The Man Who Ate the 747 - By Ben Sherwood Page 0,15

What size human could actually use them? An infant, a five-year-old, but surely not the average man.

He combed his wet hair and mapped out the mission in his mind. Suddenly the entire building shook. Then all was still. A few moments later the room shuddered again. It was a hazard of motor inns. Big-rig trucks rattled rooms, and long ago he had gotten used to falling asleep with the rumbling of the 18-wheelers and headlights flashing through plastic curtains.

Then he heard another sound, instantly recognizable.

Boing. Boing. Boing.

It was the bugle call heralding his arrival, a sure sign that word was out. The Book of Records had come to town. He went to the window and peered down on the parking lot. Just what he expected.

Boing. Boing.

Dozens of kids of all ages bounced on pogo sticks, up and down, gazing at his window.

Boing …

“Mister!” one freckle-face said. “Check this out!”

Whatever country, whatever continent, as soon as they knew he was there, they always showed up. They wanted to be in The Book. They thought it was easy. With a jump rope or a yo-yo, they believed they could make history.

Boing. Boing. Boing.

He hated to smash their illusions. The blunt truth hurt. He opened the window and leaned out.

“I’m up to 234 jumps,” a boy with buckteeth called out.

“You’ve got a long way to go,” J.J. shouted back. “A man named Gary Stewart set the pogo stick record with 177,737 jumps in 24 hours.”

The kids kept bouncing.

“That’s 7,405 jumps an hour,” J.J. yelled, “123 a minute, more than 2 every second. All day and all night.”

Almost at once the parking lot went silent.

“There are plenty of other records you can try,” J.J. said.

The kids stood still for a moment, then took off down the street. They were heading straight for the public library. They always did. They would search for another record to break, then they would be back.

He unpacked his suitcase. He had brought along one week’s worth of clothes, nothing too spiffy except for the blazer. He put on a T-shirt, khakis, and sneakers. He stuffed a notepad in his back pocket, locked the room behind him, and went to the front desk.

“How’s your room, Mr. Smith?” the receptionist asked. “Comfortable enough? You’ve got 52 channels of cable in there.”

“It’s perfect,” he said.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“Ms.—”

“Nutting. I’m Meg Nutting. What do you need?” Her face was dainty with a small pointy nose, and her pale thin neck looked ready to snap under the weight of a giant beehive of brown hair.

J.J. said, “I’m looking for information about the man eating the 747.”

“Oooh, I see,” Mrs. Nutting said. “Well, Wally pretty much sticks to himself. Let’s see, his best friend is Mr. Schoof at the high school. Teaches science and math. Only other person who might help is Willa Wyatt at the newspaper.”

“Willa Wyatt,” he repeated, making a note on his pad.

Mrs. Nutting hesitated, then whispered, “Don’t be put off. That’s Willa.”

The first call came within minutes of the stranger’s arrival at the Hereford Inn. A man in a Taurus with Omaha plates, asking questions about the 747. Then another phone call. In no time all three lines were blinking in the newsroom.

Willa Wyatt leaned back in her chair. She knew it was bound to happen. Sooner or later someone would come snooping around. The story would break, and even though newspaper ink ran in her veins, she didn’t like it one bit.

She closed her eyes and pushed her fingers through her sandy blond hair, braided it quickly, tying it off with an old rubber band. She took a deep breath, savoring the smell of the presses. Some of her friends preferred the scent of flowers, others the aroma of baking, but Willa loved the smell of newsprint. She kicked her legs up on the desk, where she sat as a girl, watching her father put out The Express. He wrote the articles, developed the pictures, pasted up the pages, operated the presses, and delivered the papers.

It was the world made fresh once a week, brought right to people’s doorsteps. A noble calling, her father used to say. Even though there were bigger dailies out there beyond Nuckolls County, they couldn’t compete on what mattered most. If you got too big, he said, you lost touch with your readers.

Willa studied the picture of her father on the desk. Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, his features were sharp. Square chin, black hair, brown eyes. He was sitting on the tailgate