First Dimension
By Gregory A. Kompes
First Dimension
by
Gregory A. Kompes
Copyright 2012 Gregory A. Kompes
All rights reserved.
Smashwords
Edition
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Dedication
For Todd, the love of my life.
Acknowledgements
No one travels their journey alone. Mine has been supported by Eva Shaw, Darlien C. Breeze, Kathleen Shaputis, Tena Beth Thompson, Leslie E. Hoffman, Teresa Watts, Garry Buzick, Grace Andrews, Linda O'Connor, Roger Storkamp, Douglas Davy, the Henderson Writers' Group, Joan Heppert, and Todd Isbell.
First Dimension
Chapter 1
"F-U-T-U-R-E. Too easy, Teach!" Bobby Brown said out loud as he delivered The Telegraphic Times from his bike. He tossed a copy toward the Philip's porch. New minivan, Bobby thought.
"C-O-N-T-I-N-U-U-M. Can't trick me with those double U's, Teacher Man," Bobby said to the mountain of beer cans that were the Johnson's trash.
"S-O-L-A-R S-Y-S-T-E-M. Should be counted as two words, but Mr. Arland is counting it as one on the quiz. Such a dufus." Bobby tossed the Millers' paper hard at their front stoop, hoping Killer, the Millers' miniature Schnauzer, would start barking.
Mrs. Miller always complained about Bobby waking up her dog; that was the reason Mrs. Miller said she never gave a tip when paying her paper bill. How can you not wake up a dog tossing a paper at 7:17 in the morning? Bobby thought as Killer started barking. No tip again this week. Bobby had already tried getting off his bike and walking the Millers' paper up to their door, but the dog barked either way. His twelve-and-three-quarters, almost twelve-and-seven-eighths year-old brain reasoned that it was easier and more cost effective to lose the Miller tip and stay on his bike. Plus, if I'm not going to get a tip anyway, I may as well wake the little fucker up and set him to barking.
"Fucker, fucker, fucker," Bobby whispered under his breath and grinned to himself. He'd recently learned the word from Billy Baker's older sister Brianne. Bobby had also learned that boys and girls are different down there and Brianne even let him touch her there. It had cost him two weeks of his paper route tips. Now, he was the only one of his twelve-and-three-quarters, almost twelve-and-seven-eighths, friends who could boast not only that he'd seen a girl there, but that he'd actually touched it. And, Tommy Peterson was a witness.
"P-H-Y-S-I-C-S. Can't fool me using a 'Y' instead of an 'I', Dufus teacher." Bobby tossed a paper into Mr. "Call me Bill" Taylor's driveway. He lived alone with his cat, Mr. Puss. "Here Pussy, Pussy, Pussy," Bobby whispered under his breath. He learned that word from Brianne, too, when he touched her down there. Bobby got an erection just thinking about it. No strange cars in Mr. Taylor's driveway this morning. I guess he didn't make any new friends last night. That's what Mr. Taylor called the men leaving his house early in the morning, "my new friend." Bobby envied Mr. Taylor; adults could have friends stay over whenever they wanted, even on school nights.
"V-A-C-U-U-M. Tricky double U's," Bobby said toward the Andrews' garden gnome as he started to toss their paper on the porch. The gnome chose not to respond. Yesterday's paper was still there so he stopped in mid-launch. Bobby reversed his motion by hitting the brakes, using his front tire as a pivot. He looked toward the Andrews' porch. The porch light wasn't lit. Mrs. Andrew's always turned on her porch light at night and turned it off in the morning. She never left her paper on the porch past 8:00. Plus, she always had chocolate chip cookies for him on collection days. Bobby rode his bike up the Andrews' driveway, turned onto the walk, and stopped at the porch. "This is a dilemma," Bobby said to the gnome. "D-I-L-E-M-M-A. I won't miss that one on today's spelling quiz, Dr. Dufus." The gnome chose not to respond. Bobby got off his bike, propping it with the kickstand. He stepped up on the porch and looked inside the Andrews' mail box: full.
Bobby heard Mr. Azzizzi's warning: "Never leave several days of papers stacked up on someone's porch. It tells robbers no one's home."
Bobby liked his supervisor Mr. A's accent. Mr. A said he was from a "Stan" country. Bobby made a mental note to himself again to look at the globe and find the "Stan" countries. He never remembered his mental notes.
What should he do? "What should I do you stupid gnome? You're never any help. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit, shit, shit. Damn, damn, damn. Hell, hell, hell." Those were all the swear words Bobby could remember. He liked saying them in threes, just like his dad. "What would Dad do? Ignore the problem and hope it'd go away, that's what Dad would do." Bobby picked up yesterday's paper from the porch and shoved it deep down to the bottom of his bag, making a mental note not to deliver it to anyone else. "Hey gnome, you freak, tell Mrs. Andrews I've got her papers if she'd like them." The gnome chose not to respond.
Bobby resumed delivering his route.
The Schillers and Fowlers didn't subscribe. "S-U-B-S-C-R-I-B-E." Got that one. Easy for a paperboy!
"F-U-N-D-A-M-E-N-T-A-L." He tossed the Petersons' paper and noted how perfect their yard looked. Mr. Peterson made both his boys--Tommy, who was in class with Bobby, and Terry, who was already in high school--spend all day Saturday working in the yard. "Every Saturday, no exceptions," said Bobby, mimicking Mr. Peterson's husky voice. Tommy was never allowed to play ball or ride his bike with the neighborhood boys on Saturday or Sunday. Sundays were for church. "Every Sunday, no exceptions!"
"Don't you go to church on Sundays, Bobby?"
"No, Tommy. My parents think all that religious stuff is hooey."
"You and your family are going to Hell, Bobby Brown."
"If something doesn't exist, how can you go there?"
"Oh, Hell exists and you'll be there."
"If it exists, where is it? And, where's this Heaven place you think you're going to?"
That always shut up Tommy. He'd get all flustered and red in the face and either ride ahead on his bike or clamp his lips so tight they'd turn white on his red face. Bobby hated giving Tommy a hard time. They were friends, after all; known each other their whole lives. Sometimes, giving Tommy a rough time, well, it just felt like the right thing to do.
"Hell, hell, hell," whispered Bobby.
He tossed a few more papers onto his neighbors' porches and practiced his ten spelling quiz words. I'm hungry. Only one more to go. Why do I have three papers? Oh, yeah, Andrews' papers from yesterday and today. Last one. Bobby tossed a paper at the Smiths' porch, aiming for the long wind chimes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he said to himself loudly when he missed.
"Watch your language, Mr. Brown."
Bobby hit the brakes, pushed his body forward on the handlebars, and used the momentum to spin his whole bike toward the deep voice. He sat back down hard on the seat and the bike stopped and balanced. Bobby beamed with pride.
"Impressive, Mr. Brown."
It was only Mr. Arland walking Misty, that wonderful Great Dane. Bobby rode over to them. "Good morning, Misty," Bobby said to the massive dog in the wistful voice he used with first graders like his neighbor Suzie. Misty wagged her tail and pulled the leash taut. Bobby got up close, hopped off his bike and hit the kickstand. He braced himself just in time as Misty raised her massive frame up on two legs and gently placed her paws, first the left, next the right, on Bobby's shoulders. Once in position, she lapped his sweaty face with her giant tongue.
"Are you ready for your spelling quiz, today?" Mr. Arland asked, not even noticing these daily antics.
"You bet," Bobby said, laughing through the lapping. "Someday, I'm going to have a dog just like you, Misty." Bobby said, again in his little kid voice. Misty jumped down and sat. Bobby wiped the slobber from his face with his newsprint-stained T-shirt before rubbing the dog's ears and head with both hands.
"Spell, 'Fantastic,'" said Mr. Arland.
"F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C!"
"Solar System."
"S-O-L-A-R S-Y-S-T-E-M. It's two words, you…"
"Frontier."
"F-R-O-N-T-" Bobby hesitated? Which is it? I-E or E-I.
"Well?"
"F-R-O-N-T-E-I-R."
"I guess you won't get an 'A' this week, Mr. Brown! First time ever. Come on Misty, you can't play with someone who can't spell his future. See you in class, Mr. Brown."
"I-E, I-E, I-E," Bobby said out loud to himself as he got back on his bike and headed home.
* * *
"What just happened?" Dorothy Andrews asked her husband.
Joe looked across the table at his wife. "I don't know."
"But, something did happen?" She tried to look deeper into her husband.
"Look at the dried eggs on these plates. Something happened and it took some time." He waved away a fly.
Dorothy looked down at the breakfast remains, plates caked with dried egg and fatty bacon, a stack of dried toast, bowls of grey matter that used to be oatmeal, and two shriveled grapefruit halves. All of it untouched. "Are you okay, Joe? Do you feel strange or weird?"
Joe instinctively felt his rolls of flesh. "I'm all here now, I feel fine." He felt some more because it was a big job. He stopped at his belly. "I'm a little hungry."
"You're always hungry so we can't base our timeline on that. How long do you think it took? It didn't feel like more than a blink, but this table says differently."
"I don't know." Joe went back to inspecting his body. The search was incomplete because he couldn't reach all of himself.
"Well, don't tell anyone." Dorothy's face flushed, the timbre of her voice rising. "We don't want people to think we're crazy."
People already think you're crazy, Joe thought. He remained silent, contemplating the stack of dried toast. Maybe it's worth trying.
"People think I'm crazy because I stay married to you," Dorothy replied. "I don't think that toast is edible." Dorothy didn't wave the fly away. I can't eat it, you may as well.
"You heard me?" Will you make some breakfast?
Dorothy got up from the table. "What would you like?" Like it matters. You'll eat anything.
"Wait, think something," said Joe.
Why don't you make your own damn breakfast, Tubby!
"Well, are you thinking something?" Joe closed his eyes and strained to hear his wife's thoughts.
"Do you think it was aliens?" Dorothy whispered.
"I heard you and you sound excited."
"I said it out loud."
"I heard that, too."
"Joe, open your eyes. I'm actually speaking to you, not thinking it."
Joe opened his eyes. "Oh."
"Don't look so disappointed. What would you like to eat?" Joe didn't answer. "Do you think it was aliens?" Dorothy asked again opening the refrigerator.
"I don't care." Joe hoisted himself up from the chair.
"You don't care if it was aliens or you don't care what we eat?" Dorothy looked over the refrigerator door at her husband. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to get the paper to see what day it is." Joe left the kitchen working hard not to think anything negative about his wife.
Alone, Dorothy pulled meat, cheese and bread from the fridge. The bread was moldy and the meat smelled offensive. The cheese looked edible. She tossed the spoiled food into the trash and pulled out a cutting board. There was a thin film of dust on it.
What has happened? Dorothy contemplated while washing the butcher block board.
Joe returned to the kitchen and dumped a mountain of mail on the table. "No papers, but the mailbox was overflowing. The grass is about a foot tall, too."
"Bobby's a good boy. He obviously didn't want to leave a stack of papers on the stoop." Dorothy picked up the phone and dialed the Brown's number. "I got the machine," she said to her husband. She waited for the message to finish and chuckled.
"What's so funny?" Joe asked as he sorted through the mail.
"Bobby, this is Mrs. Andrews. We're back from our trip, please resume delivery of our paper." Dorothy hung up the phone and went back to the cheese and cutting board. "The Brown's message is Bobby and he says, 'What, you didn't get your paper? You don't need no stinkin' paper' and then he laughs, apologizes for the inconvenience, and says he'll get right back to the caller. He's cute. What's that line from?"
"Um, something with Robert De Niro, I think." Cheese? That's it? Stingy bitch. "Or is it Al Pacino?"
"We've been gone long enough for everything in the fridge to spoil."
Joe made a mental note. He'd have to watch what he thought at all times.
"Yes, you better watch your thoughts from now on." Dorothy said. Glad Tubby can't hear what I'm thinking. YOU FAT FUCK!
"You're the one that keeps feeding me," Joe said without thought.
"You heard that?"
"I guess I'm just a little slower to arrive. Maybe because I'm a fat fuck!"
Dorothy brought the cheese cubes to the table and sat down with her husband. She tried to clear her thoughts. The rules have changed.
You bet your ass they have.
They ate their cheese and mentally raged at each other. The slights of marriage collected over twenty years were played out between them in mental combat, but virtual silence. Joe and Dorothy fumed, shouted, screamed, whispered, and remembered their lives together, all in a conversation that took place only in their heads. To any Whispering Pines neighbor peeking in the window, Joe and Dorothy looked like an average, middle-aged, childless married couple sorting through their mail after a long trip.
* * *
"Hi, Bobby!" Dorothy called and waved from her flower bed to the boy on his bike. He's always so cheerful and confident.
"I hate weeding," Bobby said as he rode up to her. "You keep pulling them out and they keep growing back. Why don't you take care of this horrible job for Mrs. Andrews, gnome?" The gnome chose not to respond and Bobby continued: "It's a never ending job. It's how I imagine the Peterson's hell."
"You think the Peterson's are in Hell?" Dorothy listened for Bobby's thoughts, but heard nothing.
"No, that's how I imagine the place the Peterson's call Hell." They were both silent for a moment. "You were on vacation for a long time. Next time, let me know and I'll cut your grass while you're gone."
"But, you won't weed, right?" Dorothy smiled, stepping out of the flower bed, brushing dirt off her knees with her gardening-gloved hands.
"No, I could do that too. We know the stupid gnome won't do it and I need the money."
The gnome chose not to respond.
"Speaking of money, how much do we owe you for the paper? We'll pay for the whole time we were gone because we didn't tell you." Dorothy wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her gardening smock. "How many weeks do we owe?"
Bobby laughed. "You just wiped dirt all over your face."
"Oh. It happens."
Shit Happens, Bobby thought to himself remembering a bumper sticker that made him laugh. "Well, you were gone for three weeks and there's the week before that, so that makes four weeks. Plus, we're in the middle of this one…" Bobby quickly did the math in his head. $2.50 per week, four or five weeks, "It's ten dollars or twelve-fifty if you want to pay in advance for this week, too, Mrs. Andrews."
"I'll run in the house and get your money."
"Thanks," Bobby said to her.
Bobby looked at the mostly weeded flower bed. The Andrews may not keep their yard up like the Peterson's, but Mrs. Andrews sure does have a green thumb when it comes to flowers. Just look at the size of those roses.
Roses in varied shades, from light pink to a red so deep it looked almost black, lined the Andrews' porch; flowers the size of football mums, like the girls wore at homecoming dances, covered every bush. Wait, those weren't there a few days ago when I started delivering the paper again. The bushes were, but the flowers were insignificant. "What's happened here, gnome?"
The gnome chose not to respond.
Dorothy pushed open the screen door, leapt off the porch, and handed Bobby a twenty dollar bill.
"I don't have any change, Mrs. Andrews."
"I don't want any change. I wanted to give you a nice tip. Oh, and this is just for the past four weeks. You come back on your regular collection day for this week, okay?"
"Gosh, thanks." Bobby's eyes lit up as he stared at the crisp bill in his hands. With this big tip he could now afford The New InterPolar Radio he'd been saving for. He'd had to make up a little ground after the Brianne thing, but Bobby viewed that more as an investment. Mr. Taylor put The New InterPolar Radio in the window of Taylor's Electronics on Main Street almost a year ago and it was soon to be his.
"You're welcome." They stood in silence for a moment. "Well, these weeds won't pull themselves. I better get back to it."
Bobby got back on his bike. "Mrs. Andrews?"
"Yes, Bobby?"
"I don't mean to be rude, but where's Mr. Andrews?"
Dorothy didn't miss a beat. "Mr. Andrews decided he liked vacation more than being at home."
Bobby thought for a moment and said, "Grownups are lucky. I would love to go on vacation all the time, too."
* * *
Today's the day! That big tip from Mrs. Andrews gives me just enough to get The New InterPolar Radio. Bobby had a good stride going on his bike. He'd kicked it up to eighth gear and used his strong legs to quickly move down Main Street.
"Super Sale!" "50% Off!" "Today Only!" Bobby loved reading the sale signs in the Main Street shop windows as he flew by on his bike.
"2-4-1 Sale!" "1 Cent Sale!" I love those one cent sales. How do they make a profit if they're selling stuff for a penny? Bobby made a mental note to ask Mr. Taylor. Mr. Taylor knows everything about stores, he thought as he pulled up in front of Taylor Electronics.
Bobby got off his bike and looked dreamily toward the store window. He let go of his bike and it dropped to the ground with a crash. It's gone. The New InterPolar Radio he'd been eyeing since its arrival in Taylor's window was gone. Bobby fingered the wad of cash in his pocket, the collection of small bills and loose change adding up to three-hundred dollars and twenty-nine cents: two hundred and seventy-nine dollars for The New InterPolar Radio, plus twenty-one dollars and twenty-nine cents extra for the sales tax. It took a year of saving paper tips, birthday money, and his allowance to get to this day and now his dream was gone.
Mr. Taylor saw the crestfallen boy through the store window and came out to the street. "Bobby, I've already ordered another one. It'll be here in a few weeks."
Bobby didn't respond.
"Really, Bobby. I've already ordered it. I know you're disappointed, but you've waited a year. The next few weeks will go by quickly."
Bobby turned and walked away. He left his bike along with his dream of The New InterPolar Radio on the Main Street sidewalk in front of Taylor's Electronics.
* * *
Bobby woke up early as usual and headed out the front door for the bundle of papers on the curb. He didn't bother to step on the two slugs making their way across the damp driveway. He didn't kick any of the small stones near the paper bundle, just picked up the papers and turned to carry them to the garage, where every morning he'd fold them for delivery while listening to Whacky Willie's Morning Show. The papers flew better folded and tucked tightly into themselves; the job went faster laughing at Wacky Willie. There, in front of the garage door was his bike. Mr. Taylor must have brought it back. He thought about the radio that should have been his and brushed a tear from his eye. I'll have to thank him.
Bobby rode his route, tossing papers toward his customers' porches. He didn't care if Mrs. Miller's dog barked or if he hit the Smiths' wind chimes. The route was just a job today.
"STOP!"
Bobby stopped mid-toss at the Andrews' porch. "Who said that?" No one responded. Did someone actually say that? Bobby looked around his Whispering Pines neighborhood; no one was on the street. Everything was the same: normal, quiet. He looked around again, his view landing on the Andrews' porch. A box wrapped in metallic paper glowed under the Andrews' porch light.
Bobby rode his bike up to the porch. "What happened to the roses, gnome?" he asked as he stepped off his bike, propped it with the kick stand, and moved closer to inspect the bushes.
"NO ONE TO CARE FOR THEM ANYMORE."
Bobby stared at the shouting gnome. I'm loosing my fucking mind.
"NO, YOU'RE NOT."
"Do you have to shout all the time, gnome?"
Is this better? The gnome put the thought into Bobby's head.
"Much." Bobby looked at the gnome in disbelief. I'm talking to a garden gnome who can read my thoughts. He considered the situation. He'd been talking to the gnome for years without a response. "It's about time you talked back to me. What took you so long?"
I was waiting for the right moment. "THE BOX IS FOR YOU."
Bobby looked up at the package on the porch. He could clearly see his name on the giant tag. Bobby looked back to the gnome.
"READ THE CARD FIRST."
"You're just like my mother. I don't care about cards, I want the gift you freaky little gnome."
The gnome chose not to respond.
Bobby walked up on the porch and dropped to his knees. He went for the box, turning to see if the gnome had anything to say. Nothing. Bobby tore the shiny paper off the box, his shock overcome by excitement. "Wow, The New InterPolar Radio!"
"SO, YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS. NOW READ THE CARD."
"Stop shouting, freak," Bobby whispered over his shoulder, searching for the envelope among the torn paper. His name was written, just like on the tag, in large scoopy handwriting. The envelope was thick and heavy. He tore it open.
The front of the card had a picture, no words. In the center was an elongated Earth with all the continents visible, circled by the multi-colored planets of the solar system on a deep blue background. The proportions aren't correct.
It's a card, dufus.
"Back off, gnome." Bobby opened the card. Money fluttered out onto the porch. The card didn't have printed words, just that same loopy script:
Dear Bobby,
We won't need the paper for awhile. I've decided to join Mr. Andrews on vacation. You were right. It's nice being a grownup.
I'm not sure when we'll be back. Is your offer still good for cutting our grass? Our yard doesn't need to look like the Petersons'. No need to spend time in Hell. Just give it a swipe a week with the mower in the garage. I've enclosed some money to pay you for the yard work. And, since you've been saving so diligently for The New InterPolar Radio, I've left one for you. It's a gift.
You're a wonderful boy. I know you'll go far in life.
Sincerely,
Dorothy Andrews
P.S. You don't need to weed!
P.P.S. Please take the gnome to your house for safekeeping.
P.P.P.S. Don't be upset with Mr. Taylor, I asked him to play along.
"What do you make of that, gnome? You get to live with me now."
At first, the gnome chose not to respond, but then changed his mind: "I'M THRILLED."
Chapter 2
"Calling all cars! Calling all cars!" Bobby said into The New InterPolar Radio's microphone.
"IT'S NOT A TOY"
"Lighten up, gnome. Don't you ever have any fun?"
The gnome chose not to respond.
"Bobby, is that you? Q4." A voice crackled over the radio receiver.
"SEE, YOU GOT IN TROUBLE."
"Stop shouting at me, gnome. You'll wake up my parents again and I can't explain you to them. They already think I'm nuts. Go back to that mind thing. It's much quieter."
"Bobby, was that you calling all cars? Q4." The crackling voice asked.
"Mrs. Andrews?" Bobby said into the microphone.
"Bobby, read the manual before you use The New InterPolar Radio. Q4."
"Yes, ma'am." Silence. "And, thanks for the radio."
"You're welcome, Bobby. Now, read the book. Q9." The receiver grew quiet, even the static was gone.
"READ THE BOOK! READ THE BOOK! READ THE BOOK!"
"Listen, gnome…"
"Is everything okay?" Bobby's mom whispered through his closed bedroom door.
"Fine mom. Sorry I woke you."
"Please don't wake your father. Just go to bed."
"Yes, mom," Bobby whispered back. Stupid gnome.
The gnome responded mentally: I've read the book.
Bobby pulled off his clothes and dropped them among the others that created a carpet on the floor. He got into bed, slipping deep under the covers, and got an erection, same as every night. Tonight was different. The gnome was there. From under the covers he asked: Is that why the Andrews left you out in the garden?
I never talked to the Andrews.
Bobby thought about that until his erection called to him again.
Go ahead. Everyone does.
"It's too weird with you here," said Bobby.
Then go to sleep.
Bobby contemplated his options as his hand moved toward his crotch without thinking. He couldn't do it with the gnome right there. He also couldn't take the gnome out of the house because he'd wake up his parents. And, he certainly couldn't just go to sleep.
Hallway? The gnome suggested helpfully.
Put him in the hall! No, what if dad got up for the bathroom? He'd trip over the gnome, maybe break him. Will you work if you're broken, gnome?
Don't know.
Bobby got out of bed, his erection tenting his briefs, and picked up the gnome.
What have you decided?
"You're going in the closet, freak." Bobby kicked a pile of clothes out of the way. "There's my water pistol!" He set the gnome in the closet among the pile of toys, dirty sports equipment, and smelly sneakers. Bobby picked up his water pistol and aimed it at the gnome.
Good thing I can't smell.
Bobby fired, but the pistol was empty.
I'm glazed; water won't hurt me, the gnome taunted.
"Shut up, gnome."
"CLEAN YOUR ROOM, DUFUS!"
He kicked some more clothes away so the door would close and shut the closet door on the gnome. He opened it again, "Please be quiet until morning, gnome."
Okey-dokey.
Bobby stood for a moment contemplating the dirty clothes, school books, and toys scattered around his room. He closed the door on the gnome and climbed back into bed, deep under the covers.
* * *
Saturday. I have all day to myself. Bobby looked at the cover of the manual: The New InterPolar Radio User Guide. He opened the book, skipped the table of contents, and landed at the introduction:
Welcome to your new adventure of unparalleled, inter-dimensional communication!
"Get to the good stuff," Bobby said to the book, turning another page without reading.
"READ THE BOOK."
"I'm reading the book, gnome. If you don't stop shouting at me I'll put you back in the closet."
"STOP SKIPPING THE PAGES AND READ THEM."
"It's boring: 'Welcome to your new adventure of unparalleled, inter-dimensional communication!', like the radio is a place. It's not a place, it's a thing."
"IT'S A THING THAT GET'S YOU TO OTHER PLACES."
"Stop shouting at me. Do you have a volume dial?" Bobby dropped the manual on his bed and picked up the gnome. He turned him over. The garden gnome was just a garden gnome: Glazed ceramic in bright colors: red pointy hat, black garden hoe and shoes, with blue suspenders over a yellow shirt. His sleeves were rolled up and his peach hands were on the hoe as if he was actually working. Bobby peered into the hole in the bottom; the glazed figure was empty inside. "Maybe it's the echo?"
The gnome chose not to respond.
Bobby placed the gnome back on the nightstand. The gnome grinned at the boy in a way only gnomes do.
Welcome to your new adventure of unparalleled, inter-dimensional communication! Unlike other inter-polar communication devices, The New InterPolar Radio has far surpassed previous user experiences by combining all the current technologies into one, self-powered unit. That's right, The New InterPolar Radio is ready to use right out of the box. Of course, you'll want to first read all the instructions before you'll truly be able to enjoy all the options offered you by your new personal inter-dimensional communication system.
Bobby dropped the book face down on the bed.
"READ THE BOOK!"
Bobby turned the gnome's face to the wall and got up from the bed. He kicked the clothes on the floor into a pile. Temptation won and Bobby stepped back two paces and leapt into the pile. Not the same as leaves in the fall. He got up and carried the clothes in heaps out of his room and into the hallway where he jammed them into the laundry shoot. The pile required six trips.
Bobby returned to his bed and turned the gnome around.
"NICE!"
The boy picked up the manual again:
The power of The New InterPolar Radio is unsurpassed allowing you to communicate easily and at great distances from your home port system.
"Who talks like this?" Bobby turned the page.
"BOOKS!"
The New InterPolar Radio has several components and panels you'll want to familiarize yourself with them before beginning operations.
Bobby looked at figure 1.1. Cool.
The gnome chose not to respond, but agreed.
In figure 1.1 you'll see the microphone, dual stereo speakers, optional side-by-side quadraphonic speakers (sold separately), and the Superior Component Panel (see also detail figures 1.2, 1.3, 1.4, 1.8, 1.19, and 1.37). Appendix 73 contains a list of all replacement parts and components, as well as additional expansion components available.
"I haven't even figured out how to work what I have and they're already trying to sell me something else."
"SIDE-BY-SIDE QUADRAPHONIC SPEAKERS ARE NICE."
Bobby chose not to respond. He turned the pages, reading all the words and studying the diagrams. Whenever a concept was complicated, he'd stop reading, make a snide comment to the gnome before turning him to face to the wall, and pick something up from his bedroom floor and put it where it belonged. The gnome remained silent throughout the process and by late afternoon Bobby understood The New InterPolar Radio's functions and components; his room was spotless.
* * *
"Dork," said Mickey Schiller when Bobby entered Ribbons and Bows Stationary on Main Street.
"Great way to greet a customer, Dweeb," Bobby responded, walking past his schoolmate.
He loved going into the stationary store with it's banks of greeting cards, thick paper in every conceivable color, display cases with old-fashioned fountain pens, and plethora, "P-L-E-T-H-O-R-A," he spelled under his breath, of wrapping papers and bows.
Bobby couldn't find what he wanted. At the opposite end of the long aisle, Mrs. Schiller stocked shelves. Bobby watched her methodical method of removing an item from the box at her feet, adding a price sticker, and placing the item on its proper shelf. Mrs. Schiller turned from her work to smile at Bobby who flushed, caught staring. He walked toward her.
"Hello, Bobby. I've told you, we're not interested in getting the paper at home, we get it here at the store," said Mrs. Schiller as she met Bobby halfway.
"I know, Mrs. Schiller. That's not what I need today."
"What can I help you with? Another card for your mom?" Mrs. Schiller always helped him find the perfect cards for birthdays and special holidays.
"No. I'm looking for postcards today, but something different."
Mrs. Schiller studied the young boy's face. "Bobby, tell me what the cards are for and I'll help you find the perfect type."
"You see, people who talk on the radio send each other these little cards."
"Will you be talking on the radio? How nice they're going to let a boy on the radio. Will you be interviewed or giving some sort of school news report?"
"Oh, no, not that type of radio. You see, I just got The New InterPolar Radio. It's sort of like shortwave or…"
"Oh, like a CB?" Mrs. Schiller grew excited.
"CB?"
"A citizens-band radio, like the truckers use to talk to each other and find out where the speed traps are."
"It's sort of like that, but different. You see, people who talk to each other on this radio, or hear someone else's transmission reports, send these cards to confirm they heard each other." Bobby snapped his fingers, "QSL cards, that's what they're called. The cards tell what your call letters are, your hometown, your radio handle, that sort of thing."
"Sounds very complicated. Do you have a sample I can see?"
"No. I thought I should get some of my own to send out for when people hear me."
"Well, I know we don't have anything like that. It's something you'd have printed up, a specialty type item. You should visit Mr. Fowler. I bet he can help you." Mrs. Schiller smiled warmly.
The manual said he should get cards of his own before beginning operation of The New InterPolar Radio. The gnome made it clear that Bobby should follow the directions exactly. He didn't realize this would be so hard.
"Thanks, Mrs. Schiller. I'll go down to Mr. Fowler's shop."
The woman went back to stocking her shelves; the boy headed for the door.
"Later, Pinhead," said Mickey.
"Later, Putz," said Bobby.
* * *
Bobby hopped on his bike and rode down Main Street to Mr. Fowler's print shop.
"1/2 Price." "Special Sale." "One Day Only."
Bobby liked the sign hanging over the shop door. Extending out from the old, red brick building, it had a line drawing of a lantern and the word "Printing" in old fashioned letters. The sign was able to swing with the breeze because of the way the wood board attached to the metal pole. Mr. Fowler's shop window was adorned like the sign with the old-fashioned lantern and letters that read "Printing." One word said it all.
A tinkling bell announced Bobby's entry. The mingled scents welcomed him.
"With you in a moment," said Mr. Fowler from some distant place in the shop.
The bell tinkled again as the door closed. Bobby breathed in deeply enjoying the shop's exotic smell, a mix of ink, machine oil, and paper. He looked at the printing samples lining the walls.
A rotund man walked up to the counter wearing a stiff, smudged apron. His messy long white hair tied into a pony tail. Whenever the boy saw Mr. Fowler images flashed into his head of an old man flying a kite with a key tied to it like on his history text book. The only thing missing from the image were wire framed glasses.
"Bobby!" Mr. Fowler shouted in his excited, old man voice.
"Hi, Mr. Fowler."
"I hope you're not here to try and sell me a subscription to The Telegraphic Times." The old man chuckled.
"No, Mr. Fowler. I'm looking for something special and Mrs. Schiller said I should see you about it."
"How is Dolly?"
"She's stocking shelves with wonderful paper today."
"Excellent. Such a lovely lady and nice shop." Both of them thought about Mrs. Schiller and her store for a moment. "So, what is this special something I can help you with?"
"Well, I just got The New InterPolar Radio…"
"Excellent! You'll need your own PSCs."
"PSCs?" Bobby asked, "I thought they were QSLs."
"PSCs. Personal Station Cards. I'll be happy to help you." Mr. Fowler turned to a selection of large books on a nearby shelf. He selected one and opened it on the counter, thumbing with a licked thumb through the heavy pages. "Here we go," he turned the book's splayed pages around.
"Yes! Those look just like the samples in the manual."
"Good, you're reading the book," said Mr. Fowler.
"You've read it?"
"I've had InterPolar radios from the beginning. This sample here," Mr. Fowler pointed to a card in the book, "this is my PSC."
Unlike the shop sign, the simple line drawing of an old man carrying a lantern was filled with rich colors. "It's beautiful."
"Thank you. Mrs. Fowler painted that picture for me." Mr. Fowler's eyes got a little misty.
Bobby smiled thinking of the late Mrs. Fowler and her recurring comment: "Boys will be boys." All the neighborhood kids loved her. She never hollered at them for walking on her grass, and when Terry Peterson hit the baseball that shattered the Fowler's plate-glass picture window, she calmly worked out the details with Terry and his parents that got the window replaced.
"I want something with some color, but not a photograph," said Bobby, looking through the pages of cards."
"What did you have in mind?" Mr. Fowler focused his attention on the boy.
Bobby pulled the note card with the solar system on it out of his back pocket and set it in front of Mr. Fowler who smoothed out the wrinkles. The old man resisted his urge to open and read the card.
"I don't want this dark background, but I like the way the planets line up around Earth," Bobby said.
"It's not in proportion, of course, but it's just a picture," said Mr. Fowler as he turned back to the selection of books on his shelf. He chose a bound, red-leather sample book. "I printed these cards for Mrs. Andrews a while back…." Mr. Fowler lightly licked his index finger before using it to quickly turn through the pages. "Here it is," he said, turning the book so Bobby could see.
"That's what I want!" Bobby pointed not to the card he'd gotten from Mrs. Andrews, but one on the facing page. "That one is exactly what I pictured in my head. How much are they?" He reached into his pocket.
Mr. Fowler beamed with pride at having found the perfect card for Bobby. "It depends how many you get. The more you order, the cheaper they get."
"How could getting more be cheaper?"
He smiled at the boy's confusion. "The order will cost more, but the price for each card will be less. Let's say you got ten, each one would be a dollar. If you got fifty, each one would only be fifty cents. A hundred, each one's forty cents." He watched as the boy did the math in his head. "I would recommend getting 50. You might come up with a different idea after you start receiving PSCs from other operators."
"So that's…twenty-five dollars." Bobby pulled a wad of bills from his pocket.
"You don't pay today. You'll pay when you pick up your order, okay?"
"Oh, okay." He put the money back in his pocket.
"Now, I'll need your IIN for the back."
"IIN?"
"InterPolar Identification Number. I thought you said you'd read the book?" Mr. Fowler's smile faded.
"I'm reading the book, but it's confusing. I just want to fire the thing up and get going," Bobby said with a smile. His words came out fast. He hated seeing the disapproval on Mr. Fowler's face.
Mr. Fowler walked behind the partition separating the counter from the printing presses and returned with an ink stained copy of an InterPolar Radio User Guide. He licked his second finger before paging through the book.
Bobby was impressed. Mr. Fowler's user guide was well worn. Pages were dog eared, bookmarks stuck out at odd angles, and there were hand written notes tucked between many of the pages. He'd not only read his book, but obviously used it frequently. Bobby realized that Mr. Fowler was someone he could talk to about The New InterPolar Radio.
"Inside your User Guide there will be a page like this," Mr. Fowler turned the book so Bobby could see. "This is where you'll find your personal IIN."
"What page is that? I read my book, but didn't see anything like that." Bobby was dumbfounded.
"Bobby, everyone's user guide is different." Mr. Fowler picked up his guide, closed it, and slid it under the counter. "Here's what we'll do," he looked back at the red-leather sample book. "I'll print your cards with this image on one side and you can come back when you discover your IIN. Now, go home and read the book."
Read the book. Read the book. Read the book. The gnome said in Bobby's head.
This was the first time he spoke to Bobby at a distance, but the boy had grown used to the gnome's voice in his head and didn't question it.
Bobby turned to leave. At the door he turned back. Mr. Fowler was no longer behind the counter. "Thanks Mr. Fowler!" he called.
"You're welcome, Bobby," came from some distant place in the shop.
* * *
"Hi, gnome."
The gnome chose not to respond.
"You're very rude sometimes, freak." Bobby plopped onto his bed and pulled the user guide from under his pillow. He opened the manual to page one and read:
Every new adventure begins with some level of understanding. It took some time, but you are now beginning to learn that The New InterPolar Radio is like no other device you've ever owned or attempted to operate.
"Gnome, the words are different."
Every time you learn something in this book, the words will change. But, the words won't change until you've learned what you're supposed to learn. That's why many users keep notes in their guides, but that's frowned upon.
"Who frowns?"
The gnome chose not to respond.
Bobby thought about Mr. Fowler's user guide and all the notes and bookmarks sticking out of it. He remembered how used that book looked. "But gnome, if you've learned something then why do you need to keep notes about it?"
Everyone learns in different ways and everyone remembers in different ways.
"Sounds like a riddle. Gnome, how can I find my IIN?"
Stop skipping the table of contents.
Bobby held the page he was on with a finger and turned to the user guide's table of contents. He looked for a section on InterPolar Identification Number. There was no section. He turned to the back of the book scanning the "I" section of the index for InterPolar Identification Number. There was no listing. "IIN?" Nothing. "Gnome, there's nothing in the book about the IIN."
Then, you're not ready for one yet.
"I'm not allowed to operate The New InterPolar Radio without an IIN, right?"
Correct.
"What does this mean? I can never operate my radio?"
It means: "READ THE BOOK! READ THE BOOK! READ THE BOOK!"
"Bobby, is everything okay?" His mom shouted from the hall.
"Fine, Mom!" He shouted back. Stop getting me in trouble, gnome, Bobby thought to himself.
"I just don't understand that boy," his mom muttered.
"I don't get parents either, but do I go around muttering to myself?" He said under his breath.
Yes, Bobby, you do, the gnome said with a chuckle in the boy's head.
Bobby turned the manual back to his inserted finger. He thought about the gnome's comment. I guess I do gnome. He continued reading the new Chapter One. There weren't figures and diagrams to break up the reading this time, just words. When Bobby didn't understand something he asked the gnome; there was nothing left to clean. If the gnome chose not to respond, Bobby wrote down his question. I never remember my mental notes and this is way too important. At the realization, he got up and checked the globe for "Stan" countries. He quickly found Pakistan, Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, and Uzbekistan. Bobby wrote a note to himself to ask Mr. A which "Stan" country he came from.
Chapter 3
Bobby pulled the cord and the lawnmower started. The engine noise drowned out all the neighborhood sounds and the boy began the first pass of the Andrews' lawn. He thought about everything he'd read in the user guide and now understood the importance of having an IIN before operating the radio. Even with all he'd learned, his IIN hadn't appeared; it was referenced now and mentioned, but the precious combination of letters and numbers hadn't appeared in his book.
Bobby's dad taught him that you get a more even carpet of grass when you cut it in different patterns each week. He never cut the Andrews' grass in the same pattern. The boy didn't understand the reasoning, but stopped and looked at his neighbors' lawns.
The Petersons, who of course had Whispering Pines most perfect lawn, alternated between four different cutting patterns: first north and south, then east and west, then diagonals from northeast to southwest and northwest to southeast, repeating the pattern combinations all summer.
Mr. Fowler cut his grass in the same north-south pattern every week and there were dry and sun burned spots. The Johnson lawn was unsuccessful, too, but because of a lack of any serious attention at all.
His own yard, along with the Andrews' and Mr. "Call me Bill" Taylor had decent looking grass that provided homes for a collection of dandelions.
Bobby could see that cutting the grass in alternating directions resulted in a better lawn. It dawned on him why Mr. Fowler's book had all those bookmarks and dog-eared pages: he skipped around. Bobby now understood why the gnome told him to read the table of contents and use the index. He didn't need to know every detail from front to back of the user manual. He needed to learn what he needed to know to operate The New InterPolar Radio. As questions came up, the table of contents and the index would quickly reference the new material and he could move on.
With this new knowledge, Bobby raced through cutting the lawn. He dumped the cut grass onto the Andrews' compost heap and used the pitchfork to give the heap a stir before putting the mower and fork back in the garage.
Just as he was about to hop on his bike to race back to the user guide, Mr. Arland and Misty stopped at the end of the drive and observed the lawn. Bobby walked his bike to them and propped it with the kickstand.
Misty pulled the leash taught as the boy approached. Bobby braced himself as she stood and assumed her paws-on-shoulders position and cleaned Bobby's sweaty face with her tongue.
"Nice work, Mr. Brown."
"Thanks, Mr. Arland," Bobby said around the dog's tongue.
"Misty, enough." The dog dropped down and sat. "Good dog. So, you've expanded your enterprises from the newspaper game to landscaping?"
"Yep." Bobby rubbed the dog's ears and head with both hands.
"What about the weeds? Do you weed?" Mr. Arland pointed to the compromised rose garden fronting the porch.
"Mrs. Andrews said I didn't have to weed." Bobby felt a little guilty. While he knew he didn't have to weed--it was an agreement--the weeds were taking over the garden and that reflected poorly on the job he was doing, not on the agreement.
"Well, it's her garden." He used that "tisk-tisk" tone reserved for students who were in the right, but not correct in his estimation of how the world worked. "And, what do you charge for your services?"
Bobby hadn't considered what he would charge to cut someone else's grass. He hadn't considered the Andrews' lawn as an expansion of his enterprises either. He answered honestly: "I don't know."
"What do you mean, 'you don't know'? Either you're being paid or you're not, Mr. Brown."
"Well, Mrs. Andrews paid me in advance for the summer. I haven't done the math to figure out what it comes to weekly." Bobby remembered the money fluttering out of the card, all those tens and twenties landing akimbo on the porch. He instinctively knew he couldn't tell Mr. Arland the "whole" story about the radio and the gnome. He quickly evaluated the situation: There was over $500 in cash and the radio cost just over $300. How can I put a value on the gnome? Plus, the agreement is to cut the grass until the Andrews' come home. That might be later in the year or never. All that money seemed like a fortune at the time, but now, under Mr. Arland's scrutiny, it turns out it might not be such a good deal.
"Mr. Brown? Is everything okay?"
"I don't know if I got a good deal or taken advantage of by Mrs. Andrews."
"Well, if it was Mrs. Andrews, I'm sure there was no advantage taken. She's a fair and honorable woman." Misty wagged her tail in agreement.
The three of them looked off in different directions, each having their own thoughts about Mrs. Andrews.
"Well, I need someone to cut my grass while I'm on vacation. I'll be gone as soon as school gets out next week and will return at the end of July. That's about six weeks. I will expect you to weed the flower garden I can trust you to take care of these things?"
"Yes, Mr. Arland."
"When's your birthday?"
"August."
"Summer birthdays are the worst. You never get a party in school."
Bobby hadn't thought of his birth date as a negative. He liked getting older and was excited about this year's birthday: he'd finally be a teenager. "I'm happy with when it falls. We always have a picnic at the beach. I love the water and the sand. Plus, there aren't any other holidays nearby, so I never get screwed—"
"Mr. Brown."
"…ah…shafted when it comes to presents."
"Sound reasoning, Mr. Brown." Mr. Arland smiled at his favorite student. "Back to our agreement. What will you charge for these services?"
"What's your budget?" Bobby's consultant dad used that line with customers all the time when he didn't know what they were willing to pay.
"Very savvy, Mr. Brown. I'd say I have a $100 budget."
Bobby thought for a moment. "Oh, I don't think I could do all of it for less than $150. There's weeding involved, after all." He followed his dad's rule of adding fifty percent to the suggested budget amount and was relieved that the math was easy enough to do quickly in his head. He added: "And, you supply the gas."
Mr. Arland considered the negotiations and knew the number was fair. It was the original amount that popped into his own head: twenty-five dollars a week. "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Brown," he said, extending his hand.
Bobby smiled at his accomplishment and Mr. Arland's compliment. The two shook hands and Misty plopped her own heavy paw on top, making them laugh.
"I'll give you half the money before I leave and the remainder when I return home. Both the mower and the spare gas tank will be full. If you need more gas, just get it and a receipt."
"Who'll be taking care of Misty?" Bobby lowered his face to the dog so she could lap him again.
"Oh, Misty will be going on vacation, too."
"Misty gets to go with you?"
"Oh, no. Misty will spend her vacation at Doggy Acres."
"Can I watch her while you're gone, Mr. Arland?"
Mr. Arland looked down at Misty as he considered Bobby's offer.
"No charge!" Bobby added.
We'd need to check with your parents, but if it's okay with them, it's okay with me. Is it okay with you, Misty?"
Misty wagged her tail, thwacking Mr. Arland's legs.
* * *
On page 356 it appeared.
What have you found?
Bobby chose not to respond to the gnome. He quickly wrote it down in the notebook and read it back to check his work: "B5B5B5."
"You got your IIN!"
He checked the letters and numbers one more time. "This is radio B5B5B5. Q4." Bobby practiced his radio call and the proper ending code.
Good, Bobby. Every call needs to end in a code. Have you memorized all the codes?
Bobby responded to the gnome mentally: I haven't memorized all of them. There are over 100 codes. They fill up a whole appendix. As he spoke in his thoughts the IIN disappeared. "It's gone."
You have to memorize all the codes before you can use the radio.
So, I can't use the radio now, even though I have an IIN?
Look at the page, Bobby. There's no IIN there. When it appears again, it might be different.
Bobby checked the table of contents and found the code appendix. He methodically memorized them. For the entire weekend, other than delivering papers and cutting the Andrews' lawn, Bobby worked at the codes. By Sunday night he had them down. He knew them all.
Will the codes change, Gnome?
They sometimes add codes, but the basics never change. You should get in the habit of checking for new codes every day. The one good thing is that the code appendix never disappears from the book. When there's a checkmark on the top right of the first page of codes you know you're current.
Bobby turned to the familiar appendix and saw a green checkmark. "So, I can do it? I can go on the air?"
Check to see if you've got an IIN.
Bobby turned to the table of contents and ran his finger down the list looking for a reference to his IIN. "Page one."
You've done it Bobby. Once your IIN appears on page one it will never change. You may still lose transmission privileges, but when you get them back you'll have the same IIN.
Bobby scratched out the original IIN and read the letters and numbers out loud as he wrote them down in his notebook: "5-B-11-S. They've changed from before." He practiced: "This is station 5-B-11-S. Q1."
"WRONG!"
Bobby quickly understood the reprimand. "It's not eleven. It's one-one."
Yep. Everything is one thing.
He practiced his IIN introduction again: "This is station 5-B-1-1-S. Q1."
"FIRE IT UP!"
Bobby, as excited as the gnome, jumped up from the bed, picked up the gnome, and moved to the desk. He'd built a small pilaster in wood shop and he set the gnome on the stand.
Nice.
"I thought you might like it, freak." Bobby hit The New InterPolar Radio "on" button. The control panel back light glowed soft white; the dials illuminated in shades of red, blue and green. Bobby recalled the user guide instructions from memory:
Each session on The New InterPolar Radio is a journey. You can never begin any journey in the middle, but must instead always start at the beginning. When beginning a journey turn all dials to their first position of "1" or "A," respectively. You cannot advance on any journey until permission is granted. At this granting the dials will move on their own. In this way, it is not always necessary to work your way through the millions of possible dial combinations on each journey. At any time, you may choose to end your journey, but remember that when you begin your next journey you must once again begin at the first position and there is no guarantee that you'll be advanced to where you ended your previous adventure.
Bobby turned all the control dials to their first positions of "1" or "A." The radio was silent, but Bobby knew to expect this:
The New InterPolar Radio is working properly when no static or white noise is noticeable. Your single speaker volume dial should be set to "3" or "4". Dual quadraphonic speakers (sold separately) will begin responding at "2." In the event you detect white noise, static, or find interference in the electromagnetic or radio waves, turn the receptor dial to the next position. Repeat this process, one number at a time, until you find a frequency without white noise or static. In the event that no frequency position is without interference, turn off The New InterPolar Radio for a minimum of fifteen minutes (noted in your own dimensional relative time). If after a second attempt the offensive noise continues there may be a local interference and you may have to turn off The New InterPolar Radio and move it to another physical location. If this does not solve the frequency interference issues please follow the instructions in Appendix 237 that have appeared for use.
Bobby adjusted the speaker volume to "3." Mr. Arland's grass cutting money will almost cover a set of dual quadraphonic speakers, he thought to himself.
I was going to suggest that, said the gnome.
Bobby hit the microphone button once and released it again. He heard the expected click. He hit the button again, holding it down this time. Bobby took a deep breath to calm the butterflies in his stomach and spoke into the microphone: "This is station 5-B-1-1-S. Q1." He released the button and waited.
"Welcome new station 5-B-1-1-S. Q3." The voice was feminine and metallic.
Bobby waited for instructions per the user guide:
Upon first recognition of your IIN, please wait for additional instructions. This waiting time may take up to five minutes (noted in your own dimensional relative time). The instructions will be your next coordinate positions given in a series of letters and numbers that correspond to the green control panel dials as previously explained. NOTE: Your coordinate position will be given twice. You may not ask for a repetition, but must begin again. Arrivals are handled in an order set forth in Appendix 123.