World Game
Published in Tank Vol. 3 Issue 7
Bucky facing the boat, the final words of his poem to the Intuition puzzled over. All of us watching and waiting, heads tilting up high, standing in a neat semi-circle around the white-shirted and black-spectacled man of pure domes and Dymaxion prose, awaiting his masterfully designed signal for the crane operator to begin lowering his 17-ton, 40-foot sloop into the troubled Maine water.
On the horizon a gray freighter is pointing toward South America.
The signal is given with a vigorous arc of an arm, but the boat hangs there five feet above the water, crane whining, operator struggling and cursing. Bucky is silent, his eyes dashing between the yacht and the operator. We cannot tell if he is angry. Bucky turns and looks across the water thoughtfully, and then walks off, leaving us to contemplate his dangling yacht. Tomorrow he will be in New Delhi to build an airport, and he has to get some sleep.
Seagulls screaming, we begin to look at each other and discuss the Champagne. We can see the freighter sliding across the horizon and Bucky heading back to the house. His diminishing figure stops and looks down at something on the ground. Picking it up, he holds it close to his face, studies it, puts it in his pocket, and continues walking. As usual, we wonder what he is thinking. All mutters and sighs, we break our semi-circle, and decide not to drink the champagne. Behind us is the Intuition; marooned five feet above the water, where it will remain probably until tomorrow, possibly for longer.