Sherman Alexie - Flight

“Now you’re lying,” I say.

“I wish I were lying,” Abbad says. “But no, he told me to wait a minute while he grabbed some paperwork. Then he went into the back room and came out with a shotgun. He called me a sand nigger and said he was going to blow off my head if I didn’t get the fuck out of his place of business.”

Abbad laughs.

“You Americans love capitalism so much,” he says. “That man didn’t tell me to get out of his house, or out of his life. He didn’t tell me to go to hell or back to Africa or back to wherever he thought I came from. No, he told me to get out of his place of business. Business! That’s all he could think about.”

Abbad laughs.

What kind of man can laugh at such a horrible story? A kind and funny and forgiving man.

“So, Jimmy, now tell me the truth. You thought I was a terrorist, didn’t you?”

I laugh.

“You did, didn’t you?” Abbad asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Maybe I was a little worried about you.”

“Ha, see, I knew it,” Abbad says, and laughs. He rocks back and forth in his seat. The small plane bounces. Abbad is happy turbulence.

“And now? What do you think now?” Abbad asks.

“I think you’re an asshole,” I say.

Abbad laughs even louder. He laughs so hard that he chokes. Coughing and choking, he keeps laughing. I laugh with him.

We are friends.

And then Abbad is gone. His memory fades away. And I am alone in the airplane again.

I can fall so far inside a person, inside his memories, that I can play them like a movie.

And I can feel the pilot’s emotions. He misses Abbad. Misses him very much. I can feel his heartbreak.

Jimmy’s hands work the controls, switching buttons, flipping switches, guiding the plane from left to right across the sky. I guess that pilots call it port and starboard, but I call it left and right. It’s all I know. But it doesn’t matter that I’m a flying moron. I have nothing to do with this. I am a spectator.

And that’s okay. I can relax and enjoy the flight.

This is not Heaven, after all, but it feels great to fly. Jimmy is not afraid of flying, so I’m not afraid. I have borrowed his courage and joy, as well as his sadness and regret.

And I feel the joy and sadness in equal parts as Jimmy floats the plane lower and lower toward a small airport. I see the airport in the distance. Landing lights, control tower, terminal, hangar. All is gold and green.

Jimmy smiles as the plane touches down. I understand that he never takes flight for granted. He is always happy to fly and happier to land safely.

He taxies the plane into the hangar and shuts it down.

He opens the door, steps out onto the wing, and jumps down onto the floor. He walks over to a large sink, fills a bucket with soap and water, and begins to wash his airplane.

He does this with great care, even affection.

As he washes each airplane part, he says its name aloud: stabilizer, rudder, lift, wing, elevator, aileron, spoiler, slat, wheel.

I remember my mother naming my parts as she bathed me. How could I remember that? I was just a baby. She had to wash me in a tub that sat on the kitchen table. Do I really remember that? Or am I pretending to remember it?

As Jimmy washes his plane, he again remembers Abbad. And as he remembers, Abbad appears again. Also carrying a bucket and sponge.

“Jimmy, you are a fool,” Abbad says. “You have a beautiful wife at home and you spend all your time with your airplane.”

“My airplane is more dependable,” Jimmy says.

“Ah, you Americans, you let your wives control your destiny. That is not our way.”

“You’re full of it, Abbad. You might think you control your women, but it’s always the other way around. Muslim women just have to be craftier. They can’t say they’re in charge, but they’re in charge.”

“No. My wife knows that I wear the big pants in our family.”

“You mean you wear the pants.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said big pants. They’re just pants.”

“I don’t understand.”

Abbad’s English is nearly perfect, better than most native speakers, but he doesn’t know how to use clichés.

Abbad shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense,” he says. “How can you be the king if you don’t have big pants?”

“Forget it,” Jimmy says.

“I don’t forget anything,” Abbad says. And he says it so seriously that it makes Jimmy laugh.

It makes me laugh.

And then Abbad’s cell phone rings. He looks at the caller ID.

“It’s my wife,” he says.

“Aren’t you going to talk to her?”

“No, she’s still mad at me because I forgot to bring home milk last night.”

Abbad stares at the caller ID for a moment, then he smiles. And laughs.

Jimmy laughs, too.

“I guess I am the king of milk,” Abbad says.

The men laugh harder. The laughter echoes in the hangar. And then it fades away.

Abbad fades away.

Jimmy is alone again with his airplane.

No, he’s not alone.

“Hello, Jimmy.” A woman’s voice.

She’s standing in a nearby doorway. She wears a T-shirt and blue jeans. She’s young, maybe twenty. Red hair, green eyes. And she’s pretty. Very short and very curvy. Cheerleader curvy.

I hope this is Jimmy’s wife. And I wonder why he wants to spend more time with his airplane than he does with this woman.

“Hello, Helda,” he says.

Helda! Her name is Helda? How does a beautiful girl get such an ugly name? Her parents must have been cruel and cold people.

“How was it up there today?” she asks.

“Beautiful. I could see for miles and miles,” he says. “You should let me take you up.”

“No way,” she says. “You know I hate flying.”

“You’ll get over it,” Jimmy says. I can feel his impatience with her. He wants her to love flying as much as he does.

“Are you hungry?” Helda asks.

I can’t believe her name is Helda.

“I could eat,” he says.

“Good, I brought a little picnic.”

Jimmy walks into the office. She’s laid out a feast on a blanket on the floor. Bread, fruit, fried chicken, wine. Wow, this woman is romantic. She’s trying to woo Jimmy. Oh, that’s so cute. Their marriage must be fragile. Married people only have picnics when their marriages are in trouble. I read that somewhere. But Jimmy is touched by this. I can feel his happiness. It makes me happy.

“Have a seat,” she says.

Jimmy sits on the floor. He grabs a piece of fried chicken, a leg, and takes a bite. It’s a little dry. So, okay, Helda isn’t much of a cook. But that’s okay. That’s perfectly okay. Because she turns on a CD player and starts dancing.

She dances for Jimmy! Dances for me!

This has never happened to me before. And from the way that Jimmy feels, I don’t think it’s happened to him before either.

And that’s sad. You’d think some beautiful woman would have danced for Jimmy before today.

But who’s to judge? Helda dances for Jimmy now. She sexes their marriage. And I’m getting to enjoy a little bit of that sex.

I wonder if Helda will take off her clothes.

And then I hear another woman’s voice. Or, rather, I hear a choked sob.

I turn to see another woman standing in the doorway. She’s older, gray-haired, a little bit pretty and a little bit chubby. Her brown eyes are huge. Her knees buckle. But she catches her balance, puts a hand against the doorjamb for support, and covers her mouth. She sobs.

Then she turns and runs away.

“Who was that?” Helda asks.

“My wife,” Jimmy says.

OKAY, SO I GUESS that Jimmy the pilot is a dirty liar and a cheat.