Gremlins (2 page)

F
or a long moment Billy resisted the urge to deliver a good swift kick to the side of his perverse Volkswagen. Then he lashed out, driving his boot solidly against the rusting spot where the rear fender met the car’s body.

He was immediately sorry. Not just because he was rewarded with a jolt of pain in his toe. The car, a ’69, was old and usually provided him with reasonably dependable transportation. The heating vent resisted all efforts to open and close according to Billy’s will, but had to be either opened all the way or jammed completely shut. There were various shudders and groans that tried Billy’s patience, but as they were all “intermittent” (a term used by garagemen when they were unable to find the trouble’s source), he and the car somehow adjusted to each other.

But why did it always seem to conk out when he was late for work? Last night had been just as cold, perhaps colder than this morning. He hadn’t especially wanted the pizza, and he certainly experienced no joy in being the one selected to go get it. Why hadn’t the bug coughed and sputtered and died then?

He sighed, looked at his watch, and winced. If he could be shot directly out of a cannon into the bank, he would be only a minute late. He glanced about him. The streets of quaint Kingston Falls, population 6,122, were deserted, as they always seemed to be when you needed a lift or were looking for company.

Some might have called it a boring town, but having lived all his twenty-one years here, Billy liked it. He and Kingston Falls somehow seemed right for each other, having down-to-earth qualities in common. When his mother used to say things like that, the Billy Feltzer of a few years ago had often grown sulky, dispirited, and occasionally hostile. Now he realized that he
was
average. A B - or B + , depending on the taste of the feminine onlooker. His hair, dark and worn as long as the bank executives would allow, framed a longish face, a pair of dark earnest eyes, and a wide expressive mouth. His skin, he thanked the Lord, had passed the acne stage; either that or the zits were in a state of remission.

Definitely not muscular, he was too well filled out to be called wiry. His was the body that even a high school football coach would have difficulty assigning to a position. He was too small for the line, a bit too chunky for the whippet-like receivers, not quite strong enough for running back. And so, because Kingston Falls put more emphasis on participation than winning, Billy Peltzer spent two years in the school’s defensive backfield. The high point of his career came not when he intercepted a pass and ran it back for a game-winning touchdown, but when he recovered a fumble that salvaged a tie—all that stood between Kingston Falls and a totally winless season.

After graduation he didn’t go to college because he simply didn’t know what he wanted to be in life and it seemed a shame to have his folks shell out good money while he decided. Following in his father’s footsteps would have been like tracking a squirrel through the forest. Part inventor, part traveling salesman, Rand Peltzer had a resume that resembled the parts list for an aircraft carrier. Billy knew he didn’t want a similarly nomadic existence, yet he was so hard pressed to define his goals that his friend Gene Grynkiewicz—now nearly through engineering college—once suggested that he try to become a day watchman at a drive-in theatre.

Instead, Billy took a post-high school aptitude test, which revealed that he would do well working in a bank. The test did not say how well he would do if he continued to arrive late, however.

“Broke down again?”

The voice, a familiar one, belonged to Murray Futterman, the garrulous neighbor around the corner who was now seated behind the wheel of his bright red snowplow. Whenever it snowed Futterman hopped on his plow and helped clean the streets, partly as a public service and partly, Billy suspected, because it gave him a better opportunity to jaw with people.

“You need a jump, Billy?”

“No, thanks,” Billy replied. “It’s not the battery. I just put a new one in. I think it’s the connection. Or it’s just made up its mind to be stubborn for a while.”

Futterman pulled on his brake and descended from the snowplow’s fur-lined seat. Inwardly, Billy groaned, knowing he had no time to waste. Futterman meant well, but he could use ten minutes telling a thirty-second story.

“Thanks, Mr. Futterman,” Billy said quickly, walking away from his car and toward the street in the hopes of sidetracking the well-intentioned neighbor. “I’m gonna walk. I’m already late for work now.”

He might just as well have spoken in Sanskrit or performed a few bird imitations. Nodding genially as he brushed past him, Futterman looked closely at the Volkswagen. “No-good foreign cars,” he said, shaking his head. “They always freeze up on you.”

Billy hesitated, not yet desperate enough to just start walking to work in the cold. Futterman was harmless and occasionally even helpful. For a long moment he stood looking at the car, his straight black hair hanging limply across his forehead. Well into his fifties, Futterman looked younger, yet because of his garrulous nature and fuddy-duddy attitude he somehow seemed older as well.

“Doesn’t happen with American machinery,” he said. “Our stuff can stand up to anything.”

No sense arguing the point, Billy thought. Forcing a tight smile—which he hoped Futterman would take as an apology for his buying such a defective foreign product and drop the subject—Billy opened his mouth to reiterate his dilemma, gesturing up the street as he did so.

The words died in the wake of Futterman’s next verbal onslaught.

“See that snowplow?” He smiled. “Fifteen years old. Hasn’t given me a day of trouble. Know why?”

Obviously it was a rhetorical question. Again Billy’s mouth opened but no words came forth.

“It’s because it’s not some foreign piece of junk,” Futterman answered himself. “A Kentucky Harvester. You’ll never see a snowplow as good as that one. Company went out of business because they were too good. Hear that, boy? Too good!”

Billy shrugged. He tried to look sad, not a difficult maneuver in light of the fact that he might be fired in a few minutes.

“That’s real nice, Mr. Futterman,” he said. “I mean, it’s nice it’s such a great plow and it’s too bad they went out of business. But I gotta go. Really.”

“Hop on, I’ll give you a lift,” Futterman offered.

Billy weighed the situation. Nothing else on the road was moving, and as most people had not yet shoveled their sidewalks, walking was going to be slow. At least Futterman’s snowplow could get him to the bank faster than he could move on foot. If—

Futterman homed in on Billy’s hesitation. “We’ll go straight to the bank,” he promised. “That’s where you work, right?”

“Yessir.”

“Come on. I’ll open her up full and we’ll be there in no time at all.”

Billy hopped up next to Futterman and they started off. As they did so, Billy groaned.

“What’s the matter?” Futterman asked.

“Mom must have let Barney out,” Billy said. “Now he’ll follow me to work.”

Sure enough, in an instant the yellowish brown mutt with the large ears—he was somewhere between a beagle and an Irish setter—had leap-frogged across the heavily drifted snow until he was next to Futterman’s snowplow. His rheumy dark eyes looked up lovingly at Billy.

“Want me to stop so you can take him back?” Futterman asked, his hand reaching for the brake.

“No, it’s all right,” Billy said. “I can tie him under the counter at the bank. Mr. Corben won’t like it, but if Barney’s quiet maybe we can get away with it until lunchtime.”

Futterman nodded and gunned the snowplow forward. “What’s wrong with your car?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Billy replied glumly. “It’s intermittent. Sometimes it works fine, even in freezing weather. Other times it won’t start, even when it’s nice.”

“Sounds like gremlins to me.”

“You mean all those cars used to act like that?”

Futterman laughed. “Guess you’re too young to recognize the word
gremlin
as anything but an American Motors car,” he said.

“What else is it?”

“A little devil,” Futterman said. “They love to fool around with machinery. I saw a lot of ’em in World War Two. I was a tail gunner on a Flying Fortress. Bet you didn’t know that.”

Billy shook his head even as he tried to remember whether one of Futterman’s endless ramblings had once contained that information. Looking at Futterman now and doing some quick arithmetic, he was amazed that the man was old enough to have taken part in a conflict that had ended nearly four decades ago. He was old, of course, but somehow Billy automatically coupled World War II veterans with men in rocking chairs or nursing homes. Compared to them, Futterman was very much alive.

Billy said the diplomatically correct, and as it turned out, accurate, thing. “You must have been a teenager.”

Futterman nodded. “Eighteen when I went in, nineteen when it was over. But I saw a lot of life in those twelve months.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Most important thing I learned was that gremlins really exist. You gotta keep watching for them.”

Billy couldn’t suppress a smile.

“You think I’m pullin’ your leg,” Futterman deadpanned. “But it’s true. Like I said, they like to fool around with machinery. With all them planes flying, World War Two was their meat. Let me tell you, those gremlins were everywhere during the war. I mean, all over our ships and planes. I think that’s why our machinery’s better than that foreign stuff. In the war we learned to deal with gremlins and make our equipment better. For some reason, gremlins didn’t go after the Japanese and Germans the way they went after us.”

“Why was that?” Billy asked.

“Don’t know for sure, but I think it’s because we—our side—had a better sense of humor. You know how human nature is. It’s like, well, you only play tricks on people who’ll laugh, right? After a while, you don’t play tricks on people who get all ruffled, ’cause it’s no fun. That’s why the gremlins took after us. Half the time we’d end up laughin’ at what they’d do.”

“And what did they do?”

“You name it. Now I was a tail gunner, right? They’d knock my sights out of line so I’d miss. Or they’d chisel tiny holes in the glass window so cold air would get in. They’d even slide down the gun barrel and jam the trigger as I was about to fire. Or they’d stick a pin in my rear just as I was about to fire.”

Billy laughed. “You actually saw them?”

“Well, yes and no,” Futterman replied. “You’d see them out of the corner of your eye, but just as you shot them a full glance, they’d duck out of view.”

“Sounds like you were making them up, Mr. Futterman,” Billy said candidly.

“No. They were there. Other guys saw them and would swear to it. Now Jackson—he was my navigator—he used to see them outside the plane all the time, dancin’ in the slipstream of the wing. Or they’d chew little bits of rubber out of the de-icing boot on the wing’s leading edge so we’d pick up ice. Sometimes they’d make sputtering noises in the pilot’s ear so he’d think one of the engines was missing. They could even imitate our voices. Once they snuck up to our pilot and shouted, ‘You’re flyin’ upside down, you fool!’ That was really a close one, ’cause the pilot turned us over in a split second. You shoulda seen how the coffee cups and maps and people went sailin’ every which way.”

“But that could have been dangerous,” Billy said. “From the way you described them, I thought the gremlins were just playful.”

“Oh, they were. They didn’t mean to put us in dangerous spots like that, but some of their pranks turned out that way.”

The snowplow crossed the intersection of Carver and Clark, a normally busy corner now nearly deserted except for a few cars nearly buried in drifted snow. Looking at his watch, Billy noted that he was ten minutes late, but he was comforted by the fact that with luck he’d make it before the bank opened to its customers.

“Before the war was over, we’d learned to deal with all kinds of ’em,” Futterman continued. “The strato-gremlins were the worst. They used to show up above ten thousand feet. Spandules were middle-aged gremlins and fifinellas were females. There was also jerps and bijits. Each kind was different. There was even a song we used to sing . . .”

Fearing the worst, Billy looked away from Futterman, noting with mixed emotions that Barney was trotting behind them, apparently determined to follow them no matter how far they traveled.

A moment later the rasp of Futterman’s snowplow engine blended with his off-key singing voice.

“When you’re a thousand miles from nowhere.

And there’s nothing below but the drink,

It’s then you’ll see the gremlins,

Green and gamboge and gold,

Male and female and neuter,

Gremlins both young and old.

White ones will wiggle your wingtips,

Male ones will muddle your maps,

Green ones will guzzle your glycol,

Females will flutter your flaps,

They’ll freeze up your camera shutters,

They’ll bite through your aileron wires,

They’ll bend and they’ll break and they’ll batter,

They’ll jab toasting forks in your eyes.

They’ll—”

A giant convulsion of the snowplow stunned Futterman to silence and nearly threw Billy off the side. A second explosion, accompanied by an arc of red fire, caused the engine to shudder.

“Darn,” Futterman rasped. Reaching forward to turn the ignition key, he lifted himself off the seat, pulled the hood latch, and grabbed a wrench from beneath the seat in one fluid motion. “Don’t worry, I know what it is,” he apologized. “Won’t take me but a minute or two to adjust that darn thing.”

Billy slid to the ground, gave Barney a pat, and called across the flat hood to Mr. Futterman.

“I’ll cut across Mrs. Deagle’s,” he said. “Thanks a lot for taking me this far.”

“Won’t take me a second to get this working,” Futterman repeated. “It’s the only thing wrong with this snowplow. Doesn’t usually act up, but I guess all this talk about gremlins brought it on.”

“Yeah,” Billy laughed. “Thanks again.”

Leaving Futterman with his head thrust deeply into the engine well, Billy started to trot across the vast expanse of Mrs. Deagle’s lawn, a carpet of virgin snow marred only by a few squirrel tracks. Barney followed.