Tom Hanks - Uncommon Type - Some Stories

“Ready?” Mr. Garcia shouted. Kenny nodded. His mother flashed another thumbs-up. She reached forward and rubbed her son’s head. If she said something, Kenny did not hear her, but he could see her large grin.

As the plane sped up and the noise got louder, a feeling came over Kenny that he had never, ever had before. They were moving faster and faster and then lifting up, making his stomach go down but the top of his head feel like it was rising. The ground quickly got smaller; soon the streets and houses and cars no longer looked real. Kenny turned to look out the side window. The wing of the plane blocked his view, so he leaned forward to see the earth and sky in front of the plane.

He saw the buildings downtown and recognized what had once been his world: the Tower Theatre and the grid of the streets, the Old Fort—Sutter’s Mill, it was called, where gold was discovered in pioneer days—and there was the Leamington Hotel. He could read the sign.

Kenny’s first flight in an airplane was the most amazing event of his life. His head seemed to fill up with air and his breath went short. The sun was brighter than it had ever been before, and Kenny was glad he had dark glasses. When Mr. Garcia turned the plane by dipping the wings to the left, the vast delta area of the river took up the view. There were islands down there, separated by twisted waterways and dikes. Right next to the town where Kenny was born lived farmers who needed a boat to get to town. Kenny had no idea!

“That’s what the Mekong looks like!” Mr. Garcia shouted. He was pointing out the window. Kenny nodded out of habit, not sure if he was expected to say something. “That’s the bargain you make with Uncle Sam! He teaches you to fly then sends you bird-dogging in Vietnam!”

Kenny knew about Vietnam because the war was on Channel 12 from Chico. What a Mekong was, he had no idea.

They flew southwest, ascending so high in the sky the cars and trucks on the highways looked like they were barely moving. The waters of the river grew wide and changed hue when they met the salt water of San Francisco Bay. Ships were down in the wide river, big ships that now looked like the toy models Kenny played with on the coffee table. When Mr. Garcia dipped the wings again, Kenny’s tummy went floppy, but just for a moment.

Now they were flying north. Mr. Garcia slid half of his headset off one of his ears. “I need you to fly for a few minutes, Kenny,” he said loudly.

“I don’t know how to fly a plane!” Kenny looked at Mr. Garcia as if he were a crazy person.

“Can you imagine driving a car?”

“Yes.”

“Take hold of the yoke,” Mr. Garcia said. The yoke was half steering wheel, half handlebars. Kenny had to sit up straight to reach the handles. “The plane will go where you point it. Pull back some and get the feel of the stick.”

Kenny used more muscle than he thought he had and, sure enough, the yoke came back toward him. As it did, the sky filled the front window and the engine slowed.

“See?” Mr. Garcia said. “Now level off just as easy.”

The grown man had his hand on his flight controls, but let Kenny do the work of pushing the nose of the plane back down. The earth below took up some of the window again.

“Can I turn?” Kenny yelled.

“You’re the pilot,” Mr. Garcia said.

Very, very carefully, Kenny turned the handlebar-yoke to the right, and the plane tipped ever so slightly. Kenny could feel the change in direction. He reversed his piloting motion and felt the plane ease back.

“If you were a little taller,” Mr. Garcia said, “I’d let you work the rudder, but you can’t reach the pedals. Maybe in a year. Next year.”

Kenny imagined himself, at age eleven, flying the Comanche all by himself with his mom in the backseat.

“What I need you to do now is, see Mount Shasta up ahead?” Shasta, the massive volcano that loomed over the valley up north, was forever covered with snow. On clear days in Iron Bend the mountain looked like an enormous painting off in the distance. From Kenny’s seat in the front of the airplane, Shasta was a triangle of white, poking up over the horizon. “Fly directly at it, okay?”

“Okay!” Kenny set his eyes on the mountain and tried to keep the nose of the plane smack on target while Mr. Garcia pulled some papers out of the side of his seat and a ballpoint pen from his pocket. He wrote some things down, then studied a map. Kenny wasn’t sure how much time went by as he flew the plane straight and true, it could have been a few minutes or most of the flight home, but he never let the plane stray. More of Mount Shasta was visible by the time Mr. Garcia folded up the map and clicked his pen closed.

“Atta boy, Kenny,” he said as he took over the yoke. “You have the makings of a pilot.”

“Good job, honey!” his mom called from the back of the plane. When Kenny looked over his shoulder, her smile was nearly as big as the one on his face.

Looking out the window, Kenny saw the lanes of the highway that led straight up the valley through towns like Willows and Orland leading to Iron Bend and beyond. Just two days ago he and his mom had been down below on that highway. Now, he was miles above it.

After Kenny had flown the plane he had to pop his ears, yawning widely and blowing his nose with his mouth closed. It didn’t hurt. The plane was descending, the engine sounding louder as the ground grew closer and the landmarks of Iron Bend showed themselves. There was the logging yard south of town, then the two motels off the highway, the old grain silos that held no grain, and the parking lot of the Shopping Plaza with the Montgomery Ward. Kenny had never been told there was an airport in Iron Bend, but there it was, beyond the Union High football field.

The plane jiggled and shook as Mr. Garcia came in for the landing. He did something to the engine that made it go soft and nearly silent just before the wheels squeech ed on the concrete runway. He drove the airplane like a car and came to a stop a few feet from where other planes were parked. When he shut the engine off, the propeller kept going around a few times until seizing up with a jerk. Without the engine, the quiet was odd, making the unclicking of the seat belts sound crisply clear, like something from a movie at the State Theater.

“Cheated death again,” Mr. Garcia said without having to shout.

“Honestly,” said Kenny’s mom. “Do you have to put it that way?”

Mr. Garcia laughed, leaned back, and kissed her on the cheek.

The airport had a very small coffee shop. There were no customers and, it appeared, no staff. Kenny, still wearing his dark pilot glasses, sat at a table, the pink suitcase on the floor at his feet while his mom put coins into a pay phone on the wall. She dialed, waited, then hung up and put the same coins back into the phone. She dialed another number before she was able to talk to anyone.

“Well, the line was busy,” she said into the phone. “Can you come get him? Because we have to get back. How long? All right.” She hung up and came over to the bench. “Your dad is coming from work to pick you up. Let’s see if there’s some hot cocoa for you and coffee for me.”

Kenny could see through the glass coffee shop door into the office of the airport. Mr. Garcia—still wearing his dark glasses, too—was talking to a man who was sitting at a desk. Kenny heard a loud whirring noise that turned out to be a machine that made hot chocolate. When his mom brought it to him in a Styrofoam cup, one sip told Kenny the cocoa was too watery. He didn’t finish it.

His dad came, driving the station wagon. He left the motor running as he got out of the car, wearing his cook’s pants and heavy shoes. He shook hands with Mr. Garcia, said a few words to Kenny’s mom, then picked up the small pink suitcase and carried it out to the car.