Helicopter

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He 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.

Black Jack

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Do you like black jack?

It used to be a big thing around here. Used to. You can ask anyone: ever since they closed down the Indian casino it's been pretty hard to find a table. There are little tables here and there, mostly charity stuff, games with kids, that sort of thing. But for the man who just wants to throw down and really work: the gamblers, the hot shakers, the real men, you know—it's hard. Sure there's poker, and that's cool, but what I'm talking about is black jack. Twenty-one. Pontoon. Really putting your balls out on the table.

Lucky for you I know a guy, a dealer. He's a one man casino. He'll sit you down where ever you want –your house , his house, the library, where ever—and deal you a hand. Just like the real thing. He carries a wad of cash in his pocket like I've never seen—it has to be at least seventeen hundred dollars. That's just how he rolls, man: a stack of cash and a deck of cards. No bullshit. He's the house, for real. You win, he'll fork over the dough like it isn't even his. Straight up and down. If you lose, of course, he'll take whatever you put on the table. Don't try to argue with him or ask for a refund. Who would argue with a casino? What the hell is wrong with you?

If you want in, just let me know—I've gotta introduce you to him before you can start playing. He's real nervous about new people. He won't act nervous, of course, but later on he'll call and say how mad he is. I don't want that. He's one of my best friends. Me and him been through a lot. Back in the day we used to play baseball together. He was shortstop, I was first base. So you know we've got that connection. I don't see him too much these days, though. Just when we're playing black jack, which isn't often for me. I lost my job a few months back, and haven't been able to find anything full-time.

Do you need any yard work done?

Gymnast

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There were, without a doubt, certain people whom he secretly wished he could still see. His ex-girlfriend, for example—she would be a pleasant sight. The first time he had seen her, done up in her gymnastics outfit, he thought to himself that she, more than anyone else he had ever seen, radiated beauty and happiness—were he to hold her image in his memory, carry it with him everywhere, then nothing could ever harm him. Of course this was going too far. It was an unreasonable expectation, and later led to heart-crushing disappointment. The last time he saw her, after she had left him for her gymnastics coach, was at an Olympic qualifying meet, which she would go on to win by a slim margin. He took a picture of her on his camera phone. He kept the picture in his phone for three months before losing it, along with all of his contacts, when the phone fell into a pitcher of root beer. He reached his arm into the pitcher, soaking the sleeve of his shirt, frantically flipping the phone open. But the screen was blank. And two weeks later, he was blind.

He also wished he could still see his parents, who were always very supportive, along with his aunt, who was kind enough to let him stay with her while he adjusted to the life of blindness. It had happened quickly—a freak virus transmitted by mosquito bite—and had left him with a new sense of bitterness, one which piled atop that which he had already been carrying (from the gymnast, who was now headed to the Olympics in Beijing). He sat quietly through classes at the Blind Center, spending hours afterwards in the music room, plunking out minor chords on the piano. His free days were spent sulkily, his mind wrapping itself around the concept that things had happened for the best, and that prior to the mosquito bite he had surrounded himself with people he didn't actually much care for.

For a long period afterward life seemed to contract, shrinking down to a level that was easy to pass without much incident or confrontation. He hardly spoke to anyone, but after a while that hardly felt to be an issue. This went on, days and weeks passing quietly, the world kept an arm's length, until one day he met someone who broke through. She was a volunteer at the Blind Center, and had walked in one night as he sat at the piano. The two spoke for an hour and half. He heard his voice for the first time in ages, felt it rising from his chest, felt the warmth of her in front of him. They met for lunch the next day, and then the next, where after more talk it came out that as a child, in France, she had competed as a gymnast for her school's team. Shocked, he rose from the table and hurried out of the room, making his way down the street, back to his aunt's house. With the door closed behind him, he held his hands over his ears and began to laugh uncontrollably. Gymnasts, he thought. Never again.

Walk Out

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It was in the fifteen minute break after the first show—there would be four that night—that talk began of a walkout. Each show lasted for an hour and a half and included several costume changes and scenery arrangements. The pay was decent for a small town theater production, but in their contracts were severe penalties for mistakes. A forgotten line would cost one hundred dollars. A mistimed spotlight, by as little as a second, would be seventy-five. The money from the penalties went straight to the producer—a plump young woman who sat in the back row, carefully following along in her binder, making notes when things went wrong. For much of the show her eyes were buried in her binder, but she never missed a single detail. The fines appeared as deductions on the weekly paychecks.

The walkout idea started within the lighting crew. It arose first as a question, harmless and naïve, but quickly became a battle cry. Word was sent down to the concessions staff, who quickly passed it on to the ushers and ticket takers. It was not until intermission in the second show that an usher, determined but timid, sidled up to a member of the stage crew and whispered in her ear, “Tonight we walk.” The stage crew, a group of cowardly old men, ironically union members, acted ambivalent to the idea. Luckily a member of the makeup team overheard, rising to the occasion to whip them into shape. The leader of the stage crew was shoved against a brick wall, nearly choked, until he agreed. The actors, several of whom were quietly pregnant, went along reluctantly. An agreement was reached to walk out during the third show.

It was a scene in which a father and son were to be discussing the merits of a planned marriage. The actor playing the father, rather than raise his hand to discipline his son, reached for his own face and tore off his fake beard. He turned to the audience, and in an impassioned voice proclaimed:
“We will not be treated like this! Walk out!”

The lighting crew, in a final act of bravado, blinked the house lights on and off, spelling out in Morse code: “W-A-L-K-O-U-T”. Only a few members of the audience were astute enough to recognize Morse code, but seeing the actors walk off stage, and the stage backdrops dramatically fall backward, everyone got the idea. They rose and filed out into the lobby, forming a line at the box office to ask for refunds.

The producer, cool and unshaken, walked to her car and made a phone call. I picked up on the first ring. She asked me for a favor, and I agreed to it. The strike will be broken, even if something has to burn.

Flight Time

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Dear Class,

You are all young, nine or ten, too young to know the pain of aging, the inevitable drag of death, the downhill tumble into the end. Yes, even I, at the age of forty, even I am a bit too young to talk about such things with any seriousness. But I have older friends, and I hear about it from them; I am aware of death and all of the things it means.

What you do know is the life-giving thrill of a dream, the hope to live in a world exactly like the one that exists in your mind. Your parents are (or at least ought to be) pumping you full of these thoughts, the plans for what you want to be when you grow up. I know mine did. My parents taught me that anything was possible if I was willing to work for it. I believed it then, and even now, thirty years later, I still believe. I write this letter without the slightest hint of cynicism or despair. Quite the opposite—I write out of hope. I write out of love for you all. I write because I am through with teaching. This is my letter of resignation.

From a young age I harbored dreams of flying. I had no delusions of growing wings, or simply willing myself into the air (a la Peter Pan). No, I knew that people flew in planes. I knew that and that's what I wanted to do. My parents, ever encouraging, signed me up for junior flight lessons at the local flight academy. For seven weeks, I sat in with real pilots as they conducted flying lessons with older students. I never got to touch the controls myself, but I soaked it all in. I could feel it inside of me; this is what I was meant to do. For medical reasons, I was forced to stop attending lessons. Life brought me to the ground, it made me comfortable on the ground, distracted me until I felt at home. I went through school, going on to obtain a master's degree in English literature—an accomplishment that brought me great pride. I jumped straight into a teaching career that has been successful by every measure. Flawless reviews, test scores through the roof. I loved teaching, loved my students and my fellow teachers. But that's over. I'm not longer comfortable on the ground. It's time to fly.

This morning I received a letter of acceptance from a very reputable flight academy. They are aware of my age, and the financial position of someone who has spent fifteen years teaching public school. But they also know passion when they see it. And they have a financial aid office that will work with me through the program. It has been a long time since I have been a student, but I feel I am ready. It's time.

Please do not take any of this personally. Know that I am doing what I love, what I have always wanted to do, what life intended for me. You are all very special to me, and I will see you in the sky. Good luck in the fifth grade.