Benicio opens up the cockpit and watches me climb out.
“Trust me, nothing’s gonna happen. In about three minutes, I’ll be hundreds of miles away. There’ll be a story in your local paper. Maybe a fuzzy video or photo taken with a cell phone. Probably not even that. And no one will believe it.”
He’s dreaming. A flying craft the size of a fighter plane just dropped me off in a public park! The story has to be bigger than that.
But Benicio seems pretty confident. “Trust me, cuz. I’ve done this many times. And I’m guessing so have our friends in the NRO.”
As the window closes, Benicio takes one last look around. “You’re a lucky guy to live here. I sure hope you realize what you’ve got.”
“Ek Naab isn’t exactly a dump.”
“Small horizons, my friend. Sometimes I think it would be nice to live in the outside world.”
With that, the window seals. Benicio grins, does a mock salute, then raises the Muwan slowly over the trees.
And with a sudden whoosh of air being sucked upward, he’s gone.
I tighten the scarf, zip my jacket, check my watch. It’s only six a.m. Still buzzing from the rush, I walk out of the park.
Practically floating.
BLOG ENTRY: BLUE IN GREEN
I’ve had the dream every night this week. By now I’m pretty exhausted. Here’s how it goes.
On a hot, sunny day, I’m taking a stroll. I don’t recognize the street, but something tells me that I should. Then I realize something strange: there are no cars. I’m walking, then I notice I’m barefoot. The asphalt is warm, feels good on the soles of my feet. The sky is a deep powder blue. Not a cloud in sight. Every yard I pass is filled with rosemary and lavender—the air is thick with the smell. I notice grapevines and fig trees, all with plump green leaves. I’m just beginning to wonder where I’m going when I see my house. That’s when it hits me that I’m on my own street.
The door to my house is open, swinging gently on the hinges. There’s no one in sight. It feels eerie; there’s always someone hanging around in this neighborhood. Today it’s just me.
The door blows open, inviting me in. I hear music playing faintly. Miles Davis—a tune from Kind of Blue.
And my heart picks up a beat.
I wander into the kitchen. It’s all been cleared, no food in sight. The fridge door too—none of the usual papers or my fading artwork from third grade. There’s just one postcard.
There’s a noise behind me. I spin around and nearly faint. He walks through the kitchen door. It’s him—my dad.
He’s so tall, so alive. Tan, a picture of health, wearing his usual checked shirt and cords, dark hair slicked back with gel. Watching him standing casually in our kitchen, as though he’d just dropped in from the college, I can hardly breathe.
Dad doesn’t look at me, just reaches for the fridge door.
“Hey, son. Do you ever feel like you forgot something? A little thing? I do it all the time—overlook things. Detail, that’s the name of the game. But then, you’ve already begun.”
That’s all he says. He pours himself a glass of milk.
Maybe I finally manage to mumble something, I can’t remember. Whatever I say, he gives me a quizzical look. “Where’ve I been? Well, yeah. Been meaning to talk to you about that.”
He takes my arm. “Listen, son, your mother and I, we’ve had some problems. This is how it goes between grown-ups sometimes. You know?”
I shake his hand away. “I don’t know.” Mouth dry, I tell him, “I thought you were dead.”
Dad looks disappointed. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“What?!”
“The whole death thing. Not my idea.”
He shakes his head now, looking annoyed.
“Then whose?”
“Your mother’s.”
“And you agreed?”
He pauses, hands on hips. “Yeah.”
I stagger, lean back on the kitchen counter for support.
“You and Mom … decided to make me think you were dead?”
“She decided.”
“What?!”
He says nothing for a while, just stares at me as though wondering what to do next. “I guess so, son. Like I said, I’m sorry. I was in Mexico.”
Now I’m starting to feel furious, betrayed.
“You were in Mexico? Why didn’t you call? One lousy phone call? You left me thinking you died?”
His eyes fill with sorrow. I’m totally confused, not to mention upset. What kind of parents would deceive their child like that? And how the heck did he engineer that plane crash?
Then (always then), the dream ends; I wake up.
The first few times, it feels so real that I wake up in actual tears, sobbing.