Flying
by Tim Cain
It was 10:30. Jason could hardly keep his eyes open. So he dragged himself to bed. Almost as immediately as his face pressed against his pillow, he descended into a very deep sleep.
"What beautiful grass," he thought. "So green, like emeralds!" Jason focused on each blade, individually, collectively. Somehow, he could take them all in at once, even though one blade was beautiful enough to hold your attention forever. His field of vision took in the grass, his sandaled feet alternating in and out of view as he walked up the hill.
The pitch of the hill increased and Jason lowered his head, bearing down, struggling against gravity. He quickened his pace, eyes down, concentrating on the emerald grass below him. He began running up the hill—a gleeful excitement welling up in him. He heard his own breathing and the sound of wind rushing past his ears and birds in the distance. He lowered his head further—extending his neck before him, pumping his arms. He ran harder still. Gravity pulled at his clothing. It tore at his muscles. It struggled to catch hold of his mane, but the golden brown tresses just slipped through its fingers...
Jason lunged—breast forward, arms at his side. But to his amazement, rather than falling and breaking his jaw, he lifted off.
He flew on, working with the energy, pushing upward. A tower loomed in front of him. He pitched left and flew around the edifice. Twice around it he flew, darting through the clouds and shadows that shrouded it. Coming around it again on its right side, he approached a balcony where he landed.
"It seems almost twenty degrees cooler up here," he thought. Through the mist and fog he could see the meadows below. What was a field of emerald blades moments before was now hopelessly gray. Four, large, black crows circled the tower and one by one landed on the parapet. Each glared at the human as if to say, "Be gone—you do not belong here!" The temperature dropped; Jason's fingers began to hurt. The cold ate at his flesh; it burnt. "I should leave," he thought.
Jason climbed up on the railing, spread his arms and leapt from the tower. But instead of the substantial cushion of energy that he'd ridden so confidently and had become so comfortable with, nothing stood between him now and the ground below except thin, cold air. He tried to pull his arms together to mold the energy as he had before. But there was no energy to push against—no resistance at all. The emerald grass filled his field of vision.
***
"I don't understand it? What does it mean? I am scared and I feel something terrible is happening—or is about to happen."
"Calm down, now. Take a deep breath. Jason, I mean it. Take a deep breath. Now hold it. Hold it. Hold it. Ok, exhale. Now take another. Hold it. Hold it. Ok, exhale. Now close your eyes." Dr. Phoenix hoped to take Jason through more relaxation exercises.
"I can't! I'm afraid I'll see the falling again!"
"You are awake, Jason. You are not dreaming. Ok, then leave your eyes open. You are safe. You are not in any danger."
"Bullshit! Dreams used to make me happy. Now I am scared to sleep at all. What is happening to me?"
"Jason, what is your secret fear?"
***
The week that followed was a blur. It was as though Jason had switched on his autopilot. There were three shoots: one in Miami, one in New York, and one in Chicago. In between, all of his off time was spent finding and having sex. Mostly, he went from photo shoot to bookstore, to tearoom, to park, to bathhouse (where he fucked till dawn), then back to his hotel room where he'd collapse for an hour or two. Then he would get his wake up call to get up and do it all over again. If he had not been a very young looking 28, this routine would have caught up with him a lot sooner. But catch up with him it did.
It was the final day of his shoot in Chicago. People were talking. This was an older, testier, haggard Jason—if it was Jason at all. His cell phone rang.
"Hello?"
"What the fuck are you doing to yourself?"
"Anastasia?"
"Yes, it's Anastasia, who else? What has happened to you? I've seen the proofs and I'm hearing stories."
"I don't know what you mean?" Jason feigned ignorance, mustering what few boyish qualities he still possessed.
"Don't give me that crap or I'll come through the goddamn phone and slap you senseless. Is it H, coke, what is it?"
"No, no Anastasia, you know I don't do drugs."
"I know you didn't do drugs. I want you in this office in two hours for screening. You know how I feel about drugs."
"I don't do drugs!" Jason screamed into the phone. There was silence on the other side. The entire set had gone silent. Jason realized he had just made a huge mistake.
"I am not deaf, Jason, and you are no longer employed by Anastasia!" The phone went dead.
He looked up and everyone was staring at him. He walked over to his satchel and stuffed his cell phone in it. "I gotta go," he said. But no one said anything back. They didn't know what to say. It isn't everyday you see a rising star become a shooting star.
Jason walked down the hall. He walked to the lakefront, heading north. He passed Buckingham Fountain without paying it notice. On a better day he might have lingered there, delighting in the sound, spray, and seahorses. He passed the Yacht Club, Navy Pier, and Oak Street Beach. He was oblivious to the bodies of the volleyballers. The flowers and creamy sand beaches were a blur. He continued past the statue at the Belmont Rocks—scene of so many pleasures past, without turning his head to see who might be there. He followed the harbor around and walked into the park. The totem pole was on his left and an emerald green lawn lay before him.
He left the sidewalk and started across the lawn. His head down, Jason's field of vision was filled by grass and by his feet darting in and out of view. Leaning forward, Jason began to quicken his pace. Soon he was running, the blades of grass a blur beneath him. He began to feel that sensation again—just as in the dreams—that he might begin to lift off at any moment. Then suddenly he stopped.
He had come to an asphalt drive. Jason raised his head slowly. His eyes saw first a short flight of concrete steps, then a sidewalk that lead to the tower that stood before him. Jason's stomach sank. This was the tower in his dreams.
He walked toward a door set in the brown brick and limestone facade. The sign to the right of which read "Observation Deck." Jason stepped inside.
The tight spiral stairway was lit periodically by bare incandescent bulbs. Metal pipe railings bolted into the brick and mortar gave Jason something to grip as he ascended the worn, concrete stairs. It felt as though the stairs would go on forever. He took the final step onto the landing that opened to the observation deck.
It was a brilliantly sunny day, but to Jason, the tower was swathed in fog and mist—just as in his dream. As he looked down at the grass it glistened, each emerald blade, just as in his dream. As if by destiny, Jason climbed onto the stone railing. He extended his arms at his sides, and leapt.
Jason plummeted downward. "This is just like my dream," he thought. But just before he was to hit the ground, he felt the energy grow between his arms. He pulled his arms together, and instantly, he swooped upward in a beautiful arc. Joy rushed through Jason. He began laughing wildly. He started circling the tower, which he could now see was wrapped in glorious sunlight. He dive-bombed the crows who had watched the whole scene, annoying them to no end. They squawked and flew off the observation deck. Circling the tower once or twice, they settled on the lawn, near a large, dark object. They walked their lopsided walk toward the object to investigate.
Jason continued laughing and swooping. He loved flying and this was better than it had ever been in his dreams. This was real! He could fly. Whatever had haunted him so, whatever had weighed him down for so long was now gone. The Weight was gone! He turned his head to the right and flew after a flock of gulls in the distance over Lake Michigan, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered at the base of the tower.
Tim Cain is an interior designer, musician, actor, and writer living in Waukegan, Illinois and is the creator of AestheticsAge.com-an internet-based design service. His band, Boys' Entrance was Chicago's first gay rock band. In 2005, Tim received an OMA Award for "excellence in LGBT recording, song writing, and cultural activism." Twice recipient of "Critic's Choice" reviews in Billboard Magazine, he released 3 Boys' Entrance CDs and is preparing three more to mark his 30th year as a musician. In 2005, he starred as Aristophanies in Kyle Harris' "The Patriarchs" and is currently at work on his book Upsizing, Downsizing, and Resizing.
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