Flight Dream
So, me and dad were in a plane. A small plane. A very small plane. The kind of plane you see pulling banners over the beach, or circling over MacArthur Airport. He was in the pilot’s seat. He was driving. We were on the ground, trying to take off. Just driving through back roads, trying to find a stretch of road long enough to take off.
“Dad didn’t drive planes.”
I know. I know. Just bear with me. He wasn’t driving it like he drove them all the time. It was like we were in the little Datsun, the little yellow one, but it was a plane. Anyway, there was this little kid with us. This little egg-head kid. You know the kind I mean. The kind that’s like me. A little know-it-all, egg-head doofus. And he’s sitting next to me. I’m sitting between him and dad.
“In the Datsun.”
In the plane.
“Who was the kid?”
I don’t know. I couldn’t tell. He was just there. And he and I were talking as dad was driving the Datsun – the plane through all kinds of wooded back-roads, trying to find somewhere to take off. And the kid – I don’t know, whoever he was – was just asking me questions about dad.
“I’ll bet he was. Your father didn’t fly planes.”
I know, I know. I don’t know what he was asking. Wait, no. I know. He was asking about ‘was dad scared when he had to run the country.’
“Dad didn’t run the country.”
I know! But the kid – I don’t know, the little egg-head. He was convinced – he thought that dad was, I don’t know, in charge of a country. A European country. France or Belgium or somewhere. I don’t know, Switzerland or Denmark or something. He was convinced. He was worried. Scared. Sad, because dad had had such a hard time running his country.
“His parents were peasants. They were poor. We were poor. Anyone that came here was poor. You know this. It’s – it’s boring. It’s not your business.”
So this kid, this little egg-head just keeps going on and on and he’s almost crying, he’s so sad for dad and how hard it must be for him to run the country. And then dad, he’s just behind me, to my right, I’m between him and the kid, and dad says my name and I look at him. And I have a flashback – I know, ‘how can you have a flashback in a’ – I know. But I look over my shoulder at him and his eyes are small and kind, and his nose is big, and his moustache hides his mouth, and he is just like he was when he would drive me to any of the places I was afraid to go as a kid. He was – apologetic. Apologetic, but inevitable. And he said, ‘I found us somewhere to take off.’
“This is silly. Dad – couldn’t fly a plane. He worked hard. He took you where you needed to go.”
And I looked out the front window of the plane, because it was a bigger plane now, and I saw that road; that same long road, bound on either side by big tall pines, with power lines over head, descending in plateaus – no, no. In increments. Descending in flat, lowering increments, that same narrow road that used to give me nightmares. I hadn’t seen it in years, and there it was. I realized that I’ve been dreaming of that road all my life. I don’t know why it should be so scary. It’s just, the way that it descends – the way it goes down and down and out of sight and is empty and ominous. And the boy is not here anymore – well, he’s not next to me, but he’s here on the plane with us. With all of us. We’re all here.
“I’m there? Who’s there? Your brother?”
I don’t know.
“Your Uncle? Your boyfriend? Who??”
I don’t know!!! I just know we’re all there. And dad smiles at me. And his smile says that he’s sorry and that he loves me and that it’s inevitable. And he looks out in front of us, and starts to speed up, and I can tell that he’s getting ready to take off. And the plane rattles and shakes and shudders and starts to pull itself off the ground. And I’m happy, because – well, because dad doesn’t fly planes, and this plane is going to take off! And I settle in, and I think that I couldn’t possibly be happier to be here, with him, with us, in the Datsun –
“The plane.”
The plane. And just as the wheels are about to part from the asphalt, just as we are about to make that tiny separation that means that we’re flying, just as it’s about to happen, dad turns to me and says, ‘I wish I’d done something better with my life.’
“He would never say something like that.”
‘I wish I’d done something better with my life.’
“This is – this – are you hungry? Let me make you a sandwich.”
‘Something better. With my life,’ he said. And the plane roared and pushed and the skin on my face started to spread backwards and we were – we were off the ground. We had taken off. We were – we were flying. Flying! Our little plane had launched off the horrible little descending road from my nightmares. We were heading up. My stomach dropped. I was beaming. And just –
“I’ll cook you an egg.”
And just –
“Or make you some tuna.”
And just as the clouds cleared and the sun shone and the whole sky opened up to swallow us whole –
“Your father doesn’t fly planes.”
I felt us catch on something. I felt us drag. The plane got caught on one of the power lines over the road. That was it. We were doomed. It was over. I could feel, I don’t know, the plane get yanked out from under me.
“I’m making you a salad.”
This plane, it was – we were moving too fast. Dad had made us go too fast. He couldn’t get us past the power lines. We got caught, and now we were doomed.
“I’ll put some egg in the salad.”
And somehow, the logic of it all got messed up. Somehow, my mind wouldn’t allow this to happen. Somehow, as the plane collapsed, I was thrown forward through the windscreen. I was airborne. I was flying. Somehow, time slowed down, and from the wreckage and the catastrophe, I was thrown forward. I was floating. I moved ahead and I spotted one of the tall, greasy timbers the powerlines were strung from. The powerlines we’d been caught in. There was a grey or green transformer bolted to the side of it, and I floated down and I landed on it. With bare feet. Without splinters. I landed on it, and I embraced it. The brown, splintery, greasy timber that the powerlines were strung from. I hugged it and I waited to watch the fireball of our little plane, our little Datsun to come screaming past.
“I – I’m going to make some – do you want a hamburger?”
And it never did. It didn’t come screaming past. It vanished. And there I was, grease smearing my face, hugging a giant wooden pole, standing on a high-voltage transformer, waiting for a fireball that never came. And, do you know what I did?
“I – no. No. I don’t know.”
I don’t know. I woke up. I went to work. I – I thought about something else. I put it away, this message I’d received. This symbol or this whatever-it-was. I ignored it. What sort of a person does that? What sort of a person just ignores the things that their own brain is trying to tell them? I mean, don’t you think it means something?
“I think you’re overreacting. I think I don’t enjoy this kind of talk very much.”
No. No, I wouldn’t think so. No, I don’t think I enjoy this kind of talk much myself. I’m going to – thanks for letting me stay for the weekend.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
No, really. Thanks.
“Let me cook you a hamburger.”
No, no. That’s alright. I think – I think I’ll just go out for a little while. Take a drive, maybe. Cool off.
“If you’re sure.”
Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll just go out and cool off for a little while.
“…”
Maybe stop by the bar and have a beer or something. See if anyone’s around.
“…”
Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. Hey – don’t. Let me – I can help you clean up, if you want.
“No, it’s fine. It’s almost done. You go.”
I’ll go.
“…”
See you later.
“…”
“Dad didn’t drive planes.”
I know. I know. Just bear with me. He wasn’t driving it like he drove them all the time. It was like we were in the little Datsun, the little yellow one, but it was a plane. Anyway, there was this little kid with us. This little egg-head kid. You know the kind I mean. The kind that’s like me. A little know-it-all, egg-head doofus. And he’s sitting next to me. I’m sitting between him and dad.
“In the Datsun.”
In the plane.
“Who was the kid?”
I don’t know. I couldn’t tell. He was just there. And he and I were talking as dad was driving the Datsun – the plane through all kinds of wooded back-roads, trying to find somewhere to take off. And the kid – I don’t know, whoever he was – was just asking me questions about dad.
“I’ll bet he was. Your father didn’t fly planes.”
I know, I know. I don’t know what he was asking. Wait, no. I know. He was asking about ‘was dad scared when he had to run the country.’
“Dad didn’t run the country.”
I know! But the kid – I don’t know, the little egg-head. He was convinced – he thought that dad was, I don’t know, in charge of a country. A European country. France or Belgium or somewhere. I don’t know, Switzerland or Denmark or something. He was convinced. He was worried. Scared. Sad, because dad had had such a hard time running his country.
“His parents were peasants. They were poor. We were poor. Anyone that came here was poor. You know this. It’s – it’s boring. It’s not your business.”
So this kid, this little egg-head just keeps going on and on and he’s almost crying, he’s so sad for dad and how hard it must be for him to run the country. And then dad, he’s just behind me, to my right, I’m between him and the kid, and dad says my name and I look at him. And I have a flashback – I know, ‘how can you have a flashback in a’ – I know. But I look over my shoulder at him and his eyes are small and kind, and his nose is big, and his moustache hides his mouth, and he is just like he was when he would drive me to any of the places I was afraid to go as a kid. He was – apologetic. Apologetic, but inevitable. And he said, ‘I found us somewhere to take off.’
“This is silly. Dad – couldn’t fly a plane. He worked hard. He took you where you needed to go.”
And I looked out the front window of the plane, because it was a bigger plane now, and I saw that road; that same long road, bound on either side by big tall pines, with power lines over head, descending in plateaus – no, no. In increments. Descending in flat, lowering increments, that same narrow road that used to give me nightmares. I hadn’t seen it in years, and there it was. I realized that I’ve been dreaming of that road all my life. I don’t know why it should be so scary. It’s just, the way that it descends – the way it goes down and down and out of sight and is empty and ominous. And the boy is not here anymore – well, he’s not next to me, but he’s here on the plane with us. With all of us. We’re all here.
“I’m there? Who’s there? Your brother?”
I don’t know.
“Your Uncle? Your boyfriend? Who??”
I don’t know!!! I just know we’re all there. And dad smiles at me. And his smile says that he’s sorry and that he loves me and that it’s inevitable. And he looks out in front of us, and starts to speed up, and I can tell that he’s getting ready to take off. And the plane rattles and shakes and shudders and starts to pull itself off the ground. And I’m happy, because – well, because dad doesn’t fly planes, and this plane is going to take off! And I settle in, and I think that I couldn’t possibly be happier to be here, with him, with us, in the Datsun –
“The plane.”
The plane. And just as the wheels are about to part from the asphalt, just as we are about to make that tiny separation that means that we’re flying, just as it’s about to happen, dad turns to me and says, ‘I wish I’d done something better with my life.’
“He would never say something like that.”
‘I wish I’d done something better with my life.’
“This is – this – are you hungry? Let me make you a sandwich.”
‘Something better. With my life,’ he said. And the plane roared and pushed and the skin on my face started to spread backwards and we were – we were off the ground. We had taken off. We were – we were flying. Flying! Our little plane had launched off the horrible little descending road from my nightmares. We were heading up. My stomach dropped. I was beaming. And just –
“I’ll cook you an egg.”
And just –
“Or make you some tuna.”
And just as the clouds cleared and the sun shone and the whole sky opened up to swallow us whole –
“Your father doesn’t fly planes.”
I felt us catch on something. I felt us drag. The plane got caught on one of the power lines over the road. That was it. We were doomed. It was over. I could feel, I don’t know, the plane get yanked out from under me.
“I’m making you a salad.”
This plane, it was – we were moving too fast. Dad had made us go too fast. He couldn’t get us past the power lines. We got caught, and now we were doomed.
“I’ll put some egg in the salad.”
And somehow, the logic of it all got messed up. Somehow, my mind wouldn’t allow this to happen. Somehow, as the plane collapsed, I was thrown forward through the windscreen. I was airborne. I was flying. Somehow, time slowed down, and from the wreckage and the catastrophe, I was thrown forward. I was floating. I moved ahead and I spotted one of the tall, greasy timbers the powerlines were strung from. The powerlines we’d been caught in. There was a grey or green transformer bolted to the side of it, and I floated down and I landed on it. With bare feet. Without splinters. I landed on it, and I embraced it. The brown, splintery, greasy timber that the powerlines were strung from. I hugged it and I waited to watch the fireball of our little plane, our little Datsun to come screaming past.
“I – I’m going to make some – do you want a hamburger?”
And it never did. It didn’t come screaming past. It vanished. And there I was, grease smearing my face, hugging a giant wooden pole, standing on a high-voltage transformer, waiting for a fireball that never came. And, do you know what I did?
“I – no. No. I don’t know.”
I don’t know. I woke up. I went to work. I – I thought about something else. I put it away, this message I’d received. This symbol or this whatever-it-was. I ignored it. What sort of a person does that? What sort of a person just ignores the things that their own brain is trying to tell them? I mean, don’t you think it means something?
“I think you’re overreacting. I think I don’t enjoy this kind of talk very much.”
No. No, I wouldn’t think so. No, I don’t think I enjoy this kind of talk much myself. I’m going to – thanks for letting me stay for the weekend.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
No, really. Thanks.
“Let me cook you a hamburger.”
No, no. That’s alright. I think – I think I’ll just go out for a little while. Take a drive, maybe. Cool off.
“If you’re sure.”
Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll just go out and cool off for a little while.
“…”
Maybe stop by the bar and have a beer or something. See if anyone’s around.
“…”
Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. Hey – don’t. Let me – I can help you clean up, if you want.
“No, it’s fine. It’s almost done. You go.”
I’ll go.
“…”
See you later.
“…”
posted by the prisoner at 8:49 PM
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