At the Train Museum
Think of cocker spaniel pups with an edge. Maybe they've had too many caffeinated soft drinks or too much TV, or maybe it's Those Evil Video Games. Can't say exactly why, but these kids are frenetic. They bound from one model train to the next, shoving each other out of the way in a manic race to the control button. A colorful, sweet blur with a shrill hum.
David is by himself at the far end of the room, peering through the glass dome that mercifully protects Thomas the Tank Engine from his adoring fans. My heart sinks when I see David there: He seems so out of place among these Future Psychopaths of America. I walk over, wrap him in my arms and tell him I love him. But before my parental unction runs its course, he tells me that the small wire extending from the base of the engine car to the track is "where it gets electricity." And that Thomas takes six turns around the track before coming to a stop. And here is the button that makes him go again.
I'm relieved and impressed. This kid's not lonesome as I thought. In fact, those deep brown eyes, so intent and focused, belong to a genius making his way in the world. Yup, that's what's going on here. Then comes the coup.
The stressed spaniels make their way to Thomas, crowd around the table, frantically scanning for the control button. They can't see it carefully hidden under David's casually draped arm.
Suddenly, Thomas, his requisite six turns around the track complete, stops dead. Panic ensues. What happened? How do we make him go again? Where's the button? The room is electrified, the suspense so thick only a buzz saw could cut it.
But then, mysteriously, Thomas begins to move again. The pups are baffled. For a brief moment, they look around aimlessly like dazed aliens, then dart off to the next new thing.
Once they've moved on, David looks up at me with his dimpled grin and glee in his eyes. "They don't know it was me who made the train go."
