The Man Who Ate the 747

by Ben Sherwood

  then she began to type.

  First, a simple headline in 36 point: WELCOME TO

  SUPERIOR.

  Then the text.

  What makes Superior great? It’s not a giant ear of corn, a beer-drinking goat, or a man eating a 747. For more than 100 years, in good times and bad, we’ve worked the land, kept faith with God, and helped our neighbors. That’s what’s superior about Superior.

  She hit Return on the carriage and the bell rang.

  Let’s make sure that when the circus leaves town—as it inevitably will—we’ve kept hold of what’s really important. You all know that The Express has never written about Wally Chubb and the 747 before. His decision to eat the plane and his reason for doing so always seemed private to us. They still do.

  But now that the story is out, and the world has rushed here to witness the event, we can’t very well look the other way. So, we’ll cover the news—the runs, hits, and errors, if you will. But we’ll leave it at that. No psychoanalysis. No up close and personal features. Just the facts.

  Almost done. A few last lines, then the presses could roll.

  So welcome to Superior, everyone. We have one simple request: that you get to know us for who we really are, not for what one man wants to eat.

  A greasy, untidy fellow rushed through the front door of the bowling alley. His stringy black hair, pasted to his skull, was splayed from one side of his head to the other. He wore a rumpled brown corduroy suit and matching tie. His nervous eyes scanned the room. He twitched with the crash of flying pins.

  It was league night. Farmers filled the long and narrow hall. Echoes bounced from the four walls—shouts, laughter, the boom of balls skidding down maple and pine. Then the stranger saw Wally in lane six, the graveyard of Superior Bowl, with a lone fluorescent tube sputtering overhead. For the first time ever, the manager had urged Wally to take a better lane, but after spending his whole life on the margins, he wasn’t about to go moving up now. While the Superior Motor Parts team whooped it up under the lights in lane five, Wally lofted his ball alone in semi-gloom.

  The stranger scampered over outstretched legs and bowling bags and charged toward Wally with business card in hand.

  “Mr. Chubb?”

  “Name’s Wally,” he said. He lowered his Brunswick Zone Pro with extrawide holes, custom-drilled in Grand Island to accommodate his fingers. He took the card.

  “Orson Swindell,” the man said. “I’m with Procter & Gamble. We make Pepto-Bismol.”

  The salesman smelled of hard liquor and Aqua Velva.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Wally.” He drew a long breath. “I won’t take up your time. Remember the McCaughey septuplets in Iowa? Pampers and Gerber owned them lock, stock, and diapers. You’re going to be bigger. Much bigger!”

  He wheezed.

  “I’m here to offer you $100,000, cash up-front, in exchange for exclusive sponsorship of your, uh, your plane-eating activities.”

  Swindell drew an imaginary banner in the air. “‘Pepto-Bismol! If you go too far with your 747, the one that coats is the one that soothes.’” He snorted at his own inventiveness.

  “Just curious,” Wally said. “What makes Pepto-Bismol pink?”

  “Good question.” As Swindell launched into a discourse on red dyes No. 22 and 28, Wally began to do the arithmetic. One hundred thousand dollars up-front. One hundred grand for what he had been doing for free. He wouldn’t make that much in 10 years even if corn prices went up. Heck, it was more cash than he could make plowing the entire state of Nebraska. One quarter would pay off the second mortgage on the farm. Another quarter would buy a decent combine and planter. The remainder would make a fine nest egg for his old age—his and Willa’s.

  “I personally think Pepto should be turquoise,” Swindell was saying. “It’s more soothing.”

  Wally turned to a small wrinkled man sitting under the light at the scoring table. He was swathed in a blue haze of smoke. “Otto, what do you think of Mr. Swindell’s offer?”

  Otto Hornbussel was 96. A retired Carson & Barnes circus clown with bright green eyes, pink cheeks, and wisps of white hair standing on end, he looked every bit an elf. He took a long quaff of red beer, belched delicately, and patted his lips with a blue bandana.

  “Par for the course,” Otto said. He puffed on an unfiltered Camel and squinted at a separate score sheet on his table, a careful tally of all the sponsorship offers from day one.

  “Folks at Tums offered 75 grand,” he said. “Maalox offered 150, but only if you get the record. Gas-X hasn’t come back with its final proposal yet.” He ran his finger down the growing list of bidders in the upset stomach and heartburn category: Rolaids, Mylanta, Ex-Lax, Gaviscon, Pepcid AC, Tagamet B, Zantac.

  He turned the page to all the other bids. “Course Black & Decker offered 200, and they guarantee TV appearances in their commercials.” He coughed. “Cuisinart is talking about 250, but you’d have to go to France, too.”

  Wally went back to the foul line, like a giant playing Skeeball. The 16-pound ball seemed miniature in his powerful hand. He lifted it up and let loose with a sweeping, graceful motion. He turned his back, listening to the smack of the pins.

  Strike.

  “Strike it rich!” Orson Swindell shouted. “We’ll double the offer. $200,000. Strike it rich.”

  Wally grinned. In his mind, he had planted a whole quarter of his land, sprinkling the cash and sponsorships like corn seed over every bump in his fields. Then in the end, he decided it would only dirty what was pure and simple. He waved good-bye to the two hundred grand.

  “Thanks for your offer,” he said, “but I don’t want your money and I don’t need your Pepto-Bismol. Love’s good enough for me.”

  Otto crumpled up his list of corporate sponsors and tossed it in the trash.

  “That’s my Wally,” Otto said, penciling a fat black X in the tenth and final frame. “You’re the champ.”

  In comforting darkness, Willa worked, relishing the smell of sodium thiosulfate in the fixer bath, the steady drip of the sump pump in the corner of the damp photo lab. Making pictures for The Express had always been her favorite job, and this basement had been her hideaway, a cool retreat on summer days, a good place to go when life got crazy.

  No phones. No farm bulletins. No hassles. There, in the belly of the building, she could focus, make pictures, and think. No fancy meditation. Just a way to find clarity …

  So after dinner and dishes at her best friend Rose’s, and a good drubbing on Jeopardy!, she hopped in the old Ford and rushed back to work.

  She had shot a whole roll of film that day at Wally’s kickoff, developed the negatives that afternoon, and now 36 exposures awaited her on the drying line, shiny strips of truth. All night, she had wanted to get back to the darkroom, to run the en-larger, to look, to know.

  She flipped on the safelight and a soft orange glow spread over the room. She slipped the last smooth sheet of developing paper into stop bath, then fixer.

  The stairs creaked. Footsteps. Who could it be at this hour?

  “Barney?” she called out to her pressman. “That you?”

  No reply. More footsteps, then five knocks on the darkroom door. Five beats in distinctive rhythm. For 25 years, the secret code to the clubhouse.

  “Dad!” she said. “You scared me.”

  “Coast clear?”

  “Come on in.”

  “Evening,” Early Wyatt said, moving through the door. “Knew I’d find you—”

  “What’s up?” she said. No doubt, he was already in bed when Mae roused him to go look for her. His black hair was a bit askew, his sharp eyes sleepy. His pajama top was well hidden beneath his Royals windbreaker. Only the slippers gave him away.

  “Your mother’s trying to find you,” he said.

  He looked past her, toward the enlarger and the photographs in the developing trays. “Everything okay? What’s so important at this hour?”

  “Just wanted to get a head start on the pa
per tomorrow—”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got—”

  “No, Dad,” Willa said, stepping between her father and the developing trays. Before she had a chance to stop him, he was already pushing the tongs into the chemicals, pulling out the wet pictures.

  He shook them out, then attached them with pins to the drying line. More than a dozen black-and-white photographs. Then he stood back and looked. So many images of the man from The Book of Records. Different angles of J.J. Smith. Close-up. Far away. Smiling. Serious. An arm around Wally. A hand on the lapel of his blue blazer.

  “He’s got a good face,” Early said. “Friendly eyes. And my gosh, what a straight nose.”

  “Think I’ll use this one for page one,” she said in a voice that wasn’t nearly as professional as she intended. “Three columns, above the fold. What do you think?”

  Early was quiet for a long time, and she knew he was looking straight through her.

  “Used to come down here with rolls of film when I was courting your mother,” he said finally. “Made pictures of her all night long. Then you showed up, and I spent even more time here, looking at the two of you. My girls.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” she said, flipping on the lights. “It’s for page one.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I’m raising the press run and adding to the stuffing crew. Going for another two thousand papers. Can’t keep up with demand.”

  “That’s good. Don’t print too many. You know what I always say. They just end up—”

  “End up on the bottom of someone’s birdcage,” she said.

  They both laughed.

  “It’s bedtime,” he said. “Night, child.”

  He kissed her on the cheek, hugged her as hard as he could, then whispered, “You don’t need to hide behind your press pass with me.”

  NINE

  The tour buses from Dallas and Chicago dumped the city folk right at the corner of Fourth and Central. Cameras slung around necks, Nebraska maps in hand, they were greeted by peddlers hawking 747 T-shirts. One design featured Wally’s giant face, mouth wide open, biting two buns with lettuce, tomato, and an airplane in between.

  In front of the Ideal Market, Mrs. Hilda Crispin, who had toiled for years in the bakery, was now making serious dough with her very own Jumbo Jet Cookbook featuring local recipes. Across the street, Superior Floral was raking it in with boutonnieres and hand-painted ribbons that said: Go Wally!

  And in the empty lot around the corner, Ace Klinker was chopping up his beloved single-engine crop duster into tiny pieces. He had wrecked the sprayer on his last drunken flight when he tried to land and smashed into a stop sign on the edge of town. To anyone with the stomach, Ace was now offering a bite of a real airplane.

  Willa thought she could hear the cash registers waking up the town. She put the green Ford into reverse and checked the rearview mirror when someone rapped on the window.

  J.J. Smith. The guy who started it all. Damn, that blue button-down was made for those eyes.

  “Hey there,” he said, leaning on the hood. “How you doing?”

  “Pretty good,” she said. “I’m on the delivery run. Dropping off papers.”

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “It’s not very interesting. I’ve got to shoot down to Mankato. Takes a good hour or so round trip.”

  “I’d enjoy that,” he said.

  She hesitated for an instant, but he seemed so eager. She nodded toward the passenger seat. “Okay, toss that bundle in the back.”

  J.J. threw the newspapers into the flatbed, then climbed in beside her. He looked happy. That little smile at the corners of his mouth made him seem almost—well, cute. Then she remembered: Don’t think that way. Blue eyes be damned. This man could be the enemy.

  “This old Ford doesn’t ride as smooth as you’re used to,” she said, pulling out onto Central. “My dad bought it new in ’67 and it’s been hauling papers ever since. Can’t bear getting a new one. Just turns money into rust. Though I could use new shocks.”

  In silence, they drove south of town, across the Republican River and over the state line into Kansas. Willa mulled over topics of conversation, rejected each one as too combative or inane. She turned on the radio and shut it off again when the reception turned to static. J.J. seemed content to stare out at land, so she named the crops, and the owners of the farmhouses, and pointed out the soaring red-tailed hawks in the sky.

  At the crest of a long, gentle incline, she pulled over to the side of the road.

  “I love this spot,” she said. “Take a look back. You can see all of Superior.”

  The two got out and stood at the edge of the slope. The sky was a clear cornflower blue and the air smelled of new hay. Down below in the valley, they could see the little town decked out in its newfound colors. Balloons floated from lampposts. Banners dangled over the streets. Two propeller planes circled above.

  Willa pointed to the east. “See over there? That’s where I grew up. The white Victorian on the edge of town. The one with the windmill.”

  “It’s beautiful,” J.J. said.

  “When I was a kid, my dad used to stop here on the paper run,” Willa continued. “We used to drink a Coke and take a long look at the valley. You can tell who’s farming well. Who’s adding on to his home. You can know so much about this place from up here. I loved running papers with my dad and learning about this country.”

  She was talking an awful lot, enjoying playing tour guide. She knew what she wanted—to make this man understand this place.

  “I used to drive with my dad, too,” J.J. said. “He marked roads for the Ohio Department of Transportation. He used to let me mix and heat the paint, even spray it on asphalt. At the end of a good stretch, we’d stop and look back at what we’d done. ‘Those lines put order in people’s lives,’ he used to say. Then he’d slap me on the head. ‘No stopping now, kid, there’s always more road ahead.’”

  Willa imagined J.J. as a boy, helping his dad paint stripes on those endless roads. She felt a wee bit of jealousy, that he had gotten himself out of the Midwest, broken free of his roots and seen the world. And yet she felt a kindred connection—they both came from nowhere, grew up in the back of trucks with their fathers, and learned what really mattered in life.

  “This your favorite spot?” J.J. was asking.

  “It’s pretty special,” she said, “but the best is right over there.” She pointed to a bend in the river. “See those cottonwood trees. I’ve spent whole summer days down there by the water. Safest place in the world to escape.”

  “So how does the town look now?”

  She shook her head. “Different.”

  “Different bad? Or different good?”

  “Too soon to tell,” she said.

  J.J. smiled. “It’ll only get better.”

  She ran her hand over her neck and felt the moisture. Then she pulled her hair up over her head to cool off. It wasn’t just the heat of late afternoon. It was the feeling, surprising and inescapable, that she liked him. Simple as that. She turned to face him. “I guess you’ve seen this happen before.”

  J.J. shrugged. “More than once. On more than one continent.”

  “You like to travel?” she asked.

  “Sure, but I get bored pretty fast if I stay too long. How about you?”

  “Been to Lincoln,” she said. “More than once.”

  They both laughed. She wondered how fast he would get bored with Superior. How soon would he move on? Would he even wait for Wally to finish off the plane?

  “I can imagine you in other places,” he said.

  She gave him a sneak of a smile. “Like where?”

  “Like a little café in Santa Margherita Ligure.”

  “Where’s that?” she said.

  “Italy. A village on the water. I can see you drinking Asti and all the waiters fighting over you.”

  “Asti Spumante?”

  “Sort of,” he said. “Asti de Miranda
. World’s best fizz. That’s not an official record, but it’s my favorite. Smells like apricots, figs, even a bit of sage. Tastes creamy, like heaven.”

  Willa dipped her eyes. All this talk about Italy and bubbles. Was he trying to impress her? Or was he coming on to her? She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Wished she had on a prettier dress, more stylish, not so faded by the sun.

  “I’ve always wanted to see Italy,” she said.

  “You ever think about leaving Nebraska?” he asked.

  “Not really.” Her thoughts were coming quickly now. It was a familiar fantasy spun out in her daydreaming since childhood. A worldly man—like J.J. Smith—would sweep her off her feet and take her away from Superior. Where they ran—their destination—never really mattered.

  “Going away to college was a good thing,” she said, “but my roots are here. I belong here.” She dropped her hair from above her head and it tumbled down over her shoulders. “God, that sounds boring.”

  “Not boring. But I never understood people afraid to leave home.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Okay. But don’t you want to see the ocean? Stand on top of a skyscraper? Drink sparkling wine in an outdoor café?”

  What could she say that wouldn’t make her seem like a hayseed? Was he getting personal because he was interested? Or was he just messing with her head?

  “Shucks, mister. How far can you go on a tractor?”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said. “World record is 14,500 miles. England to Zimbabwe.”

  “Very funny,” she said. “Time to go.” She opened the truck door, climbed up, and started the engine as

  J.J. got back in. They drove a few miles, then Willa broke the silence.

  “Don’t you ever get homesick?”

  “Nope,” he said. “I don’t have a home the way you mean it.”

  “What about New York?”

  “That’s more like home base. I get mail there and keep a change of clothes.”

  “Where’s your family?” she asked.

  “My folks are gone,” he said. “Happened a long time ago—”