DAN AND AMY ARE MY FRIENDS IN MINNEAPOLIS. I DIED WHILE AT A TEMPLE IN KOREA FROM INSANITY (YOU WERE A COMIC BOOK NERD SUPPORTING MY RISE TO POWER AFTER THE APOCALYPSE. PEOPLE WANTED COMIC BOOK CHARACTERS TO COME ALIVE IN MY WORLD. I WAS WEAK. YOU WERE SUPPORT.) I FOUND THE INTER-NET RECORDS IN THE AIR, AND YOU, HAVING SUCH A FINE UNDERSTANDING OF WHAT THE WORLD WIDE WEB IS, SAVED ME. MY INTER-NET LIFE WAS SPARED.
I don’t know when I’m allowed to put in my headphones. I’ve done it twice now. Put them in, hit play, laid back, and then the stewardess starts making hand motions. The lights haven’t turned off. The plane isn’t moving. No electronic devices please. No headphones.
At least I’m alone. No one next to me to watch me struggle under the constant barrage of unfamiliar rules. I can squeak and squirm all I want. No apologies. The stewardess has walked off again. The plane is humming. Moving now. Surely. Headphones. Yes. Headphones. As long as I don’t focus too much on whys and hows.
Can’t let my mind settle there. Not the airplane itself, I mean. I’ve done those. I’m cool with man’s dominance of the physical world. It’s humbling and triumphant. A fat stupid metal bird lurching into the sky. No. The part I can’t think too hard on is Chicago, or her name, or the fountain, or the shoelaces dragging on the ground. It doesn’t matter, anyhow. In seventy two hours I’ll be home and life will move on.
The plane settles itself in the air and my gut sags. It’s less than an hour to O’Hare and then I guess a train ride into the city. I haven’t really thought very far into it. I didn’t have time. I bought the ticket on Wednesday, worked all day yesterday and grabbed the 28X out to airport this morning. I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving. I didn’t even get in touch with the few friends I have living out in Chicago. I’m on my way. That’s it. For a man who’s never spent an ounce of time considering an act of faith… Turn up the volume and stare out the window. The Ohio interstate spirals off in all directions. From this high, it looks like a future people trying to repopulate a landfill. Green around the edges.
It seemed like a thing to do. I had the days off work and it’s still too cold to kill time smoking joints in the alley. The ticket was only $97 and it’s March—if I can’t find somewhere to stay in the city of Chicago when nothing is going on outside of the permafrost thawing, I’m screwed anyway. I could always call Hilary if things fall through, I guess. She lives up north somewhere. How do I answer the obvious question? That I flew out here to meet a girl I met in a dream? She’ll punch me in the fucking dick.
I don’t dream. At least, hadn’t, up until this point. I read somewhere that I had to be dreaming, that everyone dreams, but it’s the memory part that gets in the way. It seemed logical. If I can’t remember anything while I’m awake, why on earth would I be able to remember my dreams? But I remembered her.
The stewardess stops by with the drink cart. For an hour-long flight. Because of the time-zone change, I arrive at the same time I left Pittsburgh. The coffee tastes like it’s already been digested once, but it’s a nice gesture. They could have withheld beverages and I would have been none the wiser.
It’s a strange world, up here in the sky. A world that exists without you knowing about it. All this free air up here not being put to good use. A nice place to live a different life, I’d imagine. An unknown life, sitting around the clouds.
It’s in the afternoon. In the dream. And I’m surrounded by skyscrapers. There’s a fountain. A giant fountain set off down the street. The sun has burst and it reflects around the wet steel and glass of the thawing city. Fuck, I think there were even birds flying through the air. Like a movie. And she walked towards me from the fountain through the crowds of Midwesterners milling around the square. She was—is? young. Her dark hair was unkempt. She slouched, just slightly, and her shoelaces dragged across the ground. Her eyes—distortion or otherwise; she was coming for me. An answer pursed on her lips.
I don’t know. It’s burned in there. I saw the same thirty seconds over and over again. Her walking towards me. Every early morning for two weeks straight. I don’t remember to buy toilet paper until I’m peeling apart 2-ply paper towels, but I remember every second of it. I found the buildings and the fountain—Buckingham Fountain—on Google Maps. I don’t really know what the plan is. I have a book. Tentatively… sit there. Until the light is right. Or until dark. Jesus christ. That’s really my plan.
The overhead light dings on. Headphones off. Coming in for a landing. The world gets larger outside the window. Rises up at the plane at a speed that seems impossible. It’s Friday, 11:00am central time. Her name is Diana and she’s waiting for me by the fountain, and by Sunday, this will be done.
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