The Complete Collection. William Wharton

have any way to get there; it’s too far to walk.’

      ‘The motorcycle’s out there on the driveway, Billy. We can take that. I’ve ridden on back with your father and we won’t have any parking problem.’

      He’s serious! But if Grandma finds out I’m taking Granddad to the bowling alley on the motorcycle to float toy boats, she’ll call the cops. Granddad gets out those crappy helmets we keep here; he’s ready to ride. What the hell, if that’s what he wants; besides, I’m beginning to get interested.

      I push the bike to the end of the street before revving it up. Granddad walks along beside me; at least he didn’t bring his cane. I’m hoping Grandma won’t hear us. He clambers on back, kicks down the foot pegs and holds on tight. What the hell gave my old man the idea to tear around with his old man on back of this two-wheeled heap? You never know with Dad; in some ways, he’s really flaky.

      We roll up to the bowling alley, walk past the alleys and into the rest room. It must look like a very kinky pervert rendezvous. Thank God, it’s early and there’s practically nobody there; we have the place to ourselves. First, we make plugs with paper towels and fill all the bowls. This takes almost ten minutes. I don’t know what the hell we’ll say if the manager comes. I decide right then, if anybody does come, Granddad’s doing the explaining.

      Well, when we let the water out of those sinks, all ten go down clockwise. We fill them again, give the water a start counterclockwise before we pull the plugs; same thing, reverses and goes down clockwise. Granddad must be wrong about his mathematics and physics. I wonder where he got such an idea anyhow.

      We tool back to the house. I let him off at the corner and push Dad’s bike into their driveway. Granddad goes in the front door and I walk around back to see if maybe Grandma’s dead on that soft bed. She isn’t there.

      I go inside and she’s in the living room with Granddad. He’s finishing off a story about how we took a short walk around the block. Lucky the helmets are out on the bike. Grandma’s looking at me to see what I have to say; she’s still scared. But I’m not saying anything unless Granddad wants me to.

      We sit like that, all separate, everybody waiting for somebody else to do something, or say something. I’m wishing Dad would come home, it’s getting very uncomfortable. Then Granddad stands up.

      ‘Come on out to the workshop, Billy; there’s something I want to show you there.’

      Grandma isn’t liking this at all, but she isn’t getting in the way either. As I go out, I turn around and shrug my shoulders, just to show I’m sort of with her; but I’m not.

      In the workshop, Granddad picks up one of his little specialty inventions he always made for us as kids. It’s a stick with notches cut down one side and a small propeller mounted on the tip. We always called them ‘twirly sticks’ and this one is new made, a hand-carved propeller mounted with a straight pin.

      ‘Remember how this works, Billy?’

      He hands it to me along with a short, smooth stick. I run the smooth stick fast up and down along the notches till the propeller begins spinning. It always mystified us as kids and I still don’t know what makes the propeller spin.

      ‘Do you notice anything about that propeller spinning?’

      He leans forward on his cane and stops the propeller with his finger. I start rubbing the stick back and forth again. He lets it get going fast, then reaches out and stops it.

      ‘Now, watch carefully. If you notice, it always spins counter-clockwise.’

      This time he gives the propeller a good start clockwise with his finger. But as I begin rubbing, the propeller stops, reverses itself.

      ‘I’ve been making these “twirly sticks” for forty years and I’ve never been able to make one go the other way. I’ve tried cutting the notches all angles, different spacing; I’ve made left-handed ones and right-handed ones; I’ve tried designing propellers every pitch I can think of, but they always go the same way.’

      He stops, looks at me and smiles again. He spins the propeller backwards with his finger and we watch as it reverses itself while I rub the stick.

      ‘What’s it all about, Grandpa? Why do you think it does that?’

      ‘I don’t know, Billy; maybe some scientist could explain it; I can’t. What interests me is it’s the opposite of the Coriolis effect in our sink. Come on, now I’ll show you one more thing.’

      He leads me into his greenhouse. In there, he’s rigged a little hose from his watering system so it runs into a funnel and the funnel is fitted into an old bucket. He has a small plug in the funnel with a string on it. First he turns on water till the funnel is full. Then he puts the tip of the notched stick on the edge of his funnel and begins rubbing back and forth till the water in the funnel is vibrating, quivering on the surface.

      ‘Now, Billy, pull the plug and watch what happens.’

      I pull and watch the water pour out through his funnel into the bowl while he rubs away on his stick. The water goes down counter-clockwise, anti-Coriolis!

      ‘What do you think of that, Billy?’

      ‘What made it go backwards, Grandpa? Vibrations?’

      ‘That’s another question for the scientists, Bill. But if they don’t even believe water goes down the drain clockwise, how can they know about “twirly sticks”?’