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It was nearly noon when I decided I'd done enough, and I needed a break. I stood and stretched, feeling my knotted muscles protest and my joints crackle. I was starting to notice that sort of thing. My body was starting to send me signals that I wasn't made for sitting for long stretches, despite years of practice.
I closed my laptop and slid it into my messenger bag, and then flung that over my shoulder. I had gotten my coffee in a to go cup, so there was nothing to bus. I finished the final sips of the cold Americano, and dropped the cup in the trash on the way out. I had seen a burger joint not far from here, and that seemed as good a place as any to grab some lunch before hitting the road. I had one more night here, sleeping in the dinky motel just off the highway, and tomorrow morning I'd board a plane and fly home. This trip had been a success, in my book. This place was perfect for what we needed.
I ordered my burger to go, and I was walking and eating as I made my way back to my car. I stopped in mid-bite and mid-step as I noticed someone sitting on my hood.
Matthew.
He had his rump on the hood of the rental car and his feet resting on the front bumper. Propped on his knees was a wooden box that looked like it might be a hundred years old. It had an oil logo on it, and was probably a shipping crate for a few cans of motor oil. It was the kind of thing my grandfather had kept around—too handy to throw out, as he'd say.
"Matthew," I said cautiously. "Whatcha got there?"
"You said you were a battery guy," Matthew said. He slid off of the hood of the rental car and I winced to think there might be scratches or dents. Matthew was oblivious. He stood and held the box in front of him, and moved a bit closer to me.
I peered inside the wooden crate.
"What is that?" I asked.
"It's a motor," Matthew said. "I built it. And I built the battery that runs it. My pop taught me about motors and batteries. He was an electrical engineer."
"It's nice," I said, nodding. I had a burger in my hand and an overwhelming desire to get back to the hotel and watch TV until bed time. It had been a long trip—fruitful but a little exhausting. I just wanted to unwind.
"It doesn't stop," Matthew said.
I didn't quite get his meaning. "What doesn't stop?"
"The motor," Matthew said. "I put the battery on it and it's been running ever since."
"Must have a good charge," I said.
Matthew nodded. "1987."
I shook my head. "Sorry, Matthew, I don't know what you mean."
"1987," he said again. "That's when I built the battery. It's been running since then."
I laughed. "Well, that's pretty impressive," I said. "Most batteries don't handle recharges for that kind of time. Good work."
"I've never recharged it," Matthew said.
I blinked and shook my head a little. "Sorry, I don't know what you mean then."
"I built this in 1987, for school. For the science fair. And I charged it up back then. And it's been running ever since."
I started to chuckle then, as if I got the joke. And then I just ... didn't. Instead I looked into the wooden crate and saw the little motor whirring endlessly. It was connected to a set of gears that kept spinning, moving larger and smaller gears. There didn't seem to be any point to it.
"I took off the skaters," Matthew said. "I took that panel off, so I could show you the battery."
He turned then, and I noticed for the first time that there was a large backpack beside him. He placed the wooden crate on the hood of the rental car, riffled through the bag, and brought out a rectangular panel that he placed perfectly on top of the crate.
The panel was painted to look like a frozen pond on a winter day. It was a little childish looking, as paintings go. The banks of the pond were dotted with two-dimensional evergreens, decorated with splotches of multi-colored paint that represented Christmas ornaments. And the ice of the pond was baby blue, interrupted by thin, irregular cracks that were the tracks of several tiny skating figures. I watched as the figures came to life, moving around in their tracks in the ice, doing small turns before repeating the entire course.
It was crude. But it was in motion. And it was fascinating.
And then the full weight of what Matthew had told me sunk in.
"You built this in 1987? It's been ... this has been running continuously since 1987? On one battery?"
"I built it for the science fair," Matthew said. "It never stops moving."