Mr. Yi thought he was being funny.

“Where’s Golden Helper I?”

“Dead,” Weng said.

“Dead? How?”

“Passed away in bed one night.”

The crowd didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Mr. Yi shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand you.”

“Golden Helper II was named after my mother.”

“Your mother’s name was Golden Helper I?”

Mr. Yi bent down and touched the mechanism with his hand.
“It’s still hot! How does it work? A dynamo? A current through
motion? And look! Your tricycle has three chains.”

“It was my father’s idea,” Weng said. “He got it one night

after my mother found a tomato in my bed.”

Then the policemen got impatient,
thought Weng was a lunatic,

wanted to know where he lived. Traffic was backed up for miles,

angry voices crackled from their walkie-talkies.

“Drive this man home!” They barked at Mr. Yi.