ImageHe liked to think he worked for a non-profit, but it wasn't true. It was a for-profit firm, but one that was mismanaged to the point of zero profits. The investors had all abandoned ship, and the company was gasping for breath beneath the weight of its creditors. The end would be quiet, free from any spectacular fanfare. According to some the end had already come several months earlier. In the meantime, there was only waiting.
He lingered at his desk at the end of the day. It used to be that upper management and the accounting team would stay until the late hours of the night, crunching numbers in long take-out food-fueled meetings. Those days were over; people just stood up and walked out to their cars at five o'clock without saying goodbye. At five-fifteen he was all alone in the office, reclining in his swivel chair among the rows of messy desks and silent computers. The janitors would arrive at around nine—plenty of time.
On the roof, the company helicopter sat idly beneath a large gray tarp. It had not been used in over a year, and was rumored to be up for liquidation soon. The helicopter, nicknamed Ricky, had been purchased during the firm's heyday, when it seemed that the executives always had some meeting to be at across town. Even then it had been a waste; the executives could have easily driven, or in some cases, walked. But appearance was what mattered. Even though it was several years old, far from top of the line as far as helicopters go, it was still an impressive machine. On its door was painted a cougar taking a blood-gushing bite out of a gazelle.
The cockpit was fashioned with a plush leather pilot's chair. He sank into it as he sat down, feeling his feet fall comfortably into the grooves worn into the carpet on the floor. The ignition keys, perhaps as a sign of the firm's poor management, were left in the ashtray attached to the door. The keys were on top of a pack of cigarettes, which he made a mental note of for later.
The rotor blades made several slow revolutions before picking up speed, as if the machine itself was unsure about what was happening. He had read an article on the internet about helicopters, but besides that had no experience with any vehicle larger than a truck. Flying a helicopter, he hoped, would be mostly a matter of wanting badly to escape the ground.
For the first few minutes he held himself in heightened fright, feeling at each moment that the craft would tip over, the throttle seeming to beg in every direction at once. Soon, however, he was in the air, high above the city. He passed through a low cloud and felt it dissipate around him. He was the only force in the sky. On the ground below was a city that could do nothing to stop him. He reached towards the pack of cigarettes and shook one to his lips. In his forty-two years he had never smoked a cigarette, much less one in a helicopter. This would be how he'd live from this point on—above the world, where he was in control. He reached over to the ashtray, feeling around for a lighter or pack of matches. Finding neither, he shrugged and held the unlit cigarette between his lips, taking an empty pull. This is the first step of a journey, he thought, he could smoke later. Perhaps later he could pick up a prostitute and take her back to the helicopter. They couldn't have sex while it was in the air, of course. That would be too much.
