On Cloud 9

I was on the cusp of revolutionizing the mattress industry. Sort of.

With the help of the secretive Sector 3.8, outsourcing to China, and (maybe) the U.S. Department of Defense, I came close to changing the world with a bed full of helium.

Damn straight.

In middle school, I got drummed into a gifted program called IDEA. The sixth, seventh, and eighth grade iterations each focused on a specified theme of discussion and discovery, but ninth grade — the final year of IDEA — hit us with a real humdinger.

Each student received the same brief: invent something to address a pressing issue in the world. We had the whole school year to finish. At first, I thought too small, and mumbled a spiel about a phone charger which would run off of an exercise bike. Nope, that’s lame.

Wait!

I used to have a binder-like book, published by a company called Klutz. Each page contained an invention, plus a photo of the device in use — perhaps enhanced with a dash of Photoshop. A disclaimer in the introduction stated that you could put any of these brainwaves on the market yourself! If you made a million dollars from the product, Klutz humbly asked for 10%. (This is all from memory; I had lost the fateful tome by then, and forgotten its name.)

While racking my brain for as many of these ideas as I could recall, the book’s helium-filled mattress kept coming back. The idea appeals to me today, over eight years later. In 2025, only the upper echelon of society can pull weight in real estate. Even studio apartments often come at a price; space is at a bigger premium than ever. If you have just one or two rooms to call home, float your mattress up when you’re not sleeping! Genius!

Initial sketches from the project files.

I’d be just the guy to wake the dream into reality, and it would be christened Cloud 9. Duh.

Laying groundwork during the weekly IDEA meetings proved to be fun, but I wasn’t prepared for the rubber to meet the road — or the mattress to hit the ceiling.

It took some math to work out that the lifting power of helium is not sufficient to boost a regular bed. Meaning: I’d have to obtain a really big bed. Oh, and before you consider hydrogen, which is the one substance lighter than helium…no. I’m not spending time in court to deal with an accidental, at-home reenactment of the Hindenburg disaster.

So, helium it was. Again, reader, we had to think big. Since the Cloud 9 prototype called for a cloud-sized load of element number two, going to a supermarket and asking the balloon guy for a few pumps was out of the question.

We’ll get to the first problem (the mattress) in due time, but the funny-voice stuff had to be sourced before anything else. My dad — ever the willing co-conspirator — and I had to think in industrial terms, if we wanted any workable amount. As progress got logged back in school, I noted that the helium was provided by Sector 3.8. No, I am not at liberty to disclose if that’s the truth.

With a substantial tank of the gas acquired, we needed Cloud 9 itself. You know those shady websites, flaunting minefields of viruses, that promise the too good to be true? If you’re willing to put up with eon-level wait times, plus the risk of no delivery at all, factory workers in China (other nations, too, but the People’s Republic has the brunt of the action going on) can bring any concept to fruition.

Alright, let’s do it.

There’s a clan of video gamers who call themselves Cloud 9, and we borrowed their logo while ordering the prototype. What’s effective promotion without a little extra flash, eh?

The air-filled Cloud 9, a few weeks before showtime.

IDEA ended with a presentation of our year-long work in the high school cafeteria. Alas, when the evening came, trouble arose: the entirety of the helium we had secured found its way into the bed, but the mattress remained limp. Unfilled.

Of course, we brought a leaf blower should such a calamity occur. Standard, breathable air did the rest, and the Urban Dream Technologies Cloud 9 appeared heaven-sent.

In terms of spectacle (and, for kids, there’s no clearer way to measure success), my project blew away the competition.

Note

To be frank, the whole idea was a bit silly. I don’t think anyone will be sleeping on the second element any time soon. (Somehow, there’s wordplay to be made with “don’t sleep on Cloud 9,” but nothing’s clicking for me at the moment.)

Still, did my idea make a splash? Without question.

Shark Tank, if your ratings plummet and you need a Hail Mary…