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J.S. Kierland

Unscheduled Flights

The roofs on city tenements are always flat. They’re made that way so you can lie on them during hot summer nights, gaze up at the stars, and take off into a sky that burns brighter than the fires on old men's birthday cakes. These unscheduled flights rush into Earth's orbit, push through space, zip across the Milky Way, and burst through nebulae and moon paths. They make a wide bend on the far side of Jupiter and return to Earth in time for the new sunrise.

The man lying near the edge of the roof has taken these flights for years. He started his space travel off small docks on the Finger Lakes, flew from low straw roofs in Saigon during the Vietnamese War, and now takes his departures from tenements along the East Coast.

He appeared amply fueled for tonight's trip, by the looks of the empty Jack Daniels bottle lying next to him, and was ready for takeoff. Eyes wide, hands on chest, lower body relaxed and ready for that sudden thrust that would hurtle him up into the stars. Mental runways cleared, body at ease, and all systems focused on the simple thought of traveling upward into the night sky. Of course, any interruption in the immediate area would automatically cancel all flights.

Unfortunately, the barefoot boy struggling to open the roof's heavy metal door must be considered an interruption, even though he had no intention of intruding on the old man's flight when he squeezed out onto the roof. Even worse, in his excitement, he ran to the shiny object with the paintbrushes around it, reached out, touched it, and yelled, “It's dry!” The man lying in takeoff position heard the kid shout, turned to see who it was, and his flight was immediately canceled.

“That you, Joey?” the man asked, rolling to his knees.

“I didn't know you were still up here, Eli.”

“Did you get to talk with your dad?”

The kid shook his head and said, “They only let him use the phone at the prison a few times a week. I guess we’ll go up to see him this weekend, but they don't allow kids under 12 to go in.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Did you come up to check on the paint?”

“No, I just wanted to catch the spectacular view,” Eli said. He waited until the boy glanced up to where he pointed, and the man slid the empty whiskey bottle into the deep shadows along the edge of the roof with his foot. “It's too hot to sleep downstairs on nights like this. There's no air.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. And you sure were right about this paint, too” the kid said, running his hand across the long, smooth, painted object.

“Next few days…she’ll be ready to go,” Eli said.

“She looks pretty good right now,” the kid insisted.

“You can't hurry these things, Joey. Lots of details have to be worked out,” he said, limping over to wipe a smudge off the narrow windshield with his sleeve. “She's the best damn rocket ship I've ever seen. Once you give her a name we can start a log and begin flight testing.”

“Can we name her after my Mom?”

“Great idea. We’ll call her THE LUCY. I’ll pick up the letters first thing in the morning,” he said, helping the kid roll the wooden rocket ship out into the moonlight so they could look at her from both sides.

Her thick silver paint had dried, and the brass studs holding the black vinyl seat covers gleamed under the thin light of the crescent moon. Its bent plywood glimmered, and the silver tail curved back into the shadows. They had built her with matching aluminum shafts for strength, added a longer middle bar, and attached wheels soaked in thin summer oil to keep them quiet and fast. The old man found a picture of an instrument panel in an advertisement and pasted it across the dashboard, fitting it snugly under a steering wheel they had taken off an abandoned baby carriage.

“You ready to fly her?” Eli asked.

“I sure am,” the kid answered.

“We’ll need tubing and some sun filters for that first mission. Venus isn't going to hang around and wait for us. Everything moves out there. Nothing stops. Not ever.”

“Are filters hard to find?”

“I've got a line on some,” the old man said. “I’ll pick them up when I get the letters for her name.”

The kid climbed into the cockpit in his pajamas to test the wrapped steering wheel they’d covered with the leftover vinyl from the seat covers.

“How's she feel?”

“Okay, I guess. The seat is sort of hard though.”

“We’ll take care of that. How's she steer?”

“Great,” the kid said. “Feels like she wants to fly.”

“She's designed that way, but won't take off until she's checked out and ready.”

“When will that be?”

“In the next few days. She’ll be all set for the Venus Transit. That's when Venus creeps across the sun in full daylight. You can get the feel of how she runs then.”

“That makes me the test pilot.”

Eli laughed and said, “You’re the only one who can fit in there.”

“I know. It makes me feel special,” the kid said, turning the wheel in a sharp banking maneuver. “But you can fly her too, Eli. Anytime you want.”

“Thanks, but it's my job to teach you how to fly. I had to learn by myself.”

“Was it hard?”

“Doing anything by yourself takes longer...and it's a lot lonelier,” Eli said, looking up at the stars.

“Did you teach your son Junior how to fly too?”

“Junior? Sure, sure. Long ago when we lived up State. He wasn't as good as you though, Joey.“

“Yeah, I'm awesome, I guess.”

The man smiled at the kid's assessment, and said, “We've got a perfect sky tonight. You can see out past the moon to Jupiter and Venus.”

“To the Cat's Eye?”

“Hey…not quite that far.”

“She’ll go that far though. An I’ll take her back through the Milky Way past Saturn…my favorite.”

“We’re in perfect position for that tonight.”

I know. “I already mapped it,” the kid said, pulling out a crumbled piece of paper with crossing lines and bearings on it. “All I have to do is go.”

“Right, but each person has his own way of doing that. You’re lucky. You've got a rocket ship. It’ll help you stay focused. The rest is about getting started and knowing where you’re headed. That's the hardest part.”

The kid nodded and stared at the advertisement for the latest Cadillac instrument panel they had pasted under the wheel. Eli smiled and said, “What you’re doing is good. But the trick is to look up at where you want to go. It's out there, Joey. Out there!”

Joey looked up at where Eli pointed and the star fires spun and expanded over him. His eyes widened and his little hands squeezed the rocket ship's makeshift steering wheel. “It's like I'm lifting off right now,” he yelled into the night sky. “It feels like I'm flying, Eli!”

The old man leaned in closer, waving his bony hands in the moonlight, directing the boy. “Just bank her easy and she’ll come back on a straight line,” he said. “If you have any trouble just hit that red button on your right and she’ll make the turn by herself and come in on automatic.”

“Okay, here I go.”

“Joey,” a voice called from behind them. “What are you doing up here? Why aren't you in bed?”

The sound startled the boy and he let go of the steering wheel, turned toward the voice, and his first unscheduled flight was automatically canceled before he even left the Earth's orbit. There was a long uncertain moment, until he yelled, “I just flew the rocket ship, Ma. I'm an astronaut! I went up over the city and looked down into the streets. Eli helped me land her.”

The slim, half-dressed woman pulled at her nightgown and stared at the little boy and the old man. “This isn't playtime, Joey. You’re supposed to be in bed asleep.”

“He's just excited about his new rocket ship, ma'am.”

“We’re naming it after you, Ma, and in a few days I’ll fly out and watch Venus crawl across the sun.”

The woman nodded patiently and said, “You better get back to bed, now Joey. It's what your — ”

“It's too hot to sleep down there. There's no air,” the boy said.

“Do what your Mom tells you, Joey. Astronauts need their sleep. You shouldn't be flying in your pajamas anyway.” The kid groaned, threw down his space map, and headed for the heavy metal door that went down to the apartments below. “I’ll stow the ship for you,” Eli said, but Joey had already disappeared.

The two people on the roof stared at each other, and the woman asked in a low restrained voice, “What’re you doing, Eli?”

“He's just excited about the rocket ship. Once we get some numbers and decals on her she’ll be all set to go.”

“Go where, Eli?” The old man stared back at her, trying to figure out why she kept asking him questions. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said, “A grown man playing games with a little boy.”

“The rocket ship's just a tool to teach him about space and what's out there,” he answered. “Joey gets all excited about that. He wants to take his rocket ship to school and show the other kids.”

“What’re you talking about?” she asked, moving toward him and accidentally kicking something in the shadows. The hip-shaped Jack Daniel's bottle skittered out into the thin milky moonlight between them.

“Is that your rocket ship, Eli? That's not what I want for Joey.”

“His rocket ship is different, ma'am.”

“No it's not. And it's not going to be. Joey and I can't afford your kind of space travel. We're all we've got. There's no room for this kind of stuff in our lives.” She stepped over the empty bottle and said, “First thing tomorrow, I'm telling your son Junior what's going on up here, and if he doesn't do something about it I will.”

“Joey's a bright boy,” Eli said quickly, trying to head her off. “He knows the universe like the back of his hand. Better than anyone I've ever seen. He's a natural. That whole thing out there is part of him and he's part of it. They go together.”

“There are too many things between here and out there and here,” she said, her voice running the rooftops. “Important things. Joey doesn't need that pile of junk.”

“I can explain about the—“

“I don't need anyone explaining things to me,” she snapped, cutting him off and skirting the wooden rocket ship lying in her way.

“Just give him some time, ma'am. Let him be a kid,” he said, staring back into her eyes.

“I'm his mother! I know what he needs…and the last thing Joey needs is nonsense like this,” she said, kicking the wooden rocket ship. “You can't get there from here. You just keep thrashing around in your Vietnamese jungle and stay the hell away from my son.” The slam of the roof's heavy door ended it.

Eli stood alone in the shadows, and the erratic sounds of the city traffic drifted up from below. His son would give him another lecture and send him off to his daughter's place in the Carolinas. It was almost time for that again anyway. Another cramped apartment, six packs, old luggage, and talk without talking.

His body ached, and he wasn't sure where he was. The hot humid air seemed to close in around him and he picked the wooden rocket ship and cradled it in his arms. He shifted the uneven weight in his arms and smelled its summer oil and fresh paint. The bulky rocket ship made him hang in the hot night air like an odd, clumsy image stumbling over the roof. He stopped for a moment to pick up the kid's crude map. It was a perfect night to go to Saturn or the Cat's Eye, and he stepped out towards the planets, squeezing the wooden rocket ship in his arms.

Nothing moved on the empty roof. Even the city traffic seemed to fade into the sudden quiet. The night sky glittered and spun in the long silence, and the roof's metal door began to push open again. The barefooted boy won the struggle and hopped out on to the roof with a pillow in his hand. “I got something for the seat,” he said, looking around the empty roof. Only the stark silence answered him. He stared down at the paint cans, the brushes, and at the empty spot where the rocket ship had been.

“Eli, you did it! You did it! You took her all the way to the Cat's Eye! Eli, Eli,” he yelled up at the stars, and waved his pillow at the crescent moon.

 

J.S. Kierland is a graduate of The University of Connecticut and the Yale Drama School, and was the resident playwright at Brandeis University and Lincoln Center. He has published various short stories in Playboy, Muse & Stone, International Short Story, The Oracle, and The Bryant Review, among others.