Earl's Workshop
Earl's workshop smelled of grease, metal, and sweat. It was the same smell as always, the one that had accompanied my afternoons for years. But today, something was different. On the workbench, wrapped in bubble wrap like a newborn baby, was the prototype.
My prototype.
The wheelchair motorization kit.
I had called it "Mobility One." The name wasn't original, but it didn't need to be. What mattered was what it did: turn any manual wheelchair into an electric one in less than thirty minutes, without specialized tools, without engineering knowledge, and without paying five thousand dollars.
Earl approached with a rag in his hand and narrowed eyes.
"So this is the million-dollar invention?" Earl asked with skepticism.
"It's the invention that helps people," I replied.
"That doesn't pay the bills," Earl said.
"First it helps people, then it pays the bills," I replied.
"You've got it backwards, kid," Earl said.
"So I've been told," I replied.
Earl circled the prototype, examining it like a racehorse.
"And does it work?" Earl asked.
"It works," I replied.
"Did you test it?" Earl asked.
"I tested it," I replied.
"With who?" Earl asked.
"With myself," I lied.
"You're not in a wheelchair," Earl said.
"But I can sit in one, push myself, and test if the motor takes me uphill," I replied.
"And did it take you?" Earl asked.
"It took me. And I didn't fall off, and it didn't explode," I replied.
"That's more than I can say for my bikes," Earl said.
Earl took out an old wheelchair he had in a corner. It was one of those used in hospitals. Gray, rusty, with deflated tires.
"Put it on there," Earl said, pointing at the chair.
We worked for an hour. The kit was installed on the back of the chair with a small but powerful motor, a rechargeable battery, and a remote control that attached to the armrest.
Earl sat in the chair. He pressed the accelerator. The chair moved slowly across the workshop.
"It moves," Earl said with surprise.
"It moves," I repeated.
"And uphill?" Earl asked.
"There's no uphill in the workshop," I replied.
"Then let's go outside," Earl said.
We went out to the parking lot. There was a ramp leading up to the street. Earl pressed the accelerator. The chair went up effortlessly.
"It moves," Earl said again.
"I know," I said.
"How long does the battery last?" Earl asked.
"Eight hours of continuous use. Recharges in two hours," I replied.
"How much does it weigh?" Earl asked.
"Fifteen kilos. It disassembles into three pieces and fits in any car trunk," I replied.
"How much does it cost to make?" Earl asked.
"Three hundred dollars in materials, plus labor," I replied.
"And how much are you going to sell it for?" Earl asked.
"Five hundred," I replied.
"Only five hundred? Commercial kits cost five thousand," Earl said.
"Commercial kits are expensive. The people who need this can't pay five thousand dollars," I replied.
"Then you're not going to make money," Earl said.
"I'm going to make money, but not a lot. And it's not about the money," I replied.
"What is it about then?" Earl asked.
"Because my maternal grandmother used a wheelchair for the last ten years of her life. And she never managed to leave her house alone because the ramp was broken and the electric wheelchair cost a year's worth of her pension," I replied.
Earl fell silent.
"She died last year. At home. Without leaving," I said.
"I'm sorry, kid," Earl said.
"I'm not telling you so you'll be sorry. I'm telling you so you'll understand why I'm doing this," I replied.
Earl nodded.
"How many can you make per week?" Earl asked.
"One. If I don't sleep," I replied.
"One isn't a business. Ten is a business. A hundred is a company," Earl said.
"I know," I said.
"What do you need to make ten?" Earl asked.
"More hands. Space. More materials," I replied.
"I have space. And I have hands—mine and my friends from the senior center," Earl said.
"Your friends?" I asked with surprise.
"We're retired. Bored. And we know how to solder. Most of us were mechanics or electricians. One was a watchmaker—that helps with patience," Earl said.
"And they'd want to help?" I asked.
"I'll ask them. But I'm sure they will. They have nothing better to do. One of them spends his afternoons watching TV. Another plays poker with fake money. Another collects stamps. It'll do them good to do something useful," Earl said.
The Bennett House
Mark arrived home from work with his tie loosened and tired eyes.
"Leo, I need to talk to you," Mark said.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Earl called me. He told me about the prototype, the orders, and his retired friends," Mark said.
"And?" I asked.
"And he asked if I could help them with the administrative side. The invoices, the suppliers, the banks," Mark said.
"Are you going to help?" I asked.
"I'm already helping. I talked to an accountant friend, a lawyer, and a supplier of electrical materials," Mark said.
"And what did they tell you?" I asked.
"The accountant said you need a legal structure. The lawyer said you need patents. The supplier said they can give you the materials at wholesale prices if we guarantee a minimum order," Mark said.
"And can we guarantee it?" I asked.
"I'm going to have to call some friends. Clients, suppliers, people I know from the chambers of commerce," Mark said.
"And what do they have to do with it?" I asked.
"They have money. And they're looking to invest in things that make sense. Your invention makes sense," Mark said.
"You think so?" I asked.
"I think so. And not just me. Susan already called her sister—the one who works at the hospital," Mark said.
"Aunt Elena?" I asked.
"The same. She told her about the prototype. And Elena told her that the hospital has forty manual wheelchairs. Forty. And if they could convert them to electric for five hundred dollars each, they'd save a fortune on new electric chairs," Mark said.
"Forty?" I asked with surprise.
"Forty. And that's just one hospital. There are a hundred more in the city. And a thousand in the country. And ten thousand in the world," Mark said.
"You're driving me crazy," I said.
"I'm not driving you crazy. I'm showing you the opportunity," Mark said.
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