Wish Upon A Star

by Tony Burton

The P-51 banked in the sky and arrowed down at him out of the sun, its engine crooning a song of destruction. But William Hedrick stood his ground, hands on the controls. Just as the plane was about to make a strafing run, its engine coughed and smoke puffed from the cowling. The pilot cried out in anger and fear, but managed to pull up the nose before the fighter crashed. The plane performed a quick Immelmann and once more started its approach…

“Yo, Hedrick! Will you stop flyin’ that stupid toy airplane over my back yard? It’s drivin’ Betsy crazy!” Bubba Beaudry yelled from the deck of his home. When the young man ignored him, Bubba drained the last of the beer he was drinking and hurled the empty bottle at his neighbor, narrowly missing Hedrick’s nose.

Hedrick jumped back as the brown glass missile almost took off his glasses, and tripped over his flight box. He managed to maintain control over his treasure, his hand-built 1/6-scale P-51 Mustang, and bring it to a crash-less stop on the grass. Beaudry’s hoots of laughter rolled over him as he scrambled to his feet and ran to check on the miniature aircraft. He ran his hands quickly over the fuselage and undercarriage, checked the wings, and whirled in a fury. “What the devil are you doing, Beaudry? You almost made me crash her!”

His neighbor wandered over near the fence separating their two properties, his face ugly with alcohol, anger and just plain meanness. “Look, Hedrick, I done told you about flyin’ that dang airplane over my back yard. It upsets Betsy, and when she gets that way, she won’t tree a coon for two, three weeks!” He reached down and fondled the ears of the hound that sat at his feet.

Hedrick’s face was flushed with anger. He gestured at the sleepy-eyed dog. “That mutt? She doesn’t look upset… she barely looks awake!”

Beaudry leaned closer to the fence, frowning. “If you wasn’t so skinny, I’d beat the snot outta you for sayin’ that about Betsy! She’s a champion, and she’s gonna win the Tanglewood Treein’ Contest next week. I’ve got a lot ridin’ on that contest, and your stupid toy ain’t gonna mess that up! Betsy gets upset once more by that thing, and I’ll blow it outta th’ sky!” Beaudry pantomimed aiming a shotgun and pulling the trigger at a flying target, accompanying it with appropriate sound effects.

Hedrick paled. “You wouldn’t! I… I’d bring you up on charges if you did that!”

Beaudry just grinned. “And my cousin Sonny is the sheriff. How far do you think it’d go?”

The younger man stood with his fists clenched in helpless anger, then whirled and collected his flight box and radio-controlled model, carrying them into the garage. He was shaking with fury, but realized that there was little he could do at this point.

Just as he was shutting the garage door, a hellish noise started next door. He turned and saw his neighbor feeding limbs, leaves and grass into his new chipper-shredder. Beaudry turned and looked at him. “How ya like her, Hedrick? Electric start – don’t even gotta jerk a cord to start this baby. And she’ll take a four-inch-thick branch and chew it to splinters like it’s nothin’!” As if to prove his point, the man shoved a huge bough from a pile by his house, into the shredder’s maw. Its growl deepened, but it jerked the limb deep into its innards, almost pulling Beaudry in with it, and spat out a sizeable pile of shavings and chips.

Hedrick just shook his head and went into his house. And he thinks my plane is upsetting his dog… with that roaring monster making all that ruckus, she probably won’t tree another raccoon in her life! He grabbed a beer from the fridge, and walked into his den, where five years of R/C model competition trophies and ribbons adorned the walls. He hadn’t competed last year – he had been too busy building the balsa-wood beauty he had just tucked away in the garage.

It had taken him over six months of nights and weekends to hand-cut, glue, fit and finish every last piece of wood, install all the radio-controlled electronics, and get the details down perfect. He’d won a couple of small trophies with her just for her perfect detail and scale, but the upcoming flying competition was what he had been waiting for – the Greater Southeast R/C Flight Championship. Builders and flyers from nine different states would be there, and this time, he wouldn’t be coming home with second place or third… he and his beauty, Shooting Star, were going to bring back that big, beautiful First Place trophy!

* * *

The next day after work at Simpson Electronics, Hedrick went to his garage and tinkered with his R/C plane a little more. The sputter yesterday worried him, so he adjusted the engine, firing it up repeatedly to listen to its purring whir of sound. After adjusting the fuel ratio and some other minor tweaks, he thought he had it fixed. Leaning out the garage door, he saw that Beaudry’s old Plymouth Duster wasn’t in his driveway, so he took his plane and flight box out to the back part of his yard.

Lost in the sheer joy of flying his creation, Hedrick put her through Immelmans, barrel rolls and stalls, bringing her out with ease. He was sure to win the competition this year – there was no way anyone else’s plane could match his for detail, speed and maneuverability. Why, even that guy flying the 1/6-scale Focke-Wulf…

There was a roaring explosion from his left, then another, and in horror he watched as his airplane shattered, flipped and burst into flame, spiraling out of control, a falling star of catastrophe. Hedrick whirled.

Standing in the yard next to his, double-barreled shotgun still upraised and smoking, was Bubba Beaudry. He lowered the shotgun, breaking it open to expel the two empty shells. “I told you, Hedrick! I ain’t gonna lose this competition because of you and your stupid toy!” Spitting a brown stream of tobacco juice into the grass, he turned and went back into his house.

Hedrick’s mind whirled and spun just as his falling plane had done, and crashed just as spectacularly. He fell to the ground in a sitting position, watching the wreckage of his beautiful model as it smoked in the tall grass and weeds of the abandoned field behind his yard. A tongue of flame licked up, rousing him, and Hedrick jumped to his feet. He rushed to the mangled mess of balsa, wire and servos, and beat at the flames with his shirt. Finally there were no more flames, and he sadly carried the smoldering remains to his garage. There were tears in his eyes, but they were hot, bitter tears of anger more than of sadness.

His beautiful Shooting Star! He had spent hundreds of hours painstakingly cutting, fitting, gluing, sanding, painting… His hands shook, and one wing he held collapsed in his angry grip. But it was too late to rebuild her now. She was dead, shot out of the sky by some idiot whose idea of fun was listening to his dog bark and howl at raccoons all night long! Hedrick jumped at the sound of Beaudry starting his chipper-shredder again, and as his eyes turned toward the sound they were hard and cold.

Hedrick went home at lunch the following day, complaining of a headache. On the way he stopped by the High Flyers hobby shop and picked up a few things he needed. At home he went straight to the workbench in his garage, where he laid out a new relay, a 2’ thick block of balsa, a miniature receiver and some other odds and ends. A strange smile twisted his lips.

After about an hour of intense work, Hedrick took his tools and the things he was working on over to Beaudry’s back yard. Betsy regarded him from under lidded eyes, but flopped down in the dust again to sleep. He pulled back the tarp covering the shredder, and that same warped smile spread across his face again.

That evening, the rumble of the old Plymouth announced the arrival home of his next-door neighbor. Hedrick sat at his workbench, not saying a word – simply looking out through a side window at the backyard of his neighbor, and waiting. After about an hour, Beaudry came out, dressed for yard work. A baseball cap advertising snuff sat on his head, and a t-shirt bearing the likeness of a NASCAR driver stretched tightly across his beer belly. He eyed the pile of tree limbs from the downed tree, then pulled the tarp from the shredder. He rolled it into position, primed the carburetor, and hit the starter button. But only a faint clicking sound came from the engine.

Beaudry pressed the starter button again, and once more a click came from the engine. Removing his hat and frowning, he scratched his head. Hedrick emerged from his garage, holding a screwdriver and a box with a radio aerial attached to it.

“What’s the matter, Beaudry? I thought you were going to get all those limbs chipped up this week,” Hedrick called.

Beaudry whirled, surprise on his face. “Uhh, well, looks like there’s somethin’ wrong with my chipper. Won’t start, dang it!” He kicked the tire of the machine.

“Maybe there’s something jammed in it,” Hedrick offered. “Sometimes machines like that have a safety feature that keeps them from starting if there’s a jam.”

Beaudry’s eyes widened. “Hey, that could be it!” He spun, looking around as though he expected to see something on the ground beside him.

“Need a flashlight?” Hedrick asked. “I’ve got one in here.”

“Thanks! That’d help a lot,” Beaudry admitted. Hedrick disappeared, and returned with a small flashlight, and handed it across the fence to him. Beaudry nodded his thanks, and Hedrick started back toward his garage, the black box with an antenna still in his hand.

Beaudry turned on the flashlight, and played it around on the interior of the larger of the two inlets. Grunting and muttering a curse, he went to the other, and shone the light down into it. “Hey!” he yelled with excitement, “there IS somethin’ down in there! Looks like a chunk of wood, maybe!” He reached deeper into the guts of the machine, stretching. “Almost got it…” he said with satisfaction.

The chipper-shredder roared to life, and with a scream Beaudry’s arm was pulled down into the blades. The powerful machine, which had no problem digesting four-inch oak limbs, was making quick work of Beaudry’s human one. Only the mass of Beaudry’s shoulder and torso kept it from pulling him deeper into its teeth.

In a few seconds, the engine seemed to die, and the only sounds were the screams and gasps coming from Beaudry. Shortly, they faded away as well. Hedrick strolled back into his garage, put away the radio control box he was holding, and picked up the phone, dialing 9-1-1. He made his voice sound breathless and agitated. “Emergency Services? There has been a terrible accident at 2022 Ridgeway Road. Please send help immediately. It’s Mr. Beaudry. It looks like he got his arm hung up in his chipper-shredder. I’m going to go over to see what I can do…”

In moments, Hedrick tied a handkerchief around the stump of Beaudry’s elbow to stop the bleeding. Then he stepped around the unconscious man and removed the radio-controlled starter module he had attached underneath the chipper earlier that day. The soft balsa wood he had placed in the machine was already turned to chips and scattered with other debris that lay on the ground, now stained a reddish brown.

Hedrick walked back toward his garage, softly singing “When you wish upon a star...”