“Late For Work”
© 1989, 2007, Paul Berge
He glanced at his watch--the third time he’d done so since leaving the house. The car was pointed toward the freeway into the sun that was peeking over the trees between the new leaves. And then, for reasons unknown to this day, Mike turned at the AIRPORT sign. He knew it was wrong.
Dew from the grass collected on his shoes. The windsock over the first hangar hung limp, guarded by a sparrow hawk perched on top. It seemed to be meditating as it watched the sun rise. Mike reached for the tie-down rope and untying it, let it fall into the damp grass.
A quick preflight, and he opened the Cessna 140’s door to climb inside. He flicked the master switch on, heard the familiar clunk and turned the mag switch to BOTH.
“Clear!” he called to the dawn and pierced it by pulling the starter handle. Through the prop blast that pushed the dew up the windshield, he looked to the windsock, but the hawk didn’t flinch from its za-zen gaze. Oil pressure rose, and the engine warmed on the taxi to the end of the runway.
Pink sunlight flooded the runway, and Mike centered the airplane’s nose on the long strip between the newly emerging corn. His hands ran through a familiar last chance, pre-takeoff check: Controls free, mag switch on BOTH; fuel on; mixture rich; carb heat cold.
And when he inched the throttle forward the airplane shook, and cool air blew through the open side window. Rolling across the uneven surface, the tail wheel bounced in the ruts, the sound oil-drummed through the fuselage, and then, wheels left the ground as though they’d abandoned any respect for Earth’s gravity.
For several minutes it was all there: The sunrise, the calm air, the sky and the feeling that no matter how mundane the rest of the day tried to be—and often succeeded--Mike had started above it all.
His approach was smooth. The wheels touched in gentle rumbles, and he stuck his face through the side window just to watch the tires kick the dew in silver rooster tails.
Back in the car and returning to the freeway past the AIRPORT sign, he studied the resigned commuting faces in the cars around him, removed his watch and was glad he was late for work. Again.
The End
© Paul Berge 1989, 2007
Please contact Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC for reprint permission: www.ailerona.com
© 1989, 2007, Paul Berge
He glanced at his watch--the third time he’d done so since leaving the house. The car was pointed toward the freeway into the sun that was peeking over the trees between the new leaves. And then, for reasons unknown to this day, Mike turned at the AIRPORT sign. He knew it was wrong.
Dew from the grass collected on his shoes. The windsock over the first hangar hung limp, guarded by a sparrow hawk perched on top. It seemed to be meditating as it watched the sun rise. Mike reached for the tie-down rope and untying it, let it fall into the damp grass.
A quick preflight, and he opened the Cessna 140’s door to climb inside. He flicked the master switch on, heard the familiar clunk and turned the mag switch to BOTH.
“Clear!” he called to the dawn and pierced it by pulling the starter handle. Through the prop blast that pushed the dew up the windshield, he looked to the windsock, but the hawk didn’t flinch from its za-zen gaze. Oil pressure rose, and the engine warmed on the taxi to the end of the runway.
Pink sunlight flooded the runway, and Mike centered the airplane’s nose on the long strip between the newly emerging corn. His hands ran through a familiar last chance, pre-takeoff check: Controls free, mag switch on BOTH; fuel on; mixture rich; carb heat cold.
And when he inched the throttle forward the airplane shook, and cool air blew through the open side window. Rolling across the uneven surface, the tail wheel bounced in the ruts, the sound oil-drummed through the fuselage, and then, wheels left the ground as though they’d abandoned any respect for Earth’s gravity.
For several minutes it was all there: The sunrise, the calm air, the sky and the feeling that no matter how mundane the rest of the day tried to be—and often succeeded--Mike had started above it all.
His approach was smooth. The wheels touched in gentle rumbles, and he stuck his face through the side window just to watch the tires kick the dew in silver rooster tails.
Back in the car and returning to the freeway past the AIRPORT sign, he studied the resigned commuting faces in the cars around him, removed his watch and was glad he was late for work. Again.
The End
© Paul Berge 1989, 2007
Please contact Ahquabi House Publishing, LLC for reprint permission: www.ailerona.com
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