The Man Who Ate the 747 by Ben Sherwood Read Free Book Online

cranks, and levers angling in all directions.
    “Stopped by Ace Hardware on the way over,” Nate said. “Ordered a new five-horsepower engine for the chipper-shredder. Think that’ll do the trick.”
    “How much it cost you?”
    “Don’t worry about it. Missy slipped it to me for free.”
    “She’s been sweet on you since the fifth grade,” Wally said.
    “Only ’cause I helped her with her homework.”
    “You helped everyone with their homework.”
    “Now look at me. I’m the guy who assigns the homework.”
    The two men put on aviation-grade ear protectors. Wally knelt next to the contraption, reached inside a panel, and yanked a rip cord. The machine sputtered, groaned, then died.
    “You got enough gas in there?” Nate asked.
    “How should I know? You didn’t put a gauge on it.”
    “One small oversight in my perfect design. Go ahead, try again.”
    Wally pulled hard on the cord and the engine rumbled to life.
    Nate pulled open the front door of the machine and inspected the gears. His hands darted between moving parts. With a wrench and a screwdriver, he pulled and jerked and finally, with a satisfied smile, he turned to Wally.
    “Ready when you are.”
    Wally gave a thumbs-up, then marched out of the barn with his handsaw and giant tinner snips. He walked directly beneath the rear bulk cargo hold of the 747, the belly of the beast, positioned a creaky ladder, then climbed right up.
    He cast an eye over the smooth metallic expanse. He had never seen a jet up close until that stormy night ten years ago. He had never flown on an airplane or even been to an airport. Still, he was proud of his accomplishment: He had eaten his way through the front of the aircraft, 41 Section, according to the markings on the frames and stringers, running from the nose cone through the cockpit, well past the wings, all the way to the tail.
    Standing on his ladder, he examined the subassembly panels under the plane. Where to begin? He tapped the aluminum skin with the tip of his snips, then began cutting. It took ten minutes of hard work, first with the huge scissors, then with the saw, rocking back and forth to give the blade more edge. He liked the warm shavings sprinkling down on his sweaty face. He liked the smell of metal, bitter and raw. Finally, a four-by-four square dropped to the ground with a thud.
    Wally climbed down and picked up the chunk. It was just the right size.
    “This oughta do,” he said, holding up his prize.
    “Good one,” Nate said.
    Wally climbed the splintered ladder in the barn, hauled the panel up with a rope and pulley. Then he walked along the beams that ran the length of the structure. He knew every inch of this place, spent his childhood playing hide-and-seek in all its darkened corners.
    “Here we go.”
    He stared down into the huge contraption and sawthe metal teeth spinning at full speed, like a giant Osterizer. He put on his safety glasses, then pushed the metal piece into the mouth of the machine.
    It moaned, shook violently, and suddenly went silent. The darn thing was always temperamental.
    “Dammit!” Nate shouted.
    Wally kicked the metal side of the device with his boot, tugged up and down on the piece of 747. Slowly the teeth began to grind, chewing up the offering. Acrid smoke spewed from the back of the apparatus.
    The grinding noise was extraordinary, like a great beast dying. The abrasive sound shot out of the barn, over the two hills, past the windmill, and reverberated across all of Superior. It was a grating sound the town knew well, a sound everyone tried to ignore.
    Wally swung down from the rafters on the pulley rope and waited patiently in front of the contraption. He checked his watch, and finally he flipped a switch on the front console. The grinding stopped. He pulled off his ear protectors and opened a little door built into the front panel and pulled out a red bucket.
    It was filled with a metallic, gritty substance that smelled of auto shops and junkyards. He