Invisible (6 page)

As you may know, HO gauge trains are 1:87 models of the real thing, so when I finish the bridge, the train will just barely fit between the uprights. Relatively speaking, if a train that size went across the real Golden Gate Bridge it would be 120 feet tall.

You may wonder why I didn't build the bridge to HO scale. The reason is because it would have had to be
more than one hundred feet long. It would not have fit in the basement. I might be troubled, I might be disturbed, I might be obsessed—but I'm not crazy.

There are five critical elements in a suspension bridge: the uprights, the anchors, the deck, the cables, and the stringers. Each element must be brought into perfect balance with each of the other four elements. If one element is too weak, the entire structure collapses.

The towers and deck of my bridge are built of strike-anywhere matches with the heads scraped off. I do not want my bridge to spontaneously combust. I carefully scrape away all traces of phosphorus, leaving a fifty-four-millimeter-long matchstick. For the suspension cables I use orange braided nylon cord, and for the stringers I use cotton string, which I dye orange using Rit dye. Many people do not know this, but the Golden Gate Bridge is not actually golden. It is a color called International Orange.

I have been working on the bridge for several months. It is now only a few weeks away from completion. Opening Day will be November 17. I've invited Andy to join me as I send a seventeen-car train across the bridge for the first time. Andy understands about me and bridges. Not everyone else is smart enough to get it.

For example, here is what Mr. Haughton, my language arts teacher, said about bridges during the midquarter evaluation:

“Douglas, I can see that you are passionate about your subject matter. Passion is very important to a writer. But maybe you could try to write on another topic?”

“I could write something about the original Golden Gate Bridge.”

“I was thinking you might write about something other than bridges.”

“Why?”

Mr. Haughton sat back in his chair and stroked his chin. It was the first time I ever saw someone do that except in a movie.

“Douglas, Douglas, Douglas …,” he said to give himself time to think. “Let me try to explain. …” Mr. Haughton can be ponderous at times. “The writer is like a bridge builder. When you set words down on paper, you are building a bridge between yourself and the reader. And if what you write fails to engage the reader, your effort has been in vain. You have built a bridge to nowhere. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“The writer is like a bridge builder.”

“Yes. The bridges you build are, in fact, deliberate acts of communication. But if what you are writing is not
interesting,
then you have wasted your time. Do you understand?”

“You don't find bridges interesting.”

“Yes. I mean no. The problem is not with bridges
per se
. It is the fact that you describe your model bridge in such excruciating detail, with so much repetition, with so many measurements and formulas and numbers … the fact is, very few readers will be able to follow your thoughts.”

“Do you think I need to explain more?”

“No!” He almost shouted the word, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Douglas, I just think that
if you were to write on a topic that was not so …
important
to you, your writing might in fact be clearer and more readable. As a related comment on your work, I'd like to remind you that when I ask for a three page essay, it is not necessary for you to turn in a thirty page dissertation.”

“Some of those pages were drawings and photographs.”

“Yes, well, even so, you must have had five thousand words in there.”

“Four thousand nine hundred thirteen.” That's seventeen cubed, but I don't bother pointing that out to Mr. Haughton. “You said that we could write a longer essay for extra credit.”

“I did? Oh, well, perhaps I did … but in the future, Douglas … please consider another topic. That's all I'm saying.”

As you can see, Mr. Haughton is not a clear-thinking individual. What he says actually makes little sense. Consider the following useful information that Mr. Haughton wanted me to cut out of my essay:

 

Total length of bridge: 3.33 meters. Length of main span: 2.34 meters. Width of bridge: 7 cm. Clearance above water: 12 cm. Height of towers: 34 cm. Number of main cables: 2. Composition of main cables: braided 1/4-inch nylon cord (orange). Number of stringers: 391. Composition of stringers: cotton string (dyed orange). Inches of thread used: 6,092 cm. Number of matchsticks used: 8,600. Paints used: semigloss enamel
(International Orange) and matte enamel (Battleship Gray).

I might also mention that he is dead wrong when he says that writing and bridge building are the same thing. They are actually quite different. I know, because I am quite good at both of them.

T
he bridge deck is where most of the matchsticks go. Each 2.125-inch segment of the deck requires fifty-two matchsticks, which have to be glued together in a double layer with each match staggered so that the segments dovetail together and lock like LEGO blocks, end to end, plus the railing and cross members. Sixty-two of these interlocking segments make up the bridge deck, and it is important that each segment be constructed to precise tolerances.

(Am I boring you? Mr. Haughton would call this boring, but I find it quite fascinating.)

Only about a third of the matches are straight
enough to use, which is why I have already gone through sixty boxes. I am very selective and very precise. Each deck segment is glued one at a time. I made a jig out of some pieces of scrap oak so that every segment will come out exactly the same. So far I have manufactured fifty-seven of these segments, each of which has to be trimmed, sanded, painted International Orange on the side edges and bottom, and Battleship Gray on the top, or roadbed side. It is exacting work requiring tremendous concentration on the part of the bridge builder. It is much harder than writing.

I am fine-tuning the fit of two segments I glued together last night when I hear my father's booming voice from outside. At first I try to ignore it, because I do not wish to be disturbed, but the shouting goes on. I put down my Dremel tool and go upstairs.

My father is outside having a discussion with George Fuller, the man who has been staying with the Morrows. My father is wearing his canvas apron over his shirt and tie. He is wearing leather gloves and he has a pruning tool in his right hand, which tells me that he was working on the rosebushes that line the front of our house. George Fuller, dressed in khaki shorts and a yellow T-shirt, has his hairy arms crossed in front of his chest.

“What do you expect us to DO?” my father booms, gesticulating with the pruner.

“Maybe you could move your son to another bedroom.”

“Another BEDROOM? How many rooms do you think we HAVE?”

“Look, Henry, I'm not trying to be the evil neighbor. I just—”

“DO YOU WANT US TO STRAP HIM TO HIS BED AND GAG HIM?”

“Henry, I just want to get a good night's sleep is all. Every other night I wake up, middle of the night, and have to listen to that yakking. Frankly, it's a little unsettling.”

“DO YOU THINK IT IS NOT A PROBLEM FOR US TOO?”

“I'm sure it is, but—” His eyes find me standing in the doorway. For a second he is startled, then he slaps on this big fake smile and says, “Hey, Doug, how's it going?”

My father turns, shifting his anger from George Fuller to me. “What are you DOING?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I heard some yelling.”

“WE ARE NOT YELLING!”

George Fuller is edging away. “Listen, Henry, we can talk about this at another time. …”

My father swings his head back toward George Fuller and fixes him with his my-eyes-are-about-to-explode glare. He is squeezing his rosebush pruner so hard, his entire hand has gone dead white. George Fuller continues to edge away, back toward the Morrows'. I figure the yelling is about over now, so I back into the house and return to my bridge building.

George Fuller has been staying in the Morrow house for the past couple of years. It is a very peculiar arrangement. Andy has tried to explain it to me, but I still find it quite odd. One day George Fuller simply showed up with a U-Haul truck and moved a bunch of his furniture
into the Morrows' home and he has been staying with them ever since.

“Isn't it crowded?” I asked Andy.

Andy shrugged. “A little. But George is a nice guy, and he needed a place to live.”

“It's been two years! Is he ever going to find a place of his own?”

“Keep your voice down, Dougie. You want them to move my room to the other side of the house?”

“Don't your parents want him to move out?”

“Nah. George is real handy. When's the last time you saw my dad mow the lawn? George does all the chores now. He even does my chores, on account of I'm so busy with school and football and theater and stuff.”

“That makes sense,” I said. And it did make sense. But I still think it's weird that this guy who isn't even a relative just moved in and sort of took over. I think it is very strange indeed. But then, my family is not so ordinary either.

M
y mother's full and proper name is Andrea Doris Louis-Hanson, but as a professional puzzle designer she is known as A. D. Louis. Ask any puzzle fanatic if they ever heard of A. D. Louis, and they will tell you she is one of the best. She can solve a crossword puzzle just as fast as she can write. And she can design one faster than most people can solve it.

A lot of modern puzzlers use computers to help them design their puzzles. Not my mother. She does it all by hand. She will sharpen an entire coffee can full of number two pencils, lay a big sheet of graph paper over the kitchen table, and go to work. My earliest memory is of
sitting in my high chair eating Cheerios and watching my mother smoke cigarettes and mutter as she filled in those little squares. These days she doesn't smoke. Instead, she chews up her pencils, which can't be good for her either.

“There's some lasagna left over from last night, Douglas,” she says without taking her eyes from the graph paper.

“I'm not hungry,” I say.

“Then why are you perched there with your head in the freezer compartment?”

“I'm cooling it off.”

Now she turns to look at me.

I say, “I think better when my head is cold.”

“Douglas, that makes no sense whatsoever. The effect of temperature on the speed of thought is negligible. In any case, lower temperatures would be more likely to inhibit efficient mentation.”

Did I mention that my mother has an extensive vocabulary?

I say, “It works. You should try it.”

“I will do no such thing. Please close the freezer door.”

I close the door as far as it will go without crushing my skull.

“Douglas, remove your head from the freezer and close the door. In the proper sequence, please.”

I follow her instructions. My ears were getting cold anyway.

“What are we going to do with you?” she asks.

I understand that she isn't really looking for a response, but I give her one anyway.

“Feed me, wash my clothes, send me to college—”

“If you continue with this outré behavior, Douglas, no institution of higher learning will have you.”

“They won't let me cool my head?”

“That, as you well know, is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.”

“I don't remember any icebergs in Proverbs.”

“I was using the term in a general sense.”

We stare at each other for a few seconds, two aliens stuck on the same asteroid.

“I'm almost done with my bridge,” I say.

“That's excellent, Douglas. I'm sure it will be an extraordinary feat of engineering.”

“I'm going to need some more matches.”

“How many boxes do you need?”

“I think only four more.”

“I'll call Mr. Pike at the hardware store.”

Mr. Pike gets alarmed when a kid like me buys too many stick matches, so my mother has to call ahead to reassure him that I am not building a bomb or something.

“I should be done in about a week,” I say. “You won't have to call him anymore.”

She gives me a weak smile. “It is not a problem, Douglas.”

“Andy's coming over for the test run.”

My mother's face morphs into that frozen-faced, pop-eyed look that I call Pooping Cat. Because the Pooping Cat expression is often followed by tears or yelling, I back out of the kitchen and head downstairs to scrape the heads off some more matchsticks.

T
here are six beautiful girls in school. I find it interesting that they all hang out together. Maybe they are drawn to one another by the same natural forces that make birds flock. Or maybe it is coincidence.

But the same thing is not true of guys. Andy is very handsome and charming, while I am sort of unappealing. I mean, I
could
be a good-looking guy if I wanted to. I could go back on the acne medication, and spend a bunch of money on clothes, and get my hair cut at Guzzi's, and get my teeth straightened, and take a shower every morning, and shave the few pitiful hairs off my upper lip.

If I did all those things, I would be quite handsome.

But I would not be me.

I am watching the six most beautiful girls in class sitting in the lunchroom at the beautiful girls' table making birdlike beautiful girl chatter. In order of increasing beauty, they are:

Diana Spindelli

Briana Juster

Brittany Milligan

Briana Taylor

Susanne Feldman

Melissa Haverman

Some people might disagree about the exact order of beautifulness, but they would be wrong.