Flight

Another blast from the past.  An extremely short story I wrote a hell-of-a-long-time ago. Enjoy.

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            If I told you I knew how to fly, what would you think?  You’d think I was crazy, wouldn’t you?  Yet I’m not, or I don’t think I am, which comes out to the same thing for me.

How did I learn to fly, I hear you asking.  The same way you learn anything complicated – somebody else teaches you how to do it.  I’d been back for a few months from my most recent trip overseas when I started hearing stories of the theft of plants kept on balconies and the appearance of incomprehensible graffiti on inaccessibly high areas.  Either one could have had reasonable explanations but there were also rumours about a flying man seen darting away from the scene of the incidents.  Curiosity made me wonder if these stories were true.  My foreign adventure had left me flush with cash and I was not yet desperate enough to look for employment, so I decided to investigate.  The flying person seemed to favour residential buildings with fair but not excessive lighting (perhaps to make his work more visible while limiting the chances of detection during his work) and they were grouped mostly in a certain area.  I made a list of likely targets and waited.

Two weeks later, as I sat in a doorway watching the street lights hit the blank wall of the building opposite me I saw him.  He swooped down from the sky and started spraying something.  P…  A… R… W… A… Z… hyphen… I.  Parwaz-i?

When he finished he looked at it for a moment and then flew quickly down the street.  I ran after the flying man but he rapidly outpaced me.  Just when I thought I’d lost my quarry he darted into the open window of an apartment building.  I spent a few seconds catching my breath and noted the exact position of the window.  It was on the fourth floor, second from the left.

I knocked on his door.  There were some footsteps on the other side and the door opened to reveal a short Indian man.  “Yes?”

It was then that I realized I had no idea what to say. “I, uh, I, your window… the building – I mean, flying…”

I was rambling.  I kept rambling until enough of my story had gotten through to him and he grudgingly let me inside.  It was quite small and had only a few bits of cheap furniture, but scattered throughout were fine examples of Hindu devotional art.  The most impressive piece was a statue of Ganesh on a corner table.  It was quite exquisitely detailed and looked to be well cared for.

His name was Jahanbin – it used to be Bitana but he didn’t like the negative connotations.  He laughed then, like he’d just made a joke.  I didn’t get it but gave a polite chuckle anyway.

“Please,” I begged him.  “How do you do it?  What is the secret of flight?  How did you discover it?”

Jahanbin smiled at my outburst.  “Oh, that.  It’s actually quite simple.  I was walking along one day thinking about a particular subject when I tripped.  I fell, but for the briefest of moments I felt like I was flying.  I wanted to be sure so I recreated everything, how I walked, what I was looking at, even what I was thinking.  Sure enough, I felt the same sensation of flight.  I kept redoing it until I could fly for a few seconds, then started experimenting to see what it was that made me fly.  Turns out it was what I was thinking, which is a bit strange since the thought wasn’t that unusual – you’d think somebody else would have flown by now.”

“And what was it?  What was the thought?”  I was becoming quite agitated then and when that happens I start hyperventilating.  I sat down and put my head between my legs and tried to calm down.

“Are you all right?” asked Jahanbin with superficial concern.

“The thought,” I implored him.  “Please.”

“Ah, well, like I said, it’s really quite simple.  It’s –“

He stopped and looked appraisingly at me.  It was apparent he was having second thoughts about revealing his secret.

“Please, I’m begging you.  I have to know.  Please.”

I started to hyperventilate even more and perhaps I exaggerated it a bit – if it looked like I was dying maybe he wouldn’t have any qualms in telling me what he knew.

Jahanbin then knelt beside me and put his mouth a bare inch from my right ear.  I don’t know why he bothered since there was nobody else in the room but I was in no position to complain.

“Fuck Whitey,” he whispered.

“Huh?”  I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him correctly.

“Fuck Whitey,” he whispered again.

“Fuck Whitey?  That’s the thought?”

Jahanbin nodded sagely.  “That is what I was thinking when I tripped and that is what I think every time I go out my window.  Use it as you see fit.”

And that was how I learned to fly.