in his eye that only a chess player knows for his opponent.

  Four other passengers, two men and two women, had become involved in a gin rummy game, all strangers to one another. One of the women was a black, a large comfortable-looking person with the most deliciously rich laugh which rang through the bus each time she filled and laid down her hand. She always seemed to be filling and laying down and the others were not liking it.

  There was so much going on to be seen and done that any fears Julian might have had at being off by himself vanished. The passenger across the aisle, a cadaverous, unhealthy-looking man with a long blue jaw had a cup of water in his hand which he had obtained from the dispenser at the back of the bus and he popped a pill into it. His eyes nearly bulged from his head as the effervescence erupted from the cup in a foamy cloud which began to engulf the back of the neck and the hair of the lady sitting in front of him, who had a good deal to say about it.

  Horror-stricken, the man was trying to explain. “Ma’am, I’m mighty sorry. See, I got to take one of these pills every hour, but it never done that before. It must be this here water.”

  Three seats to the rear the dark-haired musician whose name was Milo Balzare withdrew an odd-looking instrument from its case and began to tune it. Julian, of course, had to go and look at it. He asked, “Is that it—what you called it . . . ?”

  Balzare replied, “Yes! This is a symphonium, hurdy-gurdy. Would you like me to play something?”

  Julian said, “Yes, please.”

  The instrument had the neck, frets and strings and body of a mandolin except that at the bottom there was a curious kind of handle. Balzare began to turn this handle, which caused the thing to give forth a low humming drone against which he plucked out a gay little melody with a pick.

  The character across the aisle said, “Say, that’s great. Can you play any country music?”

  “That was a little country dance—from the Auvergne,” Balzare said, looking puzzled.

  “Naw, you know, down on the farm stuff.”

  Balzare said, “I do not know yet. I have come to this country to give concerts and to learn.”

  Marshall had put his book aside and had on his lap a small transistor radio turned down, to which he was listening with interest. The broadcast was not audible in the general racket now going on in the bus.

  Julian wandered away from the group that had gathered around the musician. He was hungry. He climbed up into his seat to enable him to take down his suitcase from the rack.

  Marshall said, “Watch yourself. What are you after?”

  Julian said, “I’m hungry. Are you?”

  Marshall said, “Not yet. I want to listen to the news.”

  Julian took his suitcase and strolled a few seats down the aisle and addressed himself to Marge and Bill who were holding hands. “Hello.”

  Marge quickly withdrew her hand from Bill’s, sat up and smiled at Julian. “Hello. What’s your name?”

  “Julian. Are you two on your honeymoon?”

  Here Marge almost gave the show away by repeating “Honeymoon!” as though the word were something poisonous before she realized that what with the ring on her finger it wasn’t quite the right reaction and said, “Oh dear, how did you know?”

  Julian said, “Aw, I’ve been watching you. Would you like a tuna-fish sandwich?”

  Marge exclaimed, “Would I!”

  Bill was not too taken with Julian’s presence. Small boys meant nuisance to him. He said, “Where are you gonna get a tuna-fish sandwich from?”

  Julian said, “Make it.”

  Bill looked surly. “Come on, who are you trying to kid? Why don’t you beat it?”

  Julian said, “I wasn’t kidding. I’ll make y
ou one.”

  He knelt down in the aisle and opened his suitcase, displaying its contents, which also included a small, very dirty teddy bear with one ear missing and most of the stuffing out of it.

  Curious now, Bill leaned over to have a look inside and was surprised to see a half loaf of white bread wrapped in cellophane, a plastic container of tuna-fish, a smaller one of mayonnaise, some lettuce leaves in transparent wrapping, and a knife. With expertise from long-time practice Julian whipped up three tuna-fish sandwiches, handing one each to Marge and Bill.

  The latter had the grace to say, “Sorry, kid. You’re great.”

  Julian said, “That’s okay,” reflected for a moment and then made a fourth which he took back to Marshall, saying as he handed to it him, “I’ll bet you’d like this if you tried it.” He sat down beside Marshall, his case beneath his feet, and chomped contentedly.

  Marshall regarded him quizzically, bit into his sandwich and said, “Not bad. What else can you do?”

  Julian had a mouthful at the time and so replied only with a shrug. He could also make a bang-up peanut butter, cream cheese and jam sandwich if he had the ingredients.

  Marshall ate silently, glancing every so often over at Julian. He had the air of a man with something on his mind.

  When they were both close to their last bite and Julian was licking his fingers, Marshall said, “Did you know the cops were after you?”

  “W-w-what?”

  Marshall indicated his now silent transistor set. “I just heard it after the news. General police alarm.”

  Wide-eyed with terror at what must surely mean the collapse of his grandiose dream, Julian asked, “Are you going to give me away?”

  Marshall replied half truculently, “What do you think I am? Why should I?”

  Julian glanced at the transistor. “Could everybody hear it?”

  Marshall shook his head in negation. “Not unless they were listening. And what if they did?”

  Julian said miserably, “I don’t want them to catch me until I get my patent.”

  Marshall nodded, “Yeah, I got that. Keep your hair on. How old are you? The cops gummed it up as usual. I’d say maybe nine, nine and a half. That right?”

  Julian nodded.

  Marshall said, “Cheer up, the fuzz added ten years. The broadcast said a boy nineteen and a half years old was missing. They’ll be looking for some jerk of a dropout. People don’t like to get mixed up with the cops anyway.” Casually, and only half meaning it, he added, “If anybody asks you, you can say you’re my kid brother.”

  Relief, wonder and admiration glowed in Julian’s eyes as he gazed up at Marshall. “Say, can I?”

  Marshall suddenly realized what he had let himself in for. “Oh, for chrissakes, no,” and then saw the hurt look of Julian at the rebuff and switched quickly, saying, “All right, all right, so you’re my kid brother.”

  Julian felt a sudden strange thrill in the vicinity of his breastbone, warm and satisfying, going on inside him and recognized it as something that occasionally happened to him when he was happy or pleased. He looked up at the man next to him and was comforted by the mantle of Marshall’s protection and his last words repeated themselves delightfully in Julian’s mind. All right, all right, so you’re my kid brother. As an only child, Julian had often longed for a brother as a confidant. With a big brother such as this one could dare anything. And now his scrutiny was beginning to yield some clues. Julian asked, “Were you in Vietnam?”

  Marshall shook his head in negation and a curious expression came over his handsome face which Julian was unable to interpret. “What makes you think so?”

  Marshall had removed his khaki jacket and it lay across his lap. Julian pointed to it.

  Marshall grimaced and said, “Army and Navy Surplus Store. I bought it.”

  “Oh, no you didn’t.”

  “What do you mean I didn’t?”

  Julian pointed to the battle jacket which now folded inside out showed Marshall’s name followed by “SGT.”

  Marshall was irritated. Behind those spectacles the kid had eyes. He was going to be even more of a nuisance than Marshall had foreseen. “Smart guy, aren’t you? Forget it, will ya, kid.”

  Julian was not going to be put off. If his new found brother was going to turn out to be a hero he wanted to know about it. He asked, “What were you? Does SGT mean sergeant?” He indicated the jacket once more. “You’ve taken off all the—”

  Marshall turned upon him angrily. “Oh, for chrissakes, I said forget it, didn’t I? That’s ancient history. Couple of years ago. So I came out of school. So they grabbed me. So I went. So I came out. Any more questions?”

  Julian was not too upset by this sudden attack for he had learned that words, even shouted ones, cannot hurt a child too much. If he had been born into a prior generation he might have chanted, “Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me.” Adults were recognized as being wasteful of words, repetitive and only half meaning what they spoke. And so he replied, “No, sir.” And then immediately after inquired, “What are you doing n-n-now?”

  Marshall was forced to repress a smile. Kids were funny and hard to beat. He replied, “What do you think? Looking for a score. Make me some bread.”

  Julian asked, “What d-d-do you do?”

  Marshall laughed. “What do you want done? You name it. I’m lousy at it. If something’s busted I can either fix it or fix it so nobody else can fix it.”

  Julian laughed politely at the old joke.

  Marshall said, “Okay, now I’ll ask you one. That was a lot of crap, wasn’t it, about your old man? I mean him not caring about you?”

  The question drew back a curtain and allowed Julian a glimpse which, in the flash of time in which a thought takes place, opened the whole vista of his life at home, part fact, part fantasy, and with this came the memory of his perpetual pain, sometimes only surface but mostly buried deep, in knowing that his father was disappointed in him. Julian quickly pulled the curtain shut again and merely shook his head in negation. It was not a lot of crap but what was the point in trying to tell.

  C H A P T E R

  6

  In the San Diego Police Headquarters and the office of a Lieutenant King, the sergeant who acted as his secretary was holding a telephone receiver delicately between thumb and forefinger. Enraged sounds were emerging from it.

  The sergeant said, “You’d better handle this, lieutenant. And maybe you ought to hold this thing with tongs. Guy named West. He’s boiling.”

  The lieutenant picked up his extension. “Lieutenant King speaking . . . yes, yes . . . who? . . . Mr. West? Aldrin West? . . . Yes, yes, sure Mr. West, I know who you are . . . about your boy . . . what? . . . Nineteen and a half . . . but . . . hang on a sec, sir.”

  He covered the mouthpiece with a palm and said, “Oh, brother, somebody boobed! Phil, let’s see those last alarms that went out. There ought to be one on the West kid.”

  The sergeant shuffled through a sheaf of papers, and said, “Here it is. Runaway. The alarm went out this morning. Why? What’s the matter?”

  The lieutenant took one glance at the sheet, murmured, “Oh Christ,” and then spoke into the telephone, “I’m sorry, Mr. West, you’re right. I’m afraid we’ve goofed. We’ll send out a correction immediately . . . Yes, sir, we’ll keep you informed. I’ll be giving it my personal attention.”

  He hung up the receiver and said to the sergeant, “That lame brain Cassidy sent out the wrong age on that runaway West kid. Nineteen and a half. He’s only nine and a half.”

  The sergeant said, “It ain’t Cassidy. It’s that goddamn teleprinter. It’s always doing that. It ought to be fixed.”

  The lieutenant said testily, “I don’t care who did what. Put out a correction and get it right.”

  Julian was happy. Travelling by bus was like finding oneself watching two movies simultaneously. There was the one flashing by endlessly outside the window and always changing and the other
inside the bus, all the people and what they were doing, the music from the strange instrument and people visiting and making friends. The tires sang their whining song as they rolled through the wild, tumbled Arizona landscape, tortured into mesas, dry arroyos, sudden rock formations like cathedrals, and deep ravines. Marshall was deeply engrossed in his book.

  Towards the front of the bus, Fate, the eternal playwright, was preparing the first of the dramas it had decided to weave about the small boy with the red hair, the steel spectacles and the stammer.

  The plot, neatly worked out, surrounded the man with the false passport who was Nikolas Allon, the Russian KGB intelligence agent, and Colonel John Sisson. Allon was worried and upset. The moment for which he had been planted twelve years before in the United States to assume a false identity had come. He had had his instructions and through a moment of bad luck which had led to an attack of nerves he had failed. He had blown two chances at the colonel’s briefcase and was certain that there would not be a third and yet he dared not fail or return to his superiors without some results. A change of plan was called for.

  The colonel was equally frustrated. Everything that had been so carefully worked out and set up, all his instructions on how to carry the plan out, had gone wrong. Unless he could improvise or in some way bring about what was wanted he was in for a record-breaking chewing-out back in Washington. He put his briefcase on his lap, took out one of the blueprints therefrom, extracted a pencil from his pocket and for want of a better idea at the moment, began to work over it, aware that he was partly visible to Allon in the driver’s central rear vision mirror.

  The seat next to Colonel Sisson, who was by the window, was empty. So was the one in front, but the back cut off the colonel just below the shoulders. However, by the movement of the colonel’s arm Allon was able to see and reconstruct that he was working on one of the blueprints in which Allon was vitally interested. He therefore prepared to put into operation a second gambit, the first having failed. To do this he had to reach up into the rack over his head, take down his small satchel, open it, search inside it and make certain preparations which took several minutes. This done he closed his satchel, replaced it in the rack and sat back to await his opportunity. In so doing he had missed the entrance of one of the principal, though wholly unexpected, members of the cast of the play. Julian had come strolling up the aisle and, standing by the empty seat next to Sisson, had queried timidly, “Sir, c-c-could I ask you something?”