I just don't understand kids these days. When I was a kid, my friends and I went out of our way to escape the stifling confines of our parents’ homes. We could spend the whole day at the beach or a pool or exploring the woods or riding bikes. Today's kids would rather hide inside and run simulation derivations on their computation engines.
I suppose not all kids are hopeless. A good example is my neighbor's daughter and her friends. They are hopelessly enamored with the past, dressing up in hundred-year-old styles and playing with replicas of antique gadgets, but at least they get outside to play like kids used to do.
I wasn't so sure what to make of my neighbors when they moved in. He was a bit of a jerk, and I doubt I've spoken with him more than a couple of times in the two years that they've lived there. She seemed kind of sweet, and although the two of them are nearly ten years older than my wife and I, she got along great with my wife. Of course, after my wife left me six months ago, she hasn't been by at all.
Their kid was sixteen when they moved in, and she was a skinny runt of a girl. She was exactly the kind of kid that reads too many historical fictions and fantasizes about how great things were a hundred years ago. I saw her and her friends dressing up and playing with their fake antique gadgets, and I mostly ignored them.
The family had only been living next door for a few months when a fateful thing happened. Apparently the kid gets too big of an allowance from her dad, and she wasted a bunch of credits on an authentic antique lockstriker. Of course, most homes have newer steam-and-electric safety locks that are immune to such antique gadgets of thievery, but that didn't slow her down. She discovered that my old workshop had an old-time tumbler lock, and she was quick to give the gadget a try.
Sadly for her, the lockstriker had seen better days. Not only did it not work, but it got stuck in the lock. With a chagrined look on her face, she came knocking on our door for some help. I was able to free the device from my lock without causing any damage to it or the lock, and then I said those fateful words: "I can probably fix that for you."
It turned out that there was a wind-up spring that powered the device, and the century-old metal was too rusty and worn. It took a bit of searching, but I was able to find some modern materials that would work. In total, I probably spent two hours and a couple of credits to make it work. The kid paid me with a big grin and a hug, and then she and her friends raced off to see how much trouble they could cause around the neighborhood.
A couple of weeks later, she showed up with an authentic pair of antique spy goggles. The levers were bent, and half of the filter lenses were missing. I spent another couple of hours and several credits, and I earned another hug. Letting her get away with not paying was almost a mistake.
Somehow, over the last two years, her and her friends have managed to find authentic gadgets of every sort, and I have become an expert at sourcing repair materials and making the devices work again. Half of the time, the kids find they have no interest in their finds, so they turn around and sell them in working condition for more credits than they spent. Nicely, they send about half of their profit to me, and everybody wins.
I should mention one more thing about this group of kids, and my neighbor's daughter in particular. Just as the value and intricacy of the items they bring to me have grown, so have the kids. They were all around sixteen when this adventure started, and now they are all turning eighteen. My neighbor's daughter, Clara, has blossomed from a skinny kid to a pretty young adult, although I think she purposefully dresses down to maintain her waif-like appearance.
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I wasn't quite sure what to think when I got a texgram™ at work from Clara asking if I had a pallet jack. I knew she would wait at her computation engine until I sent a return texgram™, so I quickly replied that I did not, but there were a couple of mover's wheeled dollies in my workshop that might work for whatever she needed. She didn't reply, and I tried not to fret too much.
Perhaps I should have fretted more. When I got home, I couldn't get my steamer into the carport because there were big pieces of a shipping crate scattered on the drive. I found Clara and her friend Amelia struggling to move some sort of wooden cabinet into my workshop. With my assistance, we managed to get it into a good location where I would be able to work on it, but where it wasn't completely in the way.
As the three of us turned to go clean up the shipping mess, I asked, "So... What is it?"
Clara gave me a huge grin. "Well, Mr. Anders, I was hoping you could tell me." She saw the look that I gave her, and she added, "I'm hoping you can figure it out, Mr. Anders. What I do know is the cabinet is authentic, and it was built by a famous Parisian craftsman that made custom furniture and devices for royalty. There is some circumstantial provenance that it belonged to a duchess that was renowned for her eccentric tastes. The cabinetry alone is worth twice what I paid for it, although I have no idea what anyone would do with it."
I was intrigued by both the story and the challenge, but I did have some concerns. She must have seen my reaction before I spoke, because she quickly added, "I know some of the inner workings look horrible, but I am prepared to pay a thousand credits up front for materials. That's nearly how much I already paid for purchase and shipping, but I think it will be worth it. We just need to find a buyer that is a crazy as we are."
Her giant grin at the end made me shake my head. The grin only faded a bit as I became a task master and forced them to scour the drive several times to make sure they didn't leave any nails or other sharp objects that would damage the tires on my steamer. Eventually, we got everything cleaned up, and they headed off on their next adventure while I went in to study the new project.
I wasn't sure what to make of it. At first glance, it looked like some sort of walk-in tub. The 'open' half of the cabinet had a door and a couple of bars that might have been seats. The walls of the tub were covered with inflatable tubes that probably were supposed to retract into pockets that lined the walls. The 'closed' half was some sort of steam powered control system. It had a lot of cogs and gears, and it wasn't clear at all what it was controlling.
There was a small control console of sorts, with several levers with colored handles. I thought it was strange that the levers were off to the side, but I guess it made sense from the safety point of view to have an outside person running the machine for whoever was inside.
It took me several months to source the fabrics, valves and gears that were needed to make it work again. Clara’s credits covered the costs, but she was going to owe me big-time for my labor. Once it was working, I tested it on inanimate objects, because I wasn’t entirely certain that the safeties would work.
There was one exception to the two-person operation. There was a small section on the top of the control cabinet that flipped over to become a seat over the open tub. From there, a person could sit with their legs and feet in the tub and operate the levers. I decided it was safe to give that a go.
Let me just say it was weird. After I threw the lever, it took about thirty seconds for all of the tubes to inflate to finally put pressure on my lower legs. I wasn't completely sure what to expect, and at first it felt strange to have the ends of several tubes pushing in against my flesh. It felt even stranger still as the tubes moved around to reorganize themselves until some of the tubes were engulfing my heels and my toes and then rolling pressure toward my ankles. Once I got used to it, it actually felt pretty good.
The sound of a loud click at the shop door startled me. I had locked the door, so I wasn't likely to be disturbed. Suddenly, the door opened, and Clara quickly stepped inside and locked the door. Her infamous lockstriker was in her hand.
"You got it working?" she begged to know with a beaming smile. "I wondered why you were putting buckets in and using the levers, but now it makes sense. Will it massage more than just feet?"
I had always suspected that she had hidden spy periscopes and other observational devices in my workshop, and her words definitely confirmed my suspicions. I reached for the first lever and lifted it back to the home position. The tubes were fully retracted in less than ten seconds.
"There are still a lot of tests that need to be done," I lied to stall her enthusiasm. "If you would like to take my place up here, I will let you feel what this first test feels like, but we are a long ways from operating it with someone sitting on the bar inside."
She frowned as I hopped down and pulled my socks and shoes back on.
"What kind of tests?" she persisted. "Amelia and I saw how you were testing it with buckets, and we just knew it had to be some sort of massager. It didn't damage those thin metal buckets, so it's not going to injure a person. If you're afraid to sit in it, test it on me. Besides, I own the thing, so I should get to go first."
As she spoke she pushed past me, flipped the upper seat up and out of the way, and then she sat in the tub on the lower bar, facing the control end of the cabinet. She saw the worried look on my face, and she quickly added, "We both saw how fast it shuts down. Just pull the lever, and at the first sign of trouble you can shut it off."
I debated in my head for a moment longer. This was the next step for testing, and although I always imagined that I would be the first to sit inside, I trusted myself at the controls more than I trusted anyone else. I slowly nodded.
"I want clear and concise reporting of everything you feel, and if anything feels even slightly wrong, say something," I insisted. She nodded, and after another short moment, I pushed the first lever down.
"Talk to me," I commanded, and she nodded.
"Okay, well," she said, "um, it's a bit claustrophobic now that it's folding in around me, but don't stop yet. Oh! The pressure is building in the lower tubes and it lifted me off the bar. Oh no!"
A worried look had preceded her final exclamation, and I was quick to lift the lever. The tubes promptly deflated, and her weight settled onto the bar again. As the tubes recoiled and stored themselves, she gave me a smirk. She reached inside her blouse, and probably into her hosiery to pull out a pair of glasses. She gave me an embarrassed smile as she set them up on top of the control cabinet,
"Please Mr. Anders, don't tell anyone," she begged. "I only need them for reading in low light, and I hate the way kids at school tease the other kids that have to wear glasses."
"Your secrets are safe with me," I promised.
"Good," she replied with a pleased smile. "Now try it again."
"Right. Okay, test number two, and be sure to keep talking," I said. "I like that I was able to hear the distress in your voice even faster than you said anything."
As I spoke, I eased the lever down again.
"Mmm, well, it's not as claustrophobic the second time," she spoke. "Here comes the pressure and now it feels like I'm floating. Oooo, how does it do that? The tubes are moving around, like big soft fingers, and it kind of tickles. Oh! Oh, that's nice. The pressures are rocking against my hips and my lower back. I can feel the tubes moving to support my front, but the real pressure is working its way up and down my back. Mmmm'oh! Still on my back, but now butt and legs too. This is really nice, Mr. Anders. Like, really nice. Hmmmm."
After a moment or two of silence, with just the hissing of the valves, I said, "Hey, you're supposed to be talking, kid."
Her eyes opened and she gave me a lazy smile. "I don't think I can. It's massaging everything at once. Another five minutes of this, and you're going to have to take me to bed."
Maybe I reacted a little too strongly to her words. She blushed and quickly added, "Not like that Mr. Anders. Just someone is going to have to carry me because I'm going to be too relaxed to walk." To divert our attention from our embarrassment, she asked, "Don't you think we should try the next lever?"
Given that I was ten years older than Clara, I had never even considered her in an adult way. Her words and her blush had hammered home the fact that she was no longer a kid, that she was a rather desirable young woman. I needed to divert my thoughts before I got into trouble, and I didn't even think about what I was doing as I reached for the next lever.
For the next thirty seconds, I studied Clara's face, watching for any signs of distress. Her eyes drifted shut as she concentrated on feeling whatever change might come. When she noticed the difference, at first she frowned. A few moments went by, and her frown deepened. Then her eyes popped open, but they stared intently down into the writhing cloth tubes. Suddenly, her body lurched, and she cried out. I slammed both levers back to home.
Clara swallowed hard, and then she blushed to the darkest shade of red I have ever seen. I gave her a moment to collect herself.
