The Man Who Ate the 747 (23 page)

He felt thick and stupid and hopeless. He wanted to reach Willa … but how?

They stopped at the edge of the cleft in the ground. The wind rustled the trees. Until this moment, he had never belonged anywhere. Now he wanted to stay by her forever.

He was about to speak when Blake came running across the field. “J.J.,” he shouted, “phone call! A guy with an accent. Says it’s urgent. Hurry!”

“Damn,” said J.J.

It could only be the last person he wanted to hear from in the whole wide world.

J.J. braced himself for a lashing. He had walked out on Mitros Papadapolous in the middle of a record attempt. He had embarrassed The Book. Nigel Peasley was surely calling on some sadistic errand to sack him, make him redundant, as the Brits so elegantly put it.

J.J. ran into Wally’s house and picked up the cordless phone near the front door.

“What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Peasley began, his voice squeaking. “I told you there would be no record! Now look what you’ve done. It’s a disaster. You’ve got the whole world watching again—”

“But, sir,” he began.
Sir …
It was a reflex, to bend down before his boss and take the punishment. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Willa.

“I’ll be getting along,” she said. “You’ve got work to do, and I’ve got a paper to put on the street.”

“Wait,” he said. “Please wait.”

“Well?” Peasley was shouting. “What’s your excuse?”

J.J. walked out onto the porch with the cordless phone. He looked at Willa, then at the people of Superior standing in the field. His eyes landed on Blake. A little boy who had desperately wanted a world record, a little boy the very same age J.J. was when he decided The Book would be his life. Fourteen years, fourteen editions. From Australia to Zanzibar, so many adventures raced through in his mind … so many pogo sticks, jump ropes, dominoes.

Then the words erupted….

“I quit.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“We don’t want your world record,” J.J. said. Then he remembered what Willa had told him at the bar: “We don’t need your brand of greatness.”

“Rubbish,” Peasley said. “You can’t quit! You’ve got the next edition—”

J.J. let go of the phone. It bounced down the steps and landed in the grass. He offered his arm to Willa and she accepted. He was lifted by a buoyant feeling, as if he might float. Together they started across the meadow.

With the twilight, peace returned to the Republican
River Valley. And the high-pitched voice still screaming on the telephone in the grass was no match for the old wind.

They sat on the cottonwood trunk that reached out over the river. The moon was up. Their shoes were off and they dangled their feet in the shallows. She was tempted to take a swim. Maybe the cool water would straighten out her head.

So many questions. Why had J.J. come all the way back to Superior? Was it really to finish off what Wally had started? Or did he want more? Heck, he quit his job right in front of her. And now he was spouting words about love. What happened to this guy in Greece? Was it real or just too much ouzo? She needed to know.

“So,” she said, “would you eat an airplane for someone you loved?”

“Holy moley,” he said. “Ask me something easy.”

Then he leaned toward her. “Sure I’d eat an airplane for you, but only if you loved me.”

She didn’t know whether to believe him. The willows rustled in the breeze. Artie Shaw started playing in her head….

“This is all kind of crazy,” she said at last. “I mean, we barely know each other.”

“That’s the whole point. It is crazy. Makes no sense at all.”

“Then how can you be sure what you’re feeling? How do you know?”

“I just do,” he said. “I’ve got all the facts and formulas, but in the end, it’s just a feeling—”

She listened to his voice, and she felt herself beginning to believe again.

“I need to know what happened to you that morning in the Spartanette,” she said. “Why you pulled away—”

“I was afraid.”

“I scared you off?”

“No. I scared myself off.”

He looked down at his blurry reflection in the water. “I’m just another John Smith from Ohio. How could I ever be worthy of you?”

She reached out and touched his rumpled shirt, tousled his messy hair. “I like you, John Smith from Ohio.”

“I like you, Willa Wyatt from Nebraska.”

It was a good place to begin. They had thrown
eggs and chased lightning. Maybe it was time to open up for more. The night was still, except for a bullfrog honking on the banks. She threw her head back and looked up at the sky.

“Will you ever let me back in?” J.J. said into the silence.

Willa was lost in memories. A salesman with his leather-bound books. A banker’s son with all the money in the world. A guy with a gilded crest on his blue blazer.

“I’m afraid, too,” she said.

“Give me another shot. Where would you be if your mom hadn’t given your dad a second chance?”

He slipped off the tree trunk into shallow water and turned to face her. His eyes were so blue, and even his nose seemed its fine former self. Her knees touched his waist. She saw how much he wanted her. His arms were open and waiting. She let herself go into his warmth.

“Let’s make one perfect day,” J.J. said. “And if it feels right, let’s make another one tomorrow.”

All her brain chemicals were firing now, and deep inside, she knew it was there, that special feeling. The music came to her again.

He leaned into her. Their lips touched. A soft, soothing kiss that caught fire. He moved his mouth over her face and neck, then plunged into her hair, and whispered words that dissolved her last resistance.

“Love walked in with you,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Love walked in with you.”

I
t’s late. The sun is setting over the fields. At any moment, Willa will return from her newspaper run. I’ll hear the Ford coming up the lane, rattling the way old junks around here do.

I live in the middle of nowhere now, or the middle of everywhere. All depends on how you look at the map. This is where I belong, and I count my blessings that after wandering the world, I finally found my place.

As I write, I sit in a little wood workshed, just a few yards from an old aluminum Spartanette. The fading light touches the photographs on my wall. I prize three pictures above all the rest.

The first is of my friend Mitros Papadapolous. He actually stood still for almost two days without realizing I had left the island of Folegandros. He shattered the world record, earned his place in history, and was kind enough to send me a fine bottle of ouzo when he heard my news.

That leads me to the second photo on my wall. It was taken in front of the Taj Mahal the day I asked Willa to be my wife. Look closely in the background, and you’ll see some old friends. One balances on a single leg while the other waves the world’s longest fingernails.

The third photograph is from a farmer’s field. It shows 1,104 people standing next to a red barn and a great gash in the ground, measuring 231 feet 10 inches, the exact length of a 747. These people—friends and neighbors—finished the work of one good man who set out to eat a jumbo jet. It took them 8 hours and 41 minutes, every second televised to a global audience of more than one billion people. And I can say with absolute authority that no official world records were broken.

No official world records were broken….

Of course, the truth is different. You see, so many records were broken that summer in Superior, the kind that really count, the kind that never end up in books, newspapers, or on television. A man helped his best buddy build a magic contraption so he could eat an airplane. A woman never left the bedside of a friend in a coma. A boy wanted his sister to find happiness, so he brought the world to her door.

At first, I didn’t recognize the majesty in these moments, but then in this age where bigger is always better, people rarely do. That, I think, is the challenge. To know true greatness when we see it. To appreciate it when we have it. To embrace it while it lasts.

And that’s exactly what Wally and Rose have done since that day in the hospital when he awoke from his slumber. The two have barely let go of each other and live in rich contentment on the farm. Wally is working hard on a new idea—bovine Jacuzzis. Mellow, happy cows, he insists, make healthier cows. So he and Nate Schoof are busy building a prototype in the barn.

Now to the outrageous proposition that began this book:
This is the story of the greatest love, ever.
You may counter with Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, or perhaps even your own personal story. And that is precisely my point. Each one of us—even mere mortals named John Smith—can claim the record for the greatest love, ever, if we can only cast off our ambivalence and recognize it when we find it, pure and true.

I keep a scrap of paper pinned to my bulletin board, even though I’ve long since memorized the words from the Japanese poem:

My old road ended here in Superior, and I have ventured forth on a new path. I’ve begun compiling a brand-new book of records. It’s not what you’d expect—God knows I’ll never beat Peasley at his game—but I don’t care.

I’m calling it
The Book of Wonders
, a chronicle of all the amazing feats that go unnoticed in this world, the achievements with no entries in big books, no live shots on television, no roadside attractions. I know an old woman in New York who belongs in this book—she waters plastic sunflowers every day. It may seem crazy to some, but I know the truth. She cares.

I’m looking for real stories about everyday wonders, authentic moments of greatness and splendor around the world, and I welcome your submissions. I’ve set up a Review Committee—you know what I mean—and I pledge to answer courteously and promptly.
¹

Perhaps someone has built the Taj Mahal for you, or even eaten an airplane. Or maybe it’s something smaller but just as exalted. Maybe every night, driving up the lane, a special person honks the horn for you. It doesn’t sound like much, but listen closely….

The front door opens and you can hear the hurried footsteps.

I am indebted to Mark Young, former CEO and publisher of Guinness Media Inc., and his staff in Stamford, Connecticut, for their guidance, information, and encouragement. My great gratitude also goes to Guinness World Records Ltd. in London. The records and many of the descriptions in this story are derived from their extraordinary books and database. The kids’ letters in
Chapter 2
were inspired by actual children’s submissions to the record keepers. Any factual inaccuracies, of course, are my own.

I am also grateful to the various world record holders who shared their experiences, especially Michel Lotito of France, the world’s greatest omnivore (nearly 9 tons of metal since 1966) and Ashrita Furman of New York, the record holder for breaking the most world records (60 and going strong). I will always treasure the image of
indomitable Ashrita one October weekend. Clutching a 10-pound brick for 30 hours 52 minutes in an un-cradled downward pincers grip, he shattered the world brick-carrying record by walking 85.05 miles on a decrepit high school track in Jamaica, Queens.

To the people of Superior, Nebraska, I offer special appreciation. I am proud to be an honorary citizen. For their wisdom, friendship, and farmhand training, I am particularly grateful to Sandy and Lefty Bothwell and Beth and Chuck Fowler. Joyce, Sam, and Scott Baird generously opened their doors and many others in Superior. Marjorie Smith blessed the story with her centenarian view and sparkling editorial eye. I was always made right at home by the morning crew at the Gas ’N Shop, the lunch crowd at the Hereford Inn, and the irrepressible Russell Thomas and his gang at the grain elevator in Webber, Kansas. For local lore and answers at all hours, I am beholden to Bill Blauvelt, editor and publisher of
The Superior Express, and
his wife, Rita. For a “riter’s” education and much fun, I salute Lew and Pamela Hunter.

For technical information on the jumbo jet, I consulted Guy Norris and Mark Wagner’s
Boeing 747: Design and Development Since 1969.
I also conferred with Glenn Farley, aviation specialist with KING-TV in Seattle, and Dan Gellert, former 747 pilot.

For the chemistry of attraction, I used many sources, including Simon Levay’s
The Sexual Brain
,
Deborah Blum’s
Sex on the Brain
, Anthony Walsh’s
The Science of Love: Understanding Love and Its Effects on Mind and Body
, and Claudia Glenn Dowling’s “The Science of Love,” in
Life
magazine. For additional material on Michel Lotito, Monsieur Mangetout, I relied on Robert Chalmer’s article “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” in
The (London) Observer.
And for background on stone and iron eaters through the ages, Ricky Jay’s
Learned Pigs & Fireproof Women
is the classic work.