The Masterpiece

I beamed. Our store of treasure had grown steadily. Yes, sir, we were rich men.

“Today is the day, boys,” I said in my most grown-up voice.

Serious nods traveled like a wave around the circle, each of us feeling the weight of the moment. The freckled faces glowed, and every head was held high with an air of importance.

“We must begin by sorting,” I announced.

They set to work at once. I directed like a conductor in a rag-tag orchestra. An old sign board here. The wheels from a broken lawn mower there. Wood scraps stacked neatly. The old, knotted rope untangled and made ready. The rusty can jingling with long roofing nails scavenged from Old Mr. Peters’ house.

“Now, fellas, this is it.” I unrolled my Master Plan. Painted on last Saturday’s newspaper, it was a sight to behold. I described each detail as the boys looked on in awe.

“This here is the framework—see?—four wheels and some axles. We’ll build these from the wood. To steer, we’ll use the rope. Pull right to turn right; and left, to turn left. For the body, we’ll use the old sign board and tack it in place with the nails. A lick of paint, and we’ll have done it!”

A cheer went up from the group.

Our skilled hands flew to our task. Each boy at his station, a symphony of sawing and hammering and laughing. The golden sun baked our backs, but we barely noticed. We were working men.

At high noon we stood back to admire our work. It was a thing to behold! The sturdy framework was covered on top by wooden boards. The red paint still glistened on the sign board, slanted to form the hood. In neat rows all around, the shiny tops of the roofing nails. Yessir, we had outdone ourselves this time!

“This calls for a celebration, men!” I shouted, and we passed around the frosty bottles of root beer I’d been storing in the creek for just such an occasion.

The drinks were barely gone before the boys began clamoring to test ‘er out.

“All right, all right,” I held up my hands. “To Parker’s Peak.” A wild whoop followed my announcement. As one we charged up the hill on the edge of town.

At the summit, a scuffle ensued. Each boy wanted to be the first to ride. After a diplomatic discussion, it was agreed I should take the maiden voyage. Being the leader, after all.

I climbed carefully into the go-kart. My heart pounded. This was the kind of moment that separated the men from the boys. All was silent as I took my place in history. I reached for the ropes, bracing my feet against the framework.

A deep breath.

Another deep breath.

I nodded to the boys. It was time.

With a shove, I was off.

Wow, what a ride! She handled like a dream. A little tug to the right, and I glided effortlessly to the right. A nudge to the left, and I was back in the center of the dirt road. The marvelous machine responded to my every whim as though we were one.

The steep hill melted away beneath me. I was floating on air. Faster and faster I flew. The wind blew in my face. Clouds streamed by in a blur. The birds gave up their chase. And I knew—I just knew—I was the fastest driver that had ever been.

I chanced to take my eyes off the road to marvel for a moment at the work we had done. Each piece of wood cut with precision; each rope tied just right. The nails—well, the nails were perhaps a little too long. The sharp ends stuck through the wood in neat lines of studded rusty metal. But, no matter. She was a thing of beauty to me.

Just then disaster struck. A rock in the road. I swerved and shimmied, but it was too late. I rolled end over end. The world was a blur of browns and blues and streaky greens. Over and over I rolled until I thought I might never stop.

But stop I did.

With a crack! my journey was ended by a tree stump.

Dazed, I shook my head. I was alive. I was alive!

I eased my way out of the upturned kart, standing on shaky legs. My legs. They worked! I held up my hands. Still there! Boy, how lucky could a man get? I put a hand to my head. It was sticky. And my sleeves. And my pant legs—all sticky. I looked down to find rows of red dots up and down my body.

And then the pain. Oh, the pain. A thousand cuts stung every part of me.

Like a soldier, wounded but determined, I climbed the hill. I faced my men with courage.

“Well, boys,” I said, “we have more work to do.”

Every head nodded solemnly.

“Before the next ride,” I said seriously, “we must find shorter nails.”