The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [7]
“Open the gas valve,” Kenny continued, “wait a few seconds for it to regulate, then close the valve and open up the second valve here. That sends the propane into the combustion chamber.” Joseph, missing two fingers on his left hand, his face round and pink like a toddler’s, took another swig of beer and then giggled. “It’s about to get good,” he said. Kenny closed the valves and pointed the contraption into the air. “Squeeze the igniter button and—” Before he could finish, the air around the men vibrated and there was a sound like nothing Buster had ever heard before, a dense, punctuated explosion. A potato, a trail of vaporous fire trailing behind it, shot into the air and then disappeared, hundreds of yards, maybe a half mile across the field. Buster felt his heart stutter in his chest and wondered, without caring to discover the answer, why something so stupid, so unnecessary and ridiculous, made him so happy. Joseph put his arm around Buster and pulled him close. “It’s awesome, isn’t it?” he asked. Buster, feeling that he might cry at any moment, nodded and replied, “Yes it is. Hell yes it is.”
Buster had come to Nebraska on assignment from a men’s magazine, Potent, to write about these four ex-soldiers who had been, for the past year, building and testing the most high-tech potato cannons ever seen. “It’s so goddamned manly,” said the editor, who was almost seven years younger than Buster, “we have to put it in the magazine.”
Buster had been in his one-room apartment in Florida, his Internet girlfriend not returning his e-mails, nearly out of money, not working on his overdue third novel, when the editor had called him to offer the job. Even with the terrible circumstances of his life at the moment, he was loath to accept the assignment.
After two years of writing about skydiving and bacon festivals and online virtual-reality societies that were too complicated for him to even play, Buster was on the verge of quitting his job. The experience of these unique events never lived up to his expectations and then Buster was forced to write articles that made these things seem not just amusing but also life-changing. Driving dune buggies through the desert was something that Buster desired without ever having considered it before the opportunity arose, but once his hands were on the steering wheel, he realized how technical and complicated it was to have the kind of fun that wasn’t readily available. As he struggled to handle the vehicle, his instructor patiently explaining how to accelerate and steer, he found himself wishing he were back home, reading a book about detectives that drive around in dune buggies and solve mysteries on the beach. Once he flipped the dune buggy and was kicked off the course, he went back to his hotel room and wrote the article in less than an hour and then smoked pot until he fell asleep.
He had assumed the same thing would happen with the potato gun story, a few hours of boring explanations of how the cannons were built and what principles they operated on before he watched them fire off a few rounds of potatoes. Then he’d be stuck in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter until he could get a flight back home. Even as he boarded the plane, holding a barbecue sandwich and a hastily purchased copy of World Music Monthly, which he had no desire to read, he knew he was making a mistake.
Once his plane touched down in Nebraska, the four subjects of his article were unexpectedly waiting for him at the baggage terminal. They were identically dressed in Nebraska Cornhuskers baseball caps, black wool coats, tin cloth pants, and Red Wing boots. They were tall and sturdy and handsome. One of them was, strangely, holding Buster’s suitcase in his hand. “This yours?” the man asked as Buster, his arms held up as if