glue on all surfaces that seemed to need it. The result would not have satisfied a pessimist, but Charlie’s eye was the eye of an optimist. He left his pine missile to dry and went to his room to do homework for an endless ten minutes.
When Aaron next saw Charlie’s model, he kept disappointment from his face. “Keen job,” he said, noting several ways the left side of the model differed from the right side. What’s done was done, he felt, and careful adjustments sometimes resulted in a glide that might satisfy a first-time builder.
“Time to test it. There’s probably room in the park,” Charlie said, collecting necessary odds and ends.
Privately, Aaron thought there would be plenty of room inside the garage, but did not share his opinion. The little neighborhood park was a block nearer the center of town than the Hardin place, with a steep slope on one side and enough open meadow between live oaks to test-glide a small model. They stopped at the top of the slope and the builder exercised his right to be first to test his creation.
At Charlie’s toss, the glider darted downslope instantly, rolling over and over as if spinning around an imaginary tree trunk, then stuck like a dart in the grass but, being stout pine, without damage. “Wait, I can fix that,” Charlie cried, and raced to recover the thing. He had seen Aaron adjust models a dozen times.
Aaron watched until he saw that Charlie, with scant knowledge of flight adjustments, was bending a wing’s edge exactly the wrong way. “You’ll make it worse, guy,” he said, and received a disgusted who’s the expert here glance. “Okay, then,” he shrugged, “but you will.”
“I reckon I know how to fly my own airplane,” said Charlie hotly, and prepared to make another toss.
And in that moment, Aaron Fischer made a grand discovery. It is this: To Avoid Ever Repeating A Cheap Mistake, Make That Mistake More Expensive. “A nickel says it’s gonna do a worse barrel roll than before. A nickel, Charlie. Five cents cash. Or . . .” And Aaron sounded the cluck of a hen.
Charlie’s eyes narrowed at the hint that he might be, in the slang of that era, “chicken.” Without forethought, his teeth gritted, he said, “Make it a dime.”
“A quarter,” Aaron said calmly.
“A dollar,” Charlie said in a hoarse whisper, and followed that with what was, for Charlie, a mighty oath. “A D-Word dollar, and we’ll see who’s chicken!”
Aaron spat in his open palm and stuck his hand out to be shaken, and Charlie shook it, and only when Aaron stood away and folded his arms did Charlie pause to consider the size of the bet his mouth had made for his pocket to risk. But he had enlarged the bet himself—twice, in fact. He tossed the glider again, and this time saw it flutter down in exactly the kind of tight spiral Aaron had predicted.
No words were exchanged until Charlie returned with the nonflying toy and, on his face, a look of abject disgust. Instead of the “ told you so” that a lesser failure deserved, Aaron sighed. “Happened to me a few times too,” he said. “Maybe we can fix it.”
“It’s no good,” said Charlie.
“It might be. Tell you what: I’ll buy it from you.”
Charlie’s sharp glance searched for sarcasm. Finding none, he said, “What for?”
“For one dollar,” said Aaron, and saw understanding flood his pal’s face. “Then I get to try and fly it myself.”
Silently, sheepishly, Charlie handed over the toy and watched as Aaron began to make changes. A wingtip was shortened by grinding it against the cement sidewalk. A wooden edge was smoothed, then bent correctly. The little glider’s balance was changed with half a piece of chewing gum that Charlie, on Aaron’s instructions, pried from the underside of a park bench and squeezed to regummify it. After two more tests a piece of gravel the size of a pea was added to the gum and this time the model flew an almost straight lazy glide down the hill.
By this
When Aaron next saw Charlie’s model, he kept disappointment from his face. “Keen job,” he said, noting several ways the left side of the model differed from the right side. What’s done was done, he felt, and careful adjustments sometimes resulted in a glide that might satisfy a first-time builder.
“Time to test it. There’s probably room in the park,” Charlie said, collecting necessary odds and ends.
Privately, Aaron thought there would be plenty of room inside the garage, but did not share his opinion. The little neighborhood park was a block nearer the center of town than the Hardin place, with a steep slope on one side and enough open meadow between live oaks to test-glide a small model. They stopped at the top of the slope and the builder exercised his right to be first to test his creation.
At Charlie’s toss, the glider darted downslope instantly, rolling over and over as if spinning around an imaginary tree trunk, then stuck like a dart in the grass but, being stout pine, without damage. “Wait, I can fix that,” Charlie cried, and raced to recover the thing. He had seen Aaron adjust models a dozen times.
Aaron watched until he saw that Charlie, with scant knowledge of flight adjustments, was bending a wing’s edge exactly the wrong way. “You’ll make it worse, guy,” he said, and received a disgusted who’s the expert here glance. “Okay, then,” he shrugged, “but you will.”
“I reckon I know how to fly my own airplane,” said Charlie hotly, and prepared to make another toss.
And in that moment, Aaron Fischer made a grand discovery. It is this: To Avoid Ever Repeating A Cheap Mistake, Make That Mistake More Expensive. “A nickel says it’s gonna do a worse barrel roll than before. A nickel, Charlie. Five cents cash. Or . . .” And Aaron sounded the cluck of a hen.
Charlie’s eyes narrowed at the hint that he might be, in the slang of that era, “chicken.” Without forethought, his teeth gritted, he said, “Make it a dime.”
“A quarter,” Aaron said calmly.
“A dollar,” Charlie said in a hoarse whisper, and followed that with what was, for Charlie, a mighty oath. “A D-Word dollar, and we’ll see who’s chicken!”
Aaron spat in his open palm and stuck his hand out to be shaken, and Charlie shook it, and only when Aaron stood away and folded his arms did Charlie pause to consider the size of the bet his mouth had made for his pocket to risk. But he had enlarged the bet himself—twice, in fact. He tossed the glider again, and this time saw it flutter down in exactly the kind of tight spiral Aaron had predicted.
No words were exchanged until Charlie returned with the nonflying toy and, on his face, a look of abject disgust. Instead of the “ told you so” that a lesser failure deserved, Aaron sighed. “Happened to me a few times too,” he said. “Maybe we can fix it.”
“It’s no good,” said Charlie.
“It might be. Tell you what: I’ll buy it from you.”
Charlie’s sharp glance searched for sarcasm. Finding none, he said, “What for?”
“For one dollar,” said Aaron, and saw understanding flood his pal’s face. “Then I get to try and fly it myself.”
Silently, sheepishly, Charlie handed over the toy and watched as Aaron began to make changes. A wingtip was shortened by grinding it against the cement sidewalk. A wooden edge was smoothed, then bent correctly. The little glider’s balance was changed with half a piece of chewing gum that Charlie, on Aaron’s instructions, pried from the underside of a park bench and squeezed to regummify it. After two more tests a piece of gravel the size of a pea was added to the gum and this time the model flew an almost straight lazy glide down the hill.
By this
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