I recommend...
One stifling summer afternoon last August, in
the attic of a tiny stone house in Pennsylvania, I made a
most interesting discovery: the shortest, cheapest method
of inducing a nervous breakdown ever perfected. In this
technique (eventually adopted by the psychology depart-
ment of Duke University, which will adopt anything) , the
subject is placed in a sharply sloping attic heated to 340 °F.
and given a mothproof closet known as the Jiffy-Cloz to
assemble. The Jiffy-Cloz, procurable at any department
store or neighborhood insane asylum, consists of half a
dozen gigantic sheets of red cardboard, two plywood doors,
a clothes rack, and a packet of staples. With these is in-
cluded a set of instructions mimeographed in pale-violet
ink, fruity with phrases like "Pass Section F through Slot
AA, taking care not to fold tabs behind washers (see Fig.
9)." The cardboard is so processed that as the subject
struggles convulsively to force the staple through, it sud-
denly buckles, plunging the staple deep into his thumb.
He thereupon springs up with a dolorous cry and smites
his knob (Section K) on the rafters (RR). As a final de-
monic touch, the Jiffy-Cloz people cunningly omit four
of the staples necessary to finish the job, so that after in-
describable purgatory, the best the subject can possibly
achieve is a sleazy, capricious structure which would re-
duce any self-respecting moth to helpless laughter. The
cumulative frustration, the tropical heat, and the soft,
ghostly chuckling of the moths are calculated to unseat
285
the strongest mentality.
In a period of rapid technological change, however,
it was inevitable that a method as cumbersome as the
Jiffy-Cloz would be superseded. It was superseded at ex-
actly nine-thirty Christmas morning by a device called the
Self-Running 10-Inch Scale-Model Delivery-Truck Kit
Powered by Magic Motor, costing twenty-nine cents.
About nine on that particular morning, I was spread-
eagled on my bed, indulging in my favorite sport of mouth-
breathing, when a cork fired from a child's air gun mys-
teriously lodged in my throat. The pellet proved awkward
for a while, but I finally ejected it by flailing the little
marksman (and his sister, for good measure) until their
welkins rang, and sauntered in to breakfast. Before I could
choke down a healing fruit juice, my consort, a tall, regal
creature indistinguishable from Cornelia, the Mother of
the Gracchi, except that her foot was entangled in a roller
skate, swept in. She extended a large, unmistakable box
covered with diagrams.
"Now don't start making excuses," she whined. "It's
just a simple cardboard toy. The directions are on the
back-"
"Look, dear," I interrupted, rising hurriedly and pull-
ing on my overcoat, "it clean slipped my mind. I'm sup-
posed to take a lesson in crosshatching at Zim's School of
Cartooning today."
"On Christmas?" she asked suspiciously.
"Yes, it's the only time they could fit me in," I coun-
tered glibly. "This is the big week for crosshatching, you
know, between Christmas and New Year's."
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"Do you think you ought to go in your pajamas?" she
asked.
"Oh, that's O.K./' I smiled. "We often work in our
pajamas up at Zim's. Well, goodbye now. If I'm not home
by Thursday, you'll find a cold snack in the safe-deposit
box." My subterfuge, unluckily, went for naught, and in
a trice I was sprawled on the nursery floor, surrounded by
two lambkins and ninety-eight segments of the Self -Run-
ning 10-Inch Scale-Model Delivery-Truck Construction
Kit.
The theory of the kit was simplicity itself, easily intel-
ligible to Kettering of General Motors, Professor Milli-
kan, or any first-rate physicist. Taking as my starting point
the only sentence I could comprehend, "Fold down on
all lines marked 'fold down;' fold up on all lines marked
'fold up/ " I set the children to work and myself folded
up with an album of views of Chili Williams. In a few
moments, my skin was suffused with a delightful tingling
sensation and I was ready for the second phase, lightly
referred to in the directions as "Preparing the Spring
Motor Unit." As nearly as I could determine after twenty
minutes of mumbling, the Magic Motor ("No Electricity
—No Batteries— Nothing to Wind— Motor Never Wears
Out") was an accordion-pleated affair operating by top
sion, attached to the axles. "It is necessary," said the text,
"to cut a slight notch in each of the axles with a knife
(see Fig. C). To find the exact place to cut this notch,
lay one of the axles over diagram at bottom of page."
"Well, now we're getting some place!" I boomed, with
a false gusto that deceived nobody. "Here, Buster, run in
287
and get Daddy a knife."
"I dowanna," quavered the boy, backing away. "You
always cut yourself at this stage." I gave the wee fellow
an indulgent pat on the head that flattened it slightly, to
teach him civility, and commandeered a long, serrated
bread knife from the kitchen. "Now watch me closely,
children," I ordered. "We place the axle on the diagram
as in Fig. C, applying a strong downward pressure on the
knife handle at all times." The axle must have been a
factory second, because an instant later I was in the bath-
room grinding my teeth in agony and attempting to stanch
the flow of blood. Ultimately, I succeeded in contriving
a rough bandage and slipped back into the nursery with-
iout awaking the children's suspicions. An agreeable sur-
' prise awaited me. Displaying a mechanical aptitude clear-
ly inherited from their sire, the rascals had put together
the chassis of the delivery truck.
"Very good indeed," I complimented (naturally, one
has to exaggerate praise to develop a child's self-confi-
Idence). "Let's see— what's the next step? Ah, yes. 'Lock
into box shape by inserting tabs C, D, E, F, G, H, J, K,
and L into slots C, D, E, F, G, H, J, K, and L. Ends of
front axle should be pushed through holes A and B.' "
While marshalling the indicated parts in their proper or-
der, I emphasized to my rapt listeners the necessity of
patience and perseverance. "Haste makes waste, you
know," I reminded them. "Rome wasn't built in a day.
Remember, your daddy isn't always going to be here to
show you."
"Where are you going to be?" they demanded.
288
"In the movies, if I can arrange it/' I snarled. Poising
tabs C, D, E, F, G, H, J, K, and L in one hand and the
corresponding slots in the other, I essayed a union of the
two, but in vain. The moment I made one set fast and
tackled another, tab and slot would part company, thumb-
ing their noses at me. Although the children were too im-
mature to understand, I saw in a flash where the trouble
lay. Some idiotic employee at the factory had punched
out the wrong design, probably out of sheer spite. So that
was his game, eh? I set my lips in a grim line and, throw-
ing one hundred and fifty-seven pounds of fighting fat
into the effort, pounded the component parts into a
homogeneous mass.
"There/' I said with a gasp, "that's close enough. Now
then, who wants candy? One, two, three— everybody off
to the candy store!"
"We wanna finish the delivery truck!" they wailed.
"Mummy, he won't let us finish the delivery truck!"
Threats, cajolery, bribes were of no avail. In their jungle
code, a twenty-nine-cent gewgaw bulked larger than a
parent's love. Realizing that I was dealing with a pair of
monomaniacs, I determined to show them who was mas-
ter and wildly began locking the cardboard units helter-
skelter, without any regard for the directions. When sec-
tions refused to fit, I gouged them with my nails and
forced them together, cackling shrilly. The side panels
collapsed; with a bestial oath, I drove a safety pin through
them and lashed them to the roof. I used paper clips,
bobby pins, anything I could lay my hands on. My fingers
fairly flew and my breath whistled in my throat. "You
289
want a delivery truck, do you?" I panted. "All right 111
show you!" As merciful blackness closed in, I was on my
hands and knees, bunting the infernal thing along with
my nose and whinnying, "Roll, confound you, roll!"
"Absolute quiet," a carefully modulated voice was
saying, "and fifteen of the white tablets every four hours."
I opened my eyes carefully in the darkened room. Dimly
I picked out a knifelike character actor in a Vandyke beard
and pencil-striped pants folding a stethoscope into his
bag. "Yes," he added thoughtfully, "if we play our cards
right, this ought to be a long, expensive recovery." From
far away, I could hear my wife's voice bravely trying to
control her anxiety.
"What if he becomes restless, Doctor?"
"Get him a detective story," returned the leech. "Or
better still, a nice, soothing picture puzzle— something
he can do with his hands."
PS: I realize may tastes might be a little odd for the age group, but those were three of my favorites at the time.
Author
Topic: Good short stories for kids? (Read 2371 times)