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PINEWOOD DERBY
Outside the window, a single cardinal pecked away at a pile of seeds that sat at the base of a dark red wooden feeder. The feeder hung from the branch of an old birch tree, and swayed ever so gently as the bird shifted its weight. One seed at a time, the bird pecked, swallowed, pecked, and swallowed. Matt watched silently, drawn in by the methodical tranquility of the cardinal. Suddenly, his mother burst into the kitchen and draped an old tablecloth over the kitchen table, a daisy pattern stained with ketchup and mustard from picnics past. “There you go,” she said, “you can work here, but make sure you don’t scratch the table.” She wiped her hands on her apron and left. It wasn’t likely, he thought, as he set the cigar box he had been holding down on the table. He lifted the lid and surveyed its contents, a block of wood, nails, wheels, instructions, a box cutter knife, sandpaper, can of paint, some glue, and a tape measure. She flew back out of the room. He unfolded the instructions. CONTAINS FUNCTIONAL SHARP POINTS it warned. Other than that, the details were clear. He had to build a winnable car out of these raw materials, and it had to be 2 3/4 “ wide and 7 “ length, five ounces or less. The width between the wheels had to be 1 3/4” and the bottom clearance between car and track 3/8”. Character is important, the instructions said. As a result, there were no wheel bearings, washers and bushings allowed, but details such as the steering wheel, drive, decals, painting and interior detail were permissible as long as the details didn’t exceed the maximum length, width and weight specifications. Matt thought about that. He held the block of wood in his hand, felt its smooth corners, and smelled the freshness of the pine. He imagined the car finished, with a little pipe-cleaner guy sitting in the driver’s seat, perhaps with a porkpie hat made out of colored construction paper. The car would have a number of course, that could be 1029 for their address, or maybe 28 for his birthday, or maybe 10, because that’s Ron Santo’s number. And, he could put a sign on the pipe-cleaner guy’s back, like the STP decals those race car drives have, only his would have something like BBB for the secret club he had with his dad, the Blessed Basement Buddies. That would look cool, particularly if he could have a red background and black letters. As he was completing this mental image, Matt’s dad came in the room and sat down at the table, pulling the chair across the Formica floor. “So it’s Pinewood Derby time again,” he said. “Yup.” “Need some help?” The scoutmaster had stressed that it was okay to get your dad’s help, but it was supposed to be your project. He assumed his Dad already knew that. “Yeah, it’d be great, I just want to build a car that’ll beat Tad Nightengale.” Tad was Matt’s sometimes-best friend. He lived two houses away; his dad was a dentist and his mom had a glass eye that was really scary, probably because it made her look like she was half-mad at you all the time. The two of them usually had a pretty good time playing together. But, if George Trace, who lived on the next cul-de-sac, and whose dad was a surgeon, came over to join them, it was a different story. Both Tad and George ’s houses bordered the river and were two stories high, with fully stocked recreation rooms in their basements. Matt’s house was next to a house that bordered the river, and they lived in a ranch house and their basement caught rainwater every time it stormed. Matt preferred playing with one or the other of his friends, but not both, because when that happened, he felt like the odd man out. He’d complain about it sometimes to his mother. “Two’s company three’s a crowd,” she would say. “Because his dad has all those power tools and I want to show him that it takes more than that to win the Derby,” Matt continued. Matt’s dad smiled and began rolling up the sleeves of his pressed white shirt. “Well, let’s look at these directions and see what we can do.”
“Houston, while you’re looking that up, you might recognize what I have in my hand as the handle for the contingency sample return; it just so happens to have a genuine six iron on the bottom of it. In my left hand, I have a little white pellet that’s familiar to millions of Americans. I’ll drop it down. Unfortunately, the suit is so stiff, I can’t do this with two hands, but I’m going to try a little sand-trap shot here.” The doorbell rang. “Matttttttttttttttt,” his mother screamed, loud enough to scare their cat, Armstrong, into hiding. “It’s Tad at the door, are you ready for school?” Matt turned his head long enough to miss seeing Shepherd making his famous first swing. “I’m coming.” He glanced at the flickering images on the TV set as he picked up his book bag. Shepherd had buried the first ball and tried again, the ball barely moving a couple feet. “You’ll be late,” his mother continued, walking into the room with Matt’s lunch in hand. He peeked inside the grease-stained paper bag. Cheese sandwich on white bread, and potato chips, like always. He sighed and walked toward the front door, leaving the television set behind him just as Shepherd connected on his third try, sending the golf-ball into space.
“Get it!” Tad said, pointing. The frog was heading in a perpendicular direction, something else that Matt learned in school, when lines intersect at a ninety-degree angle, they are…perpendicular. He watched as Tad dropped his books and began lifting his legs high in the air, stomping about like a man trying to put out a fire. “What are you doing?” Matt asked, hoping to stop him, if only for a second. “I’m trying to smush him,” Tad answered gleefully, full-stomp ahead. “I smushed ten frogs while we were on vacation this summer…you should have seen it!” He was laughing now. “Flatten!” he shouted. Matt didn’t want to look. But, in another instant, Tad slipped on the grass and landed hard on his butt as the frog jumped into a flowerbed, burrowing in amongst the chrysanthemums. All the neighbors knew the boys, and backyards were okay, but flowerbeds were off-limits. Matt walked over and extended his hand, to make Tad perpendicular once again. “Oh, I almost got him. You should have seen the frogs in Colorado,” Tad went on, rapidly, as he picked up his notebook and they continued walking. He went on about his family’s late summer vacation, they’d been to Pikes Peak and the Grand Canyon and Four Corners and somewhere else he hadn’t heard of. They took their camper, which sat parked in their driveway when they weren’t traveling. Matt wished his family had a camper, because they never went anywhere except to visit his grandmother in Peoria and for that trip he always got car sick, often throwing up along the side of the road, into some poor farmer’s corn or soybeans. Once they couldn’t stop in time and he threw up into his brother’s hands. But, Tad’s family took the camper and went camping and hiking, ate fish they caught in a stream, and apparently, he stomped ten poor Colorado frogs. In many ways, Tad was the perfect camping Cub Scout, with his love for the outdoors and distaste for living things. As Tad spoke about tents and grilles, cleaning gnats off their windshield and emptying the portable toilet, Matt started to wonder why he himself had enrolled in Cubs Scouts in the first place. It wasn’t something his folks pushed him into, he wasn’t a camper or even athletic. He liked baseball, but he was usually the slowest guy on the time, and besides that, he preferred to read, play music, or think about things. Maybe he joined because of his friends, they were all in the same pack. “Are you entering the Pinewood Derby?” Tad asked, as they reached the gravel patch of Benton Avenue. He didn’t wait for Matt to answer. “We’re almost done,” he said, “my dad has this really cool saw we’re using, you can’t even buy it yet.” Matt was about to ask why, when Tad continued. “Because it’s a prototype. My dad knows the head of the company, he just did two fillings for him.” They reached the playground that bordered the north side of Jackson Elementary and saw some boys and girls climbing on the monkey bars. “It’s a prototype,” Tad said, picking up a hunk of loose gravel and throwing it in the air, “like something the astronauts would use.”
Jackson Elementary was Jacksontown’s first school; it was set up on the corner of Jackson and Main, in 1852. It resembled a miniature Independence Hall. A painting of Al Jackson shaking hands with a Native American on the banks of the since named Eloise River (for his wife) hung in the front hallway across from the principal’s office. And, every morning, as the same bell rang that had been ringing for over a hundred years, they filed into their classes, and recited the pledge of allegiance. There were two classes to each grade, with about twenty students. Tad was in Matt’s class, but George was not. The first subject of the day was usually history, and often focused on the founding fathers or the early settlers that headed west, men such as Al Jackson. On this particular morning, the teacher lectured about the present-day pioneering spirit of our nation’s brave astronauts. As she spoke, she picked up a golf club from her desk and held it with one hand. “Did anyone get a chance to watch the astronauts on television this morning?” Matt shot his hand up, looked around, and was surprised to see he was the only one. He spotted Tad two desks over, looking out the window and rolling rubber cement around between his fingers. “And, what were they doing?” “They were walking around, and then, Astronaut Shepherd…” Matt began to answer. “Hit a golf ball!” she smiled. “Well, yes, but actually, it went…” “For miles and miles,” very good, Matt, “and it went for miles because there is no atmosphere on the moon, that’s right. Which is something for our science hour, later this afternoon. But, that’s an excellent answer, Matt, because…” And on she went about golf and pioneers and of course, Al Jackson’s name came up somehow and he and Eloise were both worked into the lecture. Matt had been pegged as a smart student early on his grade school career, in kindergarten, because he could already read. The principal grilled him to find out what magical methods had led to this early development and all he could tell them was he used to read the liner notes on his brother’s record albums. It was true, but this confused them. Regardless, his reputation was formed, and teachers often cut him slack they wouldn’t with other students. For example, if he started to answer a question and it wasn’t quite what they were looking for, they would modify their response to make it appear as if he’d hit the nail on the head. Matt picked up on this early. While the teacher continued talking, he looked over again and saw Tad throw his little rubber cement ball out the window. She hadn’t noticed, she was still directing her conversation at Matt.
Basically, in this class, they ate eclairs, learned about the Eiffel Tower, and read a book in French. It was The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. It was the story of a pilot who crashed in the Sahara Desert, and as he is trying to fix his plane, he meets a little prince who asks him to draw a sheep. They begin a long, magical conversation, centering tales of the prince’s adventures traveling from planet to planet. Matt loved the book, but he thought it was kind of sad, the prince and the pilot were both so far from where they wanted to be. More than anything, he wished he could’ve read it in English instead. Matt and George were supposed to spend free time at the end of each class talking with each other about the book. Usually they started off that way, but then the conversation would shift and they’d talk about Cub Scouts or baseball or astronauts. It was fun, though, because, because like Matt, George knew about the astronauts. He didn’t just watch them because everyone else was, there was a difference, he absorbed the details of who did what and where they were from. George had more to him than Tad, and indeed most kids in their classes. George also talked a lot about his family; his dad was always sleeping when he got home, because of his late nights at his hospital, and that apparently caused a lot of trouble because his brother played guitar really loud. In fact, George’s family had a jukebox in the basement, which Matt thought was one of the coolest things he’d ever seen. They even had “American Pie,” though the song was on two 45s because it was so long. The record had just hit number one and they’d play it over and over. Only problem was, right after one chorus, “bye bye, miss American Pie,” the song would suddenly end and the mechanical arm would drop down and eject the record, replacing it with another that would continue. This took about 30 seconds, but it seemed like an eternity and for Matt, that interruption practically ruined the song. He would’ve rather just listened to part one or two separately. But, after awhile, he figured he could enjoy both parts if he concentrated on every little note and instrument and word in the verse after the interruption, so focused, so hard, that he’d forget about the break that came before.
Pack meetings were held in the gymnasium of Jackson Elementary, and so that was the site for the annual Pinewood Derby, as well. Matt and his dad walked in onto the squeaky brownish orange floor of the basketball courts and saw the room crowded with Cub Scouts, all in full uniform, and their families. The huge blue mats that they used for tumbling hung on both walls, and the high point of the racing track was by the stage, on the opposite side from where they entered. Chairs were set up on both sides of the track and around the far end, where they would finish. There was a couple feet between the edges of the track and where the audience would eventually fill the metal folding chairs. Each scout was supposed to bring his car to the scoutmaster, who’d give it a number and set it down among the row of cars waiting to race. Two-by-two, they’d start at the top, held in place until the scoutmaster fired a cap gun, and then they’d be released held in their lanes by guide strips. At the bottom, one of the dads volunteering as a judge, had a racing flag ready to wave as the winning car crossed the finish line. After each set of two, the winner would be tagged, the loser put aside, and the playoffs would continue until the final two cars would be standing and the winner was determined. Matt walked up front to register his car, amongst the murmuring of the crowd, which was growing louder with new arrivals. The metal doors of the gymnasium were opening and closing regularly now, almost punctuating his footsteps. Matt was a little bit nervous about the race, and his anxiety grew as he signed in and watched the scoutmaster place his car next to the others. His car, despite the extra touches, resembled a banana next to a row of carrots, a station wagon along grand prix contestants, or a Volkswagen in row of Porsches. All the other cars showed off aerodynamically perfect chassis and smooth tail fins. His was the only car with a pipecleaner driver, but that wasn’t why he could instantly spot it. It was that all of the other cars in sight looked as if they had been planed smooth by prototype state-of-the-art machinery. There wasn’t a single car, besides his, with a pipecleaner driver and very few had more than a single racing decal on the side. The Derby was scheduled to start at 7 p.m., and precisely at that hour, the scoutmaster made an announcement, and everyone stood to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. It was the second time that day for Matt, and he was glad Cub Scouts didn’t meet every night, if for no other reason than he’d wind up reciting the pledge approximately 400 times a year instead of the current 200. And, that didn’t count the lunch hours when the Daughters of the Revolution would come to speak. After the pledge, the scoutmaster went into a little speech talking about how competition was fun, but it would also teach the scouts how to live with character and honesty. Then, he raised his cap gun, fired and proclaimed, “let the races begin.” There was a pause while everyone waited for the cars to race down the track, and the scoutmaster realized he hadn’t set them up yet. Then, he added, “actually the races will almost begin,” and there was a wave of laughter from the crowd, as the scoutmaster and his assistant set about the task of selecting two cars to start. Matt fidgeted in his seat, hoping his car wouldn’t be first, as the first race was between two kids from another den that he didn’t know very well. In the second race, Tad raced against Officer Friendly’s (their local police sergeant) son, and won by a nose. The third race had George’s turbo deluxe, as he had named it, against a car that looked even clunkier than Matt’s. At first Matt was relieved to see that there was another car in the race besides his that was handcrafted, but that feeling turned to horror as he saw that it belonged to Sam Patton, the slow kid in third grade. Sam’s dad worked at the drugstore downtown, and he was one of those kids who ate paste and always seemed to have a strange smell floating around his desk. Once Matt was drafted to tutor him on his reading, which had been a hopeless cause. George won that race easily. Matt’s car was picked for the next, or fourth, race. His dad, never to say too much, whispered good luck, as they both sat up straight to better see the track. Matt’s opponent was Joe Jackson II, another doctor’s son. His dad was a gynecologist, Matt didn’t know what kind of doctor that was, he’d heard it had something to do with treating women who had cancer, but more importantly, Joe Jackson II was famous around town for being a heir of the Al Jackson. His family owned the city’s oldest standing house and even put a plaque on their front door telling everyone it was built in the 1800s by Al and Eloise’s daughter, Jo. It was kind of hard to follow, but if you ever wanted an explanation, Joe II was ready to give you a long one, and for that reason, Matt kind of avoided him at school. Plus, he wore dickeys, and was one of those kids who liked to wad up spitballs and throw them on the ceiling of the boy’s room across the hall. Their school janitor, an old man with a limp, would hobble into their class sometimes and ask, in a menacing voice, who threw those spitballs. Sometimes Joe II would snigger a little, but he never owned up to it, and no one ever caught him red-handed, probably because all their teachers were women. Once, Matt went to the bathroom to pee and saw the janitor rocking back and forth on a high paint-splattered ladder, as he scraped spitballs off the ceiling. Matt wanted to say he knew who did it, but he didn’t really think that would help. Even then, he figured there were people in the world who cleaned up other people’s messes. Anyway, Joe II’s car was a beauty, and the race ended quickly, as he creamed Matt by two lengths. Matt wanted to leave after that, but he knew it wouldn’t be nice to the other boys, particularly his friends. And, so he sat with his father, watching as dads (and the occasional mom) shouted and cursed and cheered their sons on. When all was said and done, a new kid from Ohio, who nobody knew anything about, won the Derby. Tad finished second, and Joe II third. Matt didn’t care about losing so much, but he had been disappointed that he was knocked out on his first try. When he picked up his car after it was all over, he looked at the BBB decal on the back of his driver and thought about his dad working long hours whittling that car with him. George walked by and tapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Matt,” he said, “it’s a cool looking car.” See you tomorrow, “oui?” “Oui,” Matt answered. Sometimes George could be all right.
Tad kicked at pile of leaves and pushed his elbow into Matt. “Your car had a lot of legal weights.” “What do you mean?,” Matt asked, knowing exactly what he meant. “That driver was something. He probably weighed more than my whole car.” Tad and George both laughed. “And what’s BBB stand for anyway, Big Bloated Boat?” George chipped in. “Good thing it hadn’t been a water race,” Tad said, “it would’ve sunk.” They were about to the playground now, and their laughing was louder. Matt was becoming very upset. “Big Bloated, Boat,” Tad continued, oblivious, “that’s hilari-ouse.” Matt was on the verge of tears, all he could think about was how hard his father and worked with him, and despite how poorly his car has fared, there was still something cool about it, if he had it all over to do, he’d build the same car. It wasn’t like everyone else’s car, and that should count for something. But, he didn’t say anything, he just wanted his friends to stop before he got really mad. “What did you use to carve it, your Cub Scout knife?” George added. In his mind, Matt saw small white pieces of pine flakes, falling silently to their kitchen floor. His tears began to flow. “Oh, he’s crying!” they sang, accidentally on purpose in unison. “At least my dad was home to help me,” Matt finally shouted, “I didn’t have my mom make my brother do it, because my dad’s always sleeping or something” It wasn’t really what he wanted to say, and it didn’t come out as smoothly as he would’ve liked, but it worked. George was silenced for a moment. Just then, Tad circled Matt from behind, and said, “don’t be such a crybaby” and pulled his stocking cap over his eyes. That did it. Matt made two fists with his hand and started flailing away, blindly. And instead of stopping the laughter, that act fueled it, until after a few long seconds, he snatched the cap off his head and threw it to the ground. Tad was in front of him, and Matt charged him, swinging as hard as he could. He’d never been in a fight before, and he wasn’t sure what he’d do, but after he got a couple punches in, he stepped back and started dancing on his toes like he’d seen boxers do in old movies, swinging his arms in shorter bursts. He connected again, once in Tad’s shoulder and then flat against his cheek. He hadn’t meant to hit him on the face, but he didn’t care, particularly after Tad shouted a louder than warranted “ow.” Matt was much less physical then Tad, but he felt like he was winning the fight, his arms were longer and he knew he was smarter, and he’d bet he could last longer. Tad regained his composure and came back at him, but Matt blocked his punches without taking any damage, and kept moving, landing one more blow into Tad’s midsection. He saw George in the corner of his eye, standing and watching, shouting “go Tad,” and pointing. Matt was sweating so much, it was becoming harder to see, and his legs were tiring. A crowd had formed around them, and they were moving a circle set by the spectators. Matt hoped the fight would end soon, but he wasn’t going to give up. Tad got in a good jab to Matt’s side, but before any further damage could be done, a teacher came over to break it up.
Mr. Hickey sat behind a big desk, on one corner; there was an “in” box filled with papers, and an empty “out” box below it. There were two framed photos on the other corner, but they were facing the principal, so Matt couldn’t see who was in them. He’d been to this office before, to be grilled on his reading skills, but he was still a little bit scared. “Matt…” the principal began. “Yes, Mr. Hickey…” “Matt…Matt…,” he continued, tapping a pencil with one hand. “Yes.” “Young man…” And, before he could answer that, the principal sat up straight. “Have you ever been in a fight before?’ he asked, quickly, sternly. “No…” “Have you ever been in this office before,” “Once, sir, for when you wanted to know how I…” “I mean, for discipline, young man, for getting in trouble.” Matt could barely see the principal’s eyes, which were hidden by thick glasses bordered by a heavy black frame. He wasn’t sure what the right answer needed to be, so he decided to go with the truth. “No, sir.” And, keep it short, not offer more than he was asked. That seemed like a good plan. Mr. Hickey continued. “So why are you here now?” “I got in a fight, sir.”
“I know that, young man,” the principal stressed, with
just a bit of humor in his voice and a dash of a smile forming on the corner
of his mouth. Matt thought about his Cousin Rob, who was a principal too,
who smiled the same way. “The question is, why did you get in a fight?” “Well, my friend Tad and I had a disagreement…” For some reason, Matt didn’t see the need to bring George into it. “A disagreement?” “Yes.” “That’s an impressive word for a young man…” Perhaps, thought Matt. “…but, aren’t there better ways to handle a disagreement than fighting?” Mr. Hickey offered as a suggestion. For Matt’s mind, the proper answer was “sometimes, not always” but he knew he was being led. Whereas the truth made sense before, he figured this time the principal was looking for a lie, not just any lie, but the right lie. Perhaps the principal was saying, that like scissors over stone, lying beating fighting in the value system of Jackson Elementary. “Yes.” “Good...” Mr. Hickey said, pausing. “So, don’t let it happen again, okay?” “I won’t,” he replied, as the principal excused him.
Matt walked to school by himself the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, and soon he was used to it. He grew to look forward to, even enjoy those long solitary walks because, for the first time, he was appreciating all the patterns he hadn’t noticed before, from the network of leaves in the trees high above his head to the jumble of broken blacktop. Those walks also helped him keep the most difficult promise, the one that he’d made to himself. END
Doug Hoekstra's short fiction and non-fiction has appeared in a number of literary journals, and as a singer-songwriter, he has six well-received independent CD releases to his name. He lives in Nashville with his wife, novelist Molly Hoekstra, and son Jude Aaron. For more information, please refer to www.doughoekstra.com.
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