Free The Man Who Ate the 747 by Ben Sherwood Page B

up fishing rod in the darkness, pushed the little button on the battery pack to flash the bulb in quick bursts, a twinkling secret code. The strobing device mimicked the firefly mating ritual, males trying to impress females, a come-on in shimmering light.
    He hadn’t done very well in school—C+ in biology—but over the years he had learned his share about fireflies. They were beetles, really, their flicker an enzymatic reaction. Nate’s word for the fireflies’ glow was
bioluminescence
, a fancy way of saying the release of light from a living thing. And that was Willa for him—radiant, glowing mysteriously from deep inside. A poem about fireflies described it perfectly. Willa was “living light.” A beacon.
    “You just going to stand there?” Nate asked, sitting down in the grass. He unscrewed the Hellmann’sjar and emptied the net. “Only got 50 critters so far, and I need a few hundred for summer school tomorrow.”
    “Sorry,” Wally said.
    Nate shined his light on the beetles: red heads, black backs, yellow tails.
    “You’re going too slow,” he said. “You gotta flash faster. Average male firefly sends 3.3 per second. Run the bulb at 4 per second, and the females go absolutely wild. Less than 2.8 per second, and they ignore you.”
    That was Wally’s problem, entirely. His whole life, he had flashed too slowly.
    As a boy, he wrote her name in crop circles in the wheat fields. Made a fool of himself, misspelling her name. The next year, he hired Ace Klinker’s spray plane to tow a banner over the homecoming game. It said I LOVE YOU! But Willa didn’t guess it was for her, and he was too scared to tell. A few years later, and maybe a bit more desperate, he even pierced his shoulder with a hunting arrow, went to the emergency room, and said Cupid shot him. Again, no notice. Just crazy old Wally.
    “Go on,” Nate was saying. “Faster!” He scurried around with his net, swinging forehands and backhands, swooping up fireflies.
    Flash faster.
    Wally squeezed the button on the fishing rod, the light blinked, and the air around him lit up with answers. To lure her, he knew he had to go for theworld record. There was no greater flash, no finer way to signal his love.
    Jughead’s was crowded with farmers in from the fields, shirts stained with sweat, dirt under their nails. They came in groups, crews of workers, stopping off for a quick one before heading home for a shower and supper. The men huddled over small tables, drinking red beer and chowing down wedges of pizza smothered with sauerkraut. The TV overhead was a blur of football players in training.
    J.J. sat at the long empty counter, alone. The glamorous life of the Keeper of the Records. He had his rules. First and foremost, no excessive fraternizing with the locals. It made it easier to move on. It kept life simple and straightforward.
    Another town, another bar, another night on his own. On the bright side, at least there was someplace left on the planet where you could buy beer for fifty cents. It came in a frosted mug. It was remarkable, almost worth living in the middle of Nebraska.
    “Get you another one?” the bartender asked. She had an unusually long face, heavy mascara, and curly brown hair.
    “Sure, one more.” Any more than that and he’d forget why he was here. He put another dollar on the counter and turned around. Loud guffaws were coming from the farmers playing keno in the next room.
    Then something caught his eye. Willa camethrough the door. She had changed into a pair of snug jeans, a white tank top, and cowboy boots. Unruly blond hair fanned out from her head like some kind of riotous halo. She wasn’t a classic beauty. Her nose was a fraction of a degree off to one side, her lips were a bit full, and her hips were a touch wide. Still, it all added up to a stunning combination, the kind that made him wobble on his barstool.
    He was all set for another brush-off, but, instead, she walked right up to him.
    “Folks at the