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8Author(s): Scott SolomonSource: The North American Review, Vol. 291, No. 1 (Jan. - Feb., 2006), pp. 25-30Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25127515 .

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N A R

i

?? "T~*\ veryone's a winner!"

I-H Repeated with relish, the words of the potbellied 1 J scoutmaster fell like inedible manna on the uniformed

sons and uniformly flanneled fathers filing into Adlai E.

Stevenson II Elementary School.

Mr. Gullett's catchphrase came with a catch. Chip Ironlord

had won Pack 618's annual Pinewood Derby against all comers

from the time he entered Cub Scouts at age six up through the

Tiger, Bobcat, Wolf, Bear, and Webelo ranks. He was a certain

victor, albeit in his final year of eligibility, after which his ten

year-old body would morph into a Boy Scout or some other

fauna.

Not that it mattered, but at the end of each year's race,

Professor Charles Ironlord bragged that Chip was a chip off the

ole block, having inherited his father's facility with chisel and

awl. Naturally, this innate ability superseded Charles's access to

facilities in the realm of mass, density, momentum, gravity,

graduate studentry, and other Dozier University tools that were

only theoretically applicable to the design and production of

the optimal Cub Scout pinecar. Funny, but even though each

year's miniature, unmanned entry in the gravity-propelled

Derby was supposed to be a new car carved from a new block

of wood, Chip's annual creation looked like a chip off the ole

block of the year before, right down to the black mustache

penciled on the mini-face inside the red helmet inside the black

Monte Carlo emblazoned with a red 13. Suppressing childish

underlying insignia and blue, Chip looked like a chip off the ole

block, too, right down to the black leather jacket to the black

sunglasses to the black, slicked-back hair to the sneer.

It had taken thought. It was thoughtful the way Charles

Ironlord had seen to the installation of two redundant comput erized cameras, one on each side of the Derby's two-lane finish

line, only one of which was programmed to flash at the first

sliver of a pinecar (even as its wide lens captured both contest

ants), thereby settling heated battles in lesser heats while

serving no purpose in Chip's. And it was thoughtful the way the

Dozier University Department of Physics had donated the 4

foot-high by 32-foot-long, downhill-sloping Pinewood Derby track five years earlier even as it maintained continuity with the

pre-Ironlord, track-in-exile past through the waxing and

polishing services of Tony Romero Sr., Tony Romero Jr., or

Tony Romero Jr.'s handpicked employees from Ten-Pin

Coliseum.

"Everyone's a winner!"

As 43-year-old Bobby Kirby entered the gymnasium with his

six-year-old son Davey, he did his best to play it cool. This was

his first Pinewood Derby since his last Pinewood Derby with

his father thirty-three years before.

"Step right up. Everyone's a winner!"

Bobby came to the Pinewood Derby late, because Dad hadn't

been around much until his late shift at the soy processing

plant shifted. Nonetheless, when the time came (when Bobby was nine), the Kirby contingent made up for lost time,

fashioning a hot, red rod that looked first-rate but ran dead

January-February 2006 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 25



N A R

last. When Bobby's one-way rant for failing to survive the first

round died down, Dad mentioned, just in passing, the car had

been of Bobby's design. Just before his second and final year of eligibility, Bobby saw

an old Mickey Rooney movie featuring roadsters on TV.

"You must be brave," said Dad.

"What makes you say that?" said

Bobby. "Because the roadster is what the lions

of Indy used to run. Hey, be careful with that saw."

"Aw," said Bobby. But he waited for Dad to reposition the front-loaded

block of wood in the vice, before cutting of the open rear cockpit could resume.

Everyone | except mothers, | daughters, and sisters ( cheered. 1

And he waited for Dad to give the signal with his soft voice, hazel eyes, flannel shirt, five o'clock shadow, salt-and-pepper top, and nicotine hands. "What made them lions?"

Dad stepped back from the vice and rubbed his shadow.

"Son, are you sure you want to know?"

Bobby resumed sawing. "Yup."

"Because a lot of them died in the hunt."

Bobby didn't flinch. Maybe it was because the news came in

the natural flow of sawing and carving and working with

shared hands. Maybe it was because someone knew, after this

final year of eligibility, the news about birds, bees, college, career, money, marriage, pregnancy, grandfatherhood, and

death wouldn't run as readily

on the same track.

"Don't worry," said Bobby as the sawdust flew. "Mine's make

believe."

Dad smiled. "Nice work if you can get it."

Painted glossy white with a lucky blue 7 on both body and

helmet, the roadster zipped through the first round, rarin' for more. Before more, however, a volunteer dropped 7. When the

roadster hit the floor, an axle cracked. The other father said

"I'm sorry" a million times as Dad said "Accidents happen" a

million times as the other father ferreted tape and Dad band

aged the axle as Bobby cried a million tears even though he

hated to cry especially in front of the other boys as the car kept on running and winning even with the tape until it reached the

semifinals and Bobby stopped crying because he was glad it lost

because it wasn't Dad and Bobby's car anymore.

"That's right. Everyone's a winner!"

Some three decades later, as he watched Davey work on an

original pinecar from the vantage of identical hazel eyes, soft

(though deeper) voice, and black (though dappled) hair, Bobby rubbed the five o'clock shadow on his supervisory chin.

Although Davey was too young to saw, he had done almost

everything else, including choosing the design (a futuristic

Formula One), reformulating the design via a liberal freehand

sketch on wood, sanding (both coarse and fine), uniting axle

and wheel (tiny nail through buttony disk through predrilled groove times four), spray-painting the chassis Day-Glo orange,

splash-dabbing the ornamental Lilliputian driver vomit-green,

hand-painting a port-wine 99?or was it a

667.?sideways on

the sides, planting a yellow Venus flytrap decal on the hood, and pinning a brown donkey decal upside down on the tail.

Like Dad, Bobby drilled a cavity, to be filled with added

weight, in the pinecar's bottom. Unlike Dad, who was versed in

molten ore, Bobby sheepishly handed over store-bought lead

pellets, which Davey embedded, puttied, sanded, and painted.

Chips off the ole block? Perhaps. But neither Bobby nor Davey had anything other than paint marking his hands.

"Everyone's a winner!"

Gullett the Scoutmaster, chomping on

complimentary Mr. Crispy chicken

through his snowy beard, lived for this

stuff. But before everyone could win,

everyone needed a car. Thanks to Santa

Gullett and Pack 618's annual Christmas party, every Scout

received a gift-wrapped box containing an ice-cream-sandwich

sized block of pine with loose nails and wheels and a stringy question attached: "We're gonna win this year, right, Dad?"

It was a question, aside from the inevitable loss to Charles and Chip in the faraway spring, begging for shades of gray. From October through March, the Dozier sky housed a low

ceiling of institutional gray scented with eau d'used washcloth.

Whether the cause was clamping atmospheric air or belching agro-industrial smoke, the effect of this gray was to flatten the

affect of many a Dozier citizen, particularly if that citizen was a

father entrusted with a pinecar. On the bright side, hibernal salves for the Dozier grays were

within arm's reach via eating, sleeping, and televisioning. For

the footloose, skidding forays through subfreezing tempera tures bereft of fluffy white precipitation in lieu of invisible

black ice could be undertaken to a tavern of choice in the name

of combating, while paradoxically exacerbating, seasonal affec

tive disorder.

On the other hand, for those who believed busy hands are

happy hands, there was always the hobby shop. Here, there, and everywhere, the neon beacons of slot, wing, train, and

Conestoga hobby shops stood as testament to a diversified

economy no longer dependent on soy smoke, cigarette smoke,

and ash. In fact, there were almost as many hobby shops as off

track betting and lottery outlets combined.

As Dozier's fathers and sons gawked at aisle upon aisle of

model automobiles and unrelated hobby shop merchandise, it was hard not to get ideas. Why not stage a Pinewood Tour de

France? Or a Pinewood Hot Air Balloon Rally? Or a Pinewood

Iditarod?

One idea was Spring. Some time after the ides of March, when all seemed lost, with fathers and sons frantically applying the finishing gouges to pinewood racecars, the flat fields of

Dozier thawed and clawed their way out of hibernation, filling the air with the warm fragrance of cow chips, rabbit pellets, possum poop, deer dross, bird droppings, and woolly

mammoth remains, overpowering the dank soy plant smoke with a blooming gaseous uprising that retracted the gray Dozier lid and let the sun shine in.

26 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW January-February 2006



SCOTT SOLOMON

"Do you think we'll get through?" asked Davey. The little scale from Mario's Super Warehouse Club knew

Davey's pinecar weighed 47/8 ounces, lead included. The little

scale from Mario's Super Warehouse Club knew it was impor tant to come as close to the legal limit of 5.00 ounces as possible

without going over. The little scale from Mario's Super Warehouse Club knew it was important for the sake of speed

and frazzled fathers everywhere. The little scale from Mario's

Super Warehouse Club knew everything. "Dad, we're on."

All Bobby could do was nod. A Boy Scout?it had to be a Boy Scout?was working at Tech, the long table serving as the

Pinewood Derby's official inspection station. The immacu

lately khakied Boy Scout was ostensibly on hand to set an

example. The four-eyed Boy Scout was indisputably on duty to

man a digital scale that read in decimals, unlike a certain cheap fractional model from a certain cheap warehouse club.

"4.81 ounces," said the trustworthy Boy Scout.

"Darn, we didn't make 5.00."

Davey's lower lip drooped, but only for a millisecond. At the

next Tech stop, a helpful Boy Scout managed to fit the Formula

One into the official 7-inch by 2 3/4-inch mini-shoebox. At the

third and last Tech obstacle, a loyal Boy Scout held the car aloft

in search of illegal bearings, bushings, springs, and fossil fuels

before kindly placing it in Quarantine. "Let's go look," said Davey.

"But not touch," said Bobby.

On the way to Quarantine, Bobby cast a backward glance at

The Pits. It was a short table?most of the sixty-four piney

candidates made it through Tech the first try?but not short on drama. On one side, Larry Pekin, the accountant, desper

ately scraped an overweight suv, his Bobcat alternately

pleading for haste and pining over falling flakes. On the other

side, Felix Allerton, the insurance agent, hammered an over

reaching Trans Am wheel span while his Webelo shouted, "You're wrecking my muscle car." And in a corner of The Pits,

Homer Sidney, Bobby's co-manager of liquid crystal debug

ging at Dozier Technology Park, riddled the rear of a

Munstermobile as his Wolf deadpanned, "You're driving without a license."

It could just as easily have been Bobby. Thanks to college

degrees made possible by their fathers' high school degrees and

hard work, Bobby, Larry, Felix, Homer, and the other fathers in

this elementary school gymnasium worked in an economy that

was, even beyond the booming hobby shop industry, far more

diverse than the soy plant and cigarette breaks that defined

their fathers' own. And yet, something was missing. In lieu of

squeezing oil out of soy, Dozier's latter-day fathers made and

took calls, sent and checked e-mail, and pushed and pulled paper, all in a day's work, all squeezing water coolers out of stone. For the fathers remodeling with their sons in The Pits, for the fathers who had already modeled and gotten over the

hump, the Pinewood Derby was one of the few ways left to

work with their hands while working things out.

"Look at that one," said Davey.

Quarantine was teeming with things: green logging truck,

purple polka-dotted cement mixer, brown imitation driftwood, black slab with mossy wooden headstone, blue tarmac with

yellow Lego tower, black-and-red Monte Carlo, orange-and

green Formula One, white branch clutched by equally whittled

bald eagle, hot dog with mustard, spotted banana, Beverly Hillbillies heap ...

"That's weird."

Bobby followed the angle of Davey's cocked, salt-free head.

At the farthest reach of Quarantine rested a block of wood

dressed only in standard-issue wheels and a black 8.

"Somebody must have been pretty lazy, huh?" said Davey. As his son rubbed the fuzz on his cheek, Bobby felt his

shadow.

"Fathers, sons, brothers," began Gullett, still working on his

chicken, "let the games begin!"

Everyone except mothers, daughters, and sisters cheered.

Somehow the Brownies' rustic annual campout at the Jericho

Suites?featuring partitioned living quarters, individual

whirlpool baths, video-on-demand, and room service?fell on

the same supervised weekend as the Cubbies' annual rite of

spring.

"And need I remind everyone, everyone's a winner!"

Everyone in attendance, except Charles and Chip, cheered.

"As you know, we have two contests: Beauty and Derby."

Gullett licked his fingers, smoothed his beard, and chucked a

breast. "So, without further ado, let's bring forth our hand

picked panel of judges: Pat the Pancake King, Larry the

Landscape Czar, and Matt the Matting Doctor!"

After the laughter died, the judges?none of whom had

been lucky enough to be among the forbidden hordes of ask

one-come-all hobby shop proprietors?said the choice had

been hard, harder than ever, as it had been each and every

year. In fact, they wished they didn't have to make a choice

and could carve their own pinecars the way they had once

poured batter, rolled sod, and placed matting with their own

hands before they farmed it out to their own handpicked

employees.

"Come on ... Stop blabbing

... Yeah, who won?"

The second runner-up was a flat gray street bordered by flat

gray sidewalk. The first runner-up was a flat gray field bounded

by flat gray sedge grass. "And the winner is: 45!"

A beaming Bobcat received a sitting ovation and a flat gray

plaque.

"In as much as this is all a learning experience," followed

Gullett, "how did the judges decide on the winner?"

Pat the Pancake King's eyes flipped from Larry the Landscape Czar to Matt the Matting Doctor and back. "Well, I guess you could say Larry, Matt, and I were looking for a planar aesthetic

and the gray root system in 45's prairie legumes practically oozed depth."

A low gurgle passed through the pack. "Well," said Gullett, clearing his throat, "I guess you could say

that's another way of saying everyone's a winner."




N A R

Everyone almost forgot. But behind Gullett's ample rear, the

spit-and-polish racetrack shimmered.

"Just do it, Johnny!... Go get 'em, Wayne!... You're the man

... No, he's the man ... Heck, they're still just boys ... Let the

best man win!"

Johnny's Indy car beat Wayne's sedge. Soon the first heat

swept away hot dogs, bananas, hillbillies,

legumes, and all other beauties and

congenialities. The Ironlords had a

laugher against a Tiger's Edsel, except

nobody else was laughing. "It's my turn," declared Davey.

"Damn," muttered Bobby.

"What?" said Davey.

"Good luck, son," said Bobby.

Willy and Gullett looked at [...] each

other. The photos had

vanished, too.

Damn, there were umpteen ways to earn Bad Daddy Demerits,

procure Pathetic Papa Peer Pressure Points, mess up, screw up,

stink up, foul up, fall short, and, in short, lose. As Bobby peeked at the reincarnated prospect of failing to survive the first round,

Davey's race was close, too close, until the Day-Glo orange

pinecar with the vomit-green driver staged a late surge and won.

"All right!" Davey wheeled around. "Gee, Dad, are you all

right?"

"Y-yes." A handkerchief hovered under Bobby's mouth. "Nice

job, son."

"That's illegal," shouted Charles Ironlord.

"There's nothing wrong with my car," said Davey.

"Not you, twerp," snapped Chip. "No one's worried about

you. That one."

That one was 8.

"Why?" asked Gullett.

"Anyone can see no work's been done to it," said Charles.

Gullett looked at 8, fumbled through his pockets, pulled out

the rulebook, scratched his potbelly, turned to page 152, closed the rulebook, and looked at 8. "Now, Charles, it has had some

thing done to it. Somebody had to drive in the nails."

"You call that something?" Gullett re-scratched. "Well, urn, shucks, uh, ah, see, there,

something else has been done to it: 8." "I hereby submit a formal protest." "Me too."

Charles and Chip threw in a couple of scowls on top of their sneers for good

measure.

"Golly, nobody's ever done that before," said Gullett as he

tugged on tufts of ear hair.

"There's a first time for everything," said Charles as Chip

parroted his father's twitching nostrils. "Let's have 8 and his boy come forward and explain themselves."

Nobody came.

"I hereby demand 8 be disqualified." "Me too."

Gullett dropped his head. Then, after a good deal of effort, he

picked it up. He turned to page 152. It was quiet enough to hear a nail drop. "You know," said Gullett finally with the final word, "I believe Willy logged in 8 at Tech."

The Boy Scout who had manned the digital scale labored to

stand up. "Th-that's true."

"Who are they?" asked Gullett.

Willy squinted through his glasses at the ledger. "I can't

exactiy make out their names?you can see for yourself?but

I've got their measurements. They weighed exactly 5.00

ounces."

Almost everyone laughed, during which time the senior Ironlord and

Gullett corroborated the illegible signa tures.

"No names aside," pressed Charles,

"how could they weigh exactly 5.00

ounces? An untouched block of pine just out of the box weighs three, maybe

four ounces, and that stupid 8 hardly makes up the difference. Even my?I mean

Chip's car came in at only 4.99 ounces."

"What did they look like?" went on Gullett.

Willy readjusted his glasses and smiled. "Oh, I remember

them well. Big 8 had gray-and-black peppered hair and a

flannel shirt and Little 8 had a yellow neckerchief and a blue

uniform."

Almost everyone laughed. Before Charles Ironlord could

spew molten ore, Gullett said, "Son, that covers just about

everyone."

Willy turned a pale red, teetering between thoughts and

teardrops, shaming any remnants of laughter as he searched for

a voice that wouldn't crack under growing pain strain. "M-Mr.

Gullett?"

"Yes?"

"There was something else about 8."

"Goon."

"The father had these strange marks on his hands."

"What kind of marks?"

"Strange."

The gymnasium inspected its hands.

"Enough with the metaphysics," pronounced Professor Ironlord as he looked up from his hands. "You're afraid of

taking a stand, old man."

The gymnasium turned to Gullett.

"And you're afraid of losing, Professor Peabrain," said the

Edsel Tiger. The gymnasium turned to Professor Peabrain.

The professor pushed up his sunglasses. As did his prize

pupil. "Go ahead. See if I care."

In its first heat, 8 went up against an unbalanced dune buggy

doing an unintentional wheelie and still only won by way of a

photo finish.

Charles and Chip laughed. "Like I said, see if I care."

Heat 2, with half the cars eliminated, ran faster until a caution

flag came out. A volunteer had dropped 7. When the Corvette

hit the floor, an axle cracked. The other father said "I'm sorry" a

million times as the Corvette's father said "Accidents happen" a

million times as the other father ferreted tape and the Corvette's

father bandaged the axle as the Corvette's Bear cried a million




SCOTT SOLOMON

tears even though he hated to cry especially in front of the other

boys as, for the first time in his life, Bobby saw the other father's

heart break a million times.

The heats went on. Chip's car trounced one also-ran after

another. The Corvette kept on running and winning, as its Bear

kept on crying, even with the tape. Davey's Day-Glo Special

kept on keeping on, too, even in the face of its vomit-green driver's repeated revivals of a relapsing case of motion sickness.

And then there was 8.

Regardless of opponent?GTO, Jaguar, Ferrari?8's heat

always came down to a wide-lensed photo finish tripping only one of two parallel cameras (as per infallible computer

program) at the first car to the finish's lane.

"There's something funny about that car," said Charles.

"What's so funny?" said Chip.

Funny, but after Chip's black-and-red Monte Carlo whipped his tainted red-and-white Corvette in the semifinals, the blue

Bear stopped crying. Still, Bobby had only a second to assimi

late the moment. 8 had beaten 99/66 by less than that.

"Darn."

"Sorry, son."

"We were this close." Davey held his thumb and forefinger an

eyelash apart.

"Look at 7," said Bobby. "Hmm. He's taking it pretty well."

Bobby grinned. "Something like that."

A hand unfolded, losing its frown. "I'm going to root for 8

in the finals," said Davey. "If he beat me, he can beat

anybody."

"Gullett," blared Charles Ironlord, "I hereby resubmit a

formal protest."

"Like I said, me too," said Chip. The gymnasium, once again, turned.

"On what grounds?" asked Gullett. The gymnasium, once again, turned back.

"On the grounds that 8's father isn't present."

The Pinewood Derby had turned into a tennis match. "Now,

Charles," said the portly volleyer turning to page 152, "there's

nothing in the rulebook that says once a car has passed Tech its

father has to hang around."

"What about a son?" added Charles.

"Yeah," chipped in Chip. Gullett rescanned page 152. "Now, Charles (and you, too,

Chip), there's nothing in the rulebook that says once a car has

passed Tech its son has to hang around."

"Yes, but doesn't at least one have to be present?" "Yeah."

Gullett looked at 8, page 152, his potbelly, Willy, the Edsel

Tiger, the Bear cradling the crippled Corvette, the father of the

Corvette, the father who had dropped the Corvette, Bobby,

Davey, untold fathers and untold sons, and Charles and Chip. "What's the matter, are you chicken?"

The race between 13 and 8 was a silent scream. At first, the

Monte Carlo darted ahead before the primitive challenger

caught up. The undefeated champion advanced again only to

see the pine box reel it in. Red-and-black 38, black-and-red 81, back and forth they went, like a saw cutting wood, faster, faster, faster...

Both cameras flashed.

The gymnasium remained silent as the photos cleared

the judges, roamed the pack, reached Willy, and found

Gullett.

"Before I announce the final results, I would like to take this

opportunity to say everyone's a winner."

Dead silence.

"Right." Gullett reread the piece of paper from the judges and

sighed. "The winner of the Pinewood Derby is ..."

"8!" howled the pack. "Did you see? 8. Did you? 8. Yeeha! 8.

8. 8."

The results were unmistakable. In the photo taken from 8's

lane, a single splinter of light separated the virgin pine flush

with the finish line from the adulterated pine just behind. In

the photo taken from 13's lane, a single splinter of light sepa rated the adulterated pine flush with the finish line from the

virgin pine just ahead. "Will the winner please come forward to receive the trophy."

Nobody came.

"Oh, this is clearly a violation of the rules," said Charles with a sneer and a scowl and a snarl and a Chip.

Gullett, beard bopping, digits doing a jig over his jiggling

potbelly, giggled without a page 152 in sight. "Now, Perfesser, there's nothing in the rulebook that says the winner has to

claim his prize." "What kind of winner is that?"

"Shut up, Charles," said somebody. "Yeah, shut up," growled a pack of somebodies.

"What are you going to do next year, Dad?" asked Chip. "Shut up," said Charles.

The ensuing minutes proved the most fun 'most everyone

had encountered cleaning up after the Pinewood Derby in

years. By the time Davey went to retrieve his car from

Quarantine, his father was among the last ones left.

"Say, Willy."

"Yes, Mr. Kirby?"

"You got a good look at those photos, didn't you?" "Yes."

"Did you see anything unusual?"

"You mean the light?" "No, besides that."

Willy fiddled with his glasses for a moment before he met

Bobby's eyes and spoke like a man in return. "Yes."

"Say, Gullett."

"Yes, Bobby, I saw it, too."

"Did anyone else mention it?"

"Nope," said Gullett.

"Not even Charles and Chip?"

"Negatory," said Willy. "Good." Bobby stopped rubbing his shadow. "I thought I was

going crazy."

99/66 pulled up. "Hey, where's 8?"




N A R

Willy and Gullett looked at Davey, Bobby, and each other. The

photos had vanished, too. Then, out of nowhere, everyone laughed. "Can I give you a ride home, Willy?" said Bobby. "No, thanks." He picked up a helmet. "I've got my board. Got

to meet my girlfriend at Skatersaucer."

"How about you, Gullett?"

"No, thanks." He picked up a helmet. "I've got my hawg. Got

to meet my babe at Exit 74."

Davey sat next to Bobby in the front seat of a more conven

tional mode of transportation on the way home.

"What did you like best about the race, son?"

"Sanding."

Bobby smiled. "Do you want to do it again next year?"

Davey made a sawing motion against the Day-Glo pinecar in

his lap. "Uh-huh."

"What kind of car would you like to be?"

"Roadster."

"Roadster?" Bobby blinked through the sunstruck wind

shield.

"Yeah. I saw a show about them on ESPN." Davey smiled.

"They had some cool wrecks."

"Isn't that dangerous?" said Bobby. "Yeah."

"Didn't the lions?I mean drivers die?"

Davey didn't flinch. "Yup." "Well?"

"Don't worry. Mine's make-believe."

Nice work if you can get it. The reflection in the sunny wind

shield blinked back.

"Dad?"

"Yes?" Davey had his grandfather's eyelashes, too.

"What were you and Willy and Mr. Gullett talking about?"

"The photos."

"You mean the light?" "Yes and no."

"What's that supposed to mean?" pursued Davey.

"I guess in all the fuss," hazarded Bobby, "most people saw

only the finish line."

"Isn't that all that matters?"

"No."

"What else is there?"

"8."

"Huh?"

"Did you notice anything unusual about it?" said Bobby. "No."

"Well, son, it was kind of blurry, but if you looked real hard,

you could see 8 had turned."

"Turned?" said Davey.

"Yes, it turned sideways."

"So?"

"That wasn't an 8."

"What was it?"

A father reached down and touched a son's hand. "Infinity." "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Everyone's a winner." D

JAMES HARMS

Pastoral by Frank Gehry Panama Museum of Biodiversity

Galvanized nails and sheep. The corrugated cardboard rolled into shade beneath tin trees or leaves like curled shavings in the lee of a rusty knoll.

And the quietest little robot boy, arms in pieces on the factory

floor of afternoon in the far field, his flock as scattered as wind-up sparrows

... O, robot boy with

no way to hold the nothing left to hold, lie down and sleep.

All told the ashen sky breaks

twice each night: to let in

the electric moon, to let it out,

though every other minute

the halogen burns those bits

of air left over, this small dome

of glass fogging up with old

breath, this little Earth below, so ragged and used. The silver stream slows to quicksilver, to liquid lead, the long mirror.

And the far field fills with shattered

glass, a thousand years of broken

wine bottles spread carefully on the meadow, green on green,

light roaring in all the in-between.

Robot boy would dream of singing to his sheep, of hooking fingers in thick wool, if anything so tired

and wrecked, so filled with circuitry and grief could really dream.

Sleep, my robot boy, and wake to a world as empty of anything as you. By then your arms

will be ready, repaired and

reattached. The dreamless

reinvent themselves each morning?

they find the strength to take

whatever at all in their arms,

to comfort the near at hand.

Those without hope are nearly as able, though each night

they are forced to dream.

Therein lies the difference

between my robot boy and me.




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