ELEVATORS

ELEVATORS

By Andrew Paul Grell

“Did you check the medicine cabinet for dentures, Jan? You do remember what happened last time, don’t you?”

“How could I forget, Sam? It was six hundred dollars for three dentist visits to adjust his fake choppers until we figured out that what they didn’t fit into was the soaking glass, not his mouth. Did you do a headcount? Any stowaways?”

“Two girls, a boy, you and me and a dog named Blue. All present and accounted for.”

“They all love it so much when your dad comes, Jan. The kids are too young to worry about his politics, and dogs are natural Republicans. He’s a good influence for them. He’s such a snappy dresser. Did you see Bill playing outside in his blazer? Notice their table manners when he’s around?”

“Samuel J. Evening, are you lobbying to have him move here permanently, or, you know, until… And does have anything to do with his ‘cottage’ in Southampton?”

“Janis, my true love, you mortally wound me with your unfounded suspicions. I’m only thinking of the children.”

“And not at all about your App and its commercial applications?”

“Ouch! The good thing about writing Apps as a hobby is that they cost nothing to make and yet they have a chance to go big-time. If I can’t impress a venture capitalist with CLADIA, your dad’s money wouldn’t be of any use. I have the database module in place and the database updater. Translating plain language requests to something the database can understand may take some work. I don’t want it to be like Alexa with an endless stream of ‘Hmm, I don’t know that one.’ I can probably do it but it may be more effective to buy commercial software. The real big ticket items are seeing if people will go for it and then promoting it.”

“I can help you there, you big lug.”

“Who’s Claudia?” Martin had wandered into the Danish Modern living room, not so modern lately, while the discussion was going on. “And have you seen my harmonica?”

“CLADIA is a project your dad is working on. Congressional Legislation and Direct Information Access. It’s going to be a way for regular people to get Congress to do what they want. I didn’t see your harpoon but I think I heard it coming from the upstairs bathroom yesterday. Maybe Grandpa was playing it. I did see your Jew’s harp, kazoo set, and slide whistle where they didn’t belong; they’re on top of the washing machine. Better get them before they shrink. You and your friends getting anywhere with the Eroica? I can’t wait to hear it. And oh, do you think you can watch Laurel and Hope for about an hour? Without it cutting into your slice-‘em-all-up video game? I’m taking Blue and your father out for a walk.”

Marty gave his mother a quizzical look and watched her ferret out a clipboard. “It’s ‘mouth organ’ now, Mom. Or Mister Jew’s harp.”

The timing was perfect; right after dinner time in suburbia and before the digital narcotizing period. Blue neatly performed her ablutions on the devil strip along the Evening’s share of cul-de-sac sidewalk. Jan picked a likely home, a nicely extended arts & crafts house across the street and down a few doors. She knocked twice and received a cheery “Hello, who is knocking at my door?”

“It’s Sam and Janis Evening, your neighbors from up the block.”

“Sam and Janis Evening, as in ‘you will meet a stranger?’ Sorry, you must get that all the time. What can we do for you?”

Sam rolled the dice and began his spiel. “It’s Jim, right? I think your boy is in band with my Marty.”

“Actually, it’s Jim Cooper. Get it? Sorry. Sure, I think I heard them practice a few times, is that some new kid of music?”

“With any luck, it could be. Jan and I think it’s very original. So, Jim, we’re taking a little survey around the neighborhood. Just two quick questions. First, do you have a problem with any Federal regulations, or is there a regulation you think should be on the books, but isn’t? And second, if you had an app on your phone that could get your issue a reasonable chance at consideration by Congress, or at least a Congressional committee, would you use it?”

“Yes and Yes. I’ve been obsessing for years that the Federal DOT should mandate a nationwide open-trench warning regulation. We have it in this state. Lois and I were driving in New York one time and I had to make a split second decision, hit the goat, hit the construction guy that got horned by the goat, or go through hazard tape. If there was digging I couldn’t see on the other side of the tape, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. Godspeed, you two. Let me know when I can download the app!”

The remaining responding sample homes, seven of them, were an even mix of enthusiasm and apathy, with a smattering of uncomprehending looks. There were four assault weapon issues, two for and two against, a national referendum act which could override Congress, and Jan’s favorite, a permanent injunction against any TV or movie personality from running for any office higher than dog catcher.

“Buy me a drink, Sailor?”

“That may get us into trouble, don’t you think?”

“Really? We have a sample of eight homes, enough for a Chebychev distribution. I think I just saved you $20,000. How about that drink now, pal?”

They were already at the cul-de-sac exit and steps from the Bag’s Bottom Drinking Establishment.

“To propitious starts,” Sam toasted his wife with his Jameson’s and soda.”

“To propitious starts,” Jan clinked her husbands’ glass with her Tom Collins. “Let’s get back before Marty does another off-book science project. Can’t say our little boy isn’t ambitious!”

# # #

“What is that, some kind of bra?” Marty asked Laurel. The three kids were examining a black object with an assortment of clasps, clips, hooks, stays, and eight semi-elastic string-like things. The kids always scoured the sewing room where Grandpa stayed when he visited, searching for cool things left behind. This time they hit paydirt.

“Don’t be stupid, Marty. It doesn’t have cups.”

“Why does it need cups?  Is one supposed to drink from it?” Laurel and Marty shared a smile at their innocent younger sibling. A PBS documentary on the Windsor’s last year left Hope using the occasional Britishism. Marty lay on his back holding the longer elastic strips in his hands and his feet braced in the central “equator” south of the shorter elastic strips.

“It’s got to be one of those exercise things like on TV. Chin Gym. Pumping Rubber. I’m going try it. Maybe Grandpa’s doctor told him he needed more exercise.”

“Moron.  Let me get you out of that.” Laurel sized up the situation as a Gordian Knot problem, but didn’t want to slice her brother in half, pain in the ass that he could be. “Just like Twister, knucklehead. Left foot red. That’s it. Right hand blue. Watch out!”  Marty got smacked in the face but his sister’s exfiltration was effective.

“Who are you paying off at school to get those good grades? Cretin. Let’s put it away before mom and dad come home.”

# # #

“Now what are you doing? You’re supposed to be taking care of us while Mom and Dad are shopping. Shouldn’t you make us sandwiches or something? Am I going to have to untie you again? Maybe I should leave you to your own devices if you get stuck again. Maybe you shouldn’t want to find out what it is. Maybe Grandpa is freaky and that’s a bondage thing.”

“Whaddaya know about bondage, squirt?”

“It’s the 21^st century. Junior High girls talk to each other. I know all kinds of stuff.”

“Well, just make sure you don’t infect Hope. And I may not find out what this thing does, but I’m sure going to find something it’s good for.”

Marty had each of the two what he was calling “legs” tied to a fence post. He cinched what he was calling “the equator” enough so that the crisscrossing strips would support a soccer ball.

“Hey, that’s Dad’s ball! Signed by Pele!”

“Don’t worry about it. Just take Hope around to the back yard and make sure the ball doesn’t roll into the Wegener’s property. Shout out when you’re in place and when you get the ball. Then it’s chicken salad sandwiches and ice cream for all of us.”

Marty remembered from math class that if you want distance, launch something at 45 degrees. Unfortunately, his pencil case-sized protractor was of no help, so he winged it. But fortunately, Marty was a good winger. No broken windows, no priceless sports artifact lost, no noses broken by his sisters trying to catch the ball, no screaming neighbor. Hope and Laurel even liked the way he made lunch, with plenty of potato chips, chocolate milk, the sandwiches cut into butterflies.

“That was Mom on the phone; they’re going to be late. What would my fair princesses like to do?”

“I want to play with Grandpa’s thing more. What else can it do?”

“Sure, squirt. Okay, everybody in the back yard.”

“You know, all of these straps and things are adjustable.” Laurel was holding the thing and looking at the uprights of the porch railing. “I have an idea.” She wrapped the equator around one of the uprights and the started wrapping the leg pieces at different angles to the next upright, then did the same thing with the shorter straps going up from the equator to the upright in the opposite direction. “Pluck you!”

Hope started plucking, different notes for each strap. Very different notes, notes which likely never appeared in any G. Schirmer sheet music.

“Good job, Hope. Now you know you’re musical!” Laurel turned to Marty and said, “Looks like our little sister invented music in the Cretan Mode, cretin.”

Blue was staring at the shrub line, tail standing straight up, teeth showing; the kids had never seen their super-friendly catahoula in such a state.

“Look out!” Marty shouted a warning, “Raccoon!” He grabbed some pebbles from the gravel path and started using the straps to shoot them toward the invader from the Wegener’s , which started to make a stand, but then turned away when Blue issued a warning bark and growl. Hope, with Blue shadowing her, got to within ten feet of the Procyon guest, with Marty and Laurel shouting at her to get back. Hope tossed the quarter of the chicken salad sandwich she had stashed in a pocket of her smock; the raccoon took it, ate it, and headed back across the neighbors’ De-militarized zone. She wagged her finger at her older siblings. “It was hungry. I bet the Wegener’s don’t feed it.”

“Alright, troops. That’s two additional things we found out the thing can do. Enough for today. Let’s get it back to the sewing room.”

“Your Dad’s had a breakdown.” Marty and Laurel rotated frightened eyes to their mother. “Don’t you mean breakthrough, Jan?”

“Of course, silly of me, husband mine. Children, your father had a breakthrough on his CLADIA hobby.” Everyone was still in the driveway, the Volvo’s engine was still running.

“Hey, what the heck is that thing, some kind of bra?”

“How did you ever get to second base with me, of course it’s not a bra, there aren’t any cups. Marty, you look guiltiest, care to explain?”

“We found it in the sewing room. Grandpa always leaves stuff behind. We don’t know what it is either, but so far we used it as a catapult, a slingshot, and an almost musical instrument. What was your breakthrough, Dad?”

“Translating Norma Loquendi into something that can be understood by a keyword search algorithm. I’ve occupied Farcebook, set bots going up and down on the net and to and fro in it. They follow users who allow following, read the messages, read the responses, divine the meanings of the emojis, and categorize what the original poster wanted to say.Then I sample the output and mark each one right or wrong. The more ‘rights’ a branch gets, the more likely it is to be used again. I figure about 80 more runs to get it about right.”

“Who’s Norma Loquendi? Does she go to my school?” Holly’s parents smiled at their little darling. “She’s in every school. Mostly.”

“Sam, my sanctified Bridegroom, you must see the irony in the phrase Norma Loquendi.” Sam thought about it for a moment and thereby gained a moment’s worth of enlightenment, which he used to kiss his wife on the cheek. There were children present.

“Okay, troops. We’ve got a thing we don’t know what it is, but we suspect where it came from. Any objection to video calling my father and asking him?”

“Only with respect to what happens every time we skype or tiny-chat or zoom or whatever with him. Janis, do you want to go through that with Sid again?”

“I didn’t tell you this, but I gave him lessons. He’s been on Google Duo with Lois Feldman every day.”

“Oh, boy! I was looking for that all day. Why do I always leave things behind when I visit you folks? And Jannie tells me you’ve got some computer toy you’re trying to hawk.” Sid was smirking; in his Korea War battle group, he was famous for using a slide rule, pencil, and paper to beat the range keepers and fire control systems. They’re called elevators, sonny. Those ones I left were my very own father’s. You clip the short straps to your shirt tails and the long ones to the top of your socks. You can go around all day, meetings, lunches, cocktails, and your shirt will always be precisely tucked in and your socks will never slide down. My daughter tells me you’re going to the Capital to see a patent examiner and then a money guy, is that right? Wear the elevators when you go. Gray suit. Somewhere between medium and dark gray. White shirt, no collar buttons. Regimental tie would be good. If they know what it is, you’ll get points, if they don’t, in this day and age, you get points for coming to a meeting wearing a tie.”

The Evening’s decided to make it a family vacation. A hotel near DuPont Circle was very pet-friendly so they could bring Blue along. Jan took the kids on the Subway to see the National Mall, the Mint, the Lincoln Memorial, and the National Zoo. The Gorillas entranced; Hope said she saw the old Silverback smile at her.

 Sam had checked out a share-bike and headed over the Arlington Bridge to Crystal City, home of the Patent Office, a nice 35-minute tune-up ride that would let the Potomac winds wake him up. Sam had a thing for the Patent Office, the real source of the wealth of the world, the home everything we know how to make or do. He then thought he should have brought the whole family. The underground “city” was nuke-hardened and had two years of supplies for the maximum capacity of the facility. Sid was right, Sam thought he cut a sharp figure compared to most of the denizens. He was ramrod straight sun kissed, and sartorially impeccable when he was ushered into the examiner’s office.

“Good morning, Mr. Evening. I’m Jim Cuddy; I’m in charge of your application for CLADIA. Everything seems to be filled out correctly.” The portly civil servant shook hands with Sam. “The last step is to show me that it works. The office is yours, Mr. Evening.”

“Sure. Just tell me any law, regulation, or policy you would like the Federal Government to enact. Just speak into the phone.”

“That’s easy. I would like the USDA to add glycemic index to the nutrition information on food packages.”

“May I email your printer?”

“Of course, be my guest. It’s Guttenberg@PTO.gov.”

Jim looked at the printout. There was a list of social media groups, two of which Jim already belonged to, and set of Senators and Representatives who would respond to communications and campaign contributions, annotated as to why they would be open to support the measure. Then an index of individual advocates, again, some of whom Jim knew or knew of. The patent examiner called up a number from computer, hand wrote it in the space for it, stamped the application and handed a copy to Sam. 

“Well, I can see that it works. Good luck, Mr. Evening. You can show this to anyone and they can confirm it in our database. You’ll get the fancy copy in the mail within a month.”

Sam emerged from the brightness of knowledge into the fog of Virginia. He checked out a new bike and pedaled to the Alexandria address of Rêve Investments LLC. The interview and demonstration were almost a replay of the patent examnation. Jean-Louis decided that it would be a good idea for the Federal Government for any device with rechargeable batteries to have purchaser be able to replace the batteries. Jean-Louis had been stung by two Microsoft Surface tablets, an iPad, and an induction-charging electric toothbrush. The investor slid an offer across the table.  It was exactly halfway between what Sam had wanted and what he expected to get. They shook on it and signed some papers.

“You’ll get the check in about two weeks.”

On a whim, Sam headed back to Crystal City and headed into the research facilities. It took an hour of checking any possibly pertinent category. Elevators existed, but nobody had ever patented them. He gave a quick call to Jean-louis advising him that there was another round in the chamber. Cycling back to D.C., he picked up some fun and educational toys for the kids, lamb lung for Blue, and flowers for Janis.