I was able to order my fish sandwich without incident.

I can no longer ignore the inevitable because Wednesday, June 24, is fast approaching.

This is how flying feels to me.

And that is the day in which I must board a plane. And fly to Memphis, in which, I will get off one plane and onto another one…and head to Tacoma. A city in a state so far away from here that it might as well not even be a part of the United States.

Few other things make me as defensive or difficult as flying. Because I’m so afraid of it. Not just because I’m mean. 

Flying is something that I can safely hate. I become neurotic, distraught, maybe even mean…I’m spending all my free time right now focusing on two things: 1) I cannot become so disruptive that I’m considered a person-of-suspicion, it wouldn’t do to be on the 6:00 News, and 2) I keep saying over and over, “I love flying, I love flying,” which is a bald-faced lie.

I went by McDonald’s yesterday, and so scatter-brained was I, that when the woman told me to have a Good Day, I responded with “I love flying.” I was able to order my fish sandwich without incident or confusion.

I’ve been having nightmares about flying for months, ever since we advanced at Regionals…and that’s been back in March. I suppose it’s something that in each of my nightmares, at least, the plane lands. Well, at least, it lands…now.

That hasn’t been the case this entire time; we weren’t landing up until, like, around the end of May. 

What I seem to be focused on the most, lately, though, is the size of the windows on the plane. Last night, for instance, I was at some truck stop standing in absolute awe of this fry kitchen, you know the type that accompany most truck stops.  Inside, it was buffet-cafeteria style, but outside there were hundreds of windows all open, all stemming from this one fry kitchen, and each window had its own style of cuisine.  One window sold Mexican food; another, Creole; one was French, another, Italian. So forth and so on, all the way down the side of the truck stop.

I was standing outside with someone when a plane flew overhead. I was immediately struck with vertigo and dizziness and couldn’t find my balance. I think this is, in truth, one reason flying upsets me so. I have such bad myopic astygmatism that heights frustrate my ability to re-focus my eyes. And if I can’t maintain my balance, little else tries to maintain its balance as well: my legs, so I fall over; my stomach, so I get nauseous, etc.

I cannot not look at this plane, though. I feel like I’m staring it down, that with my very own intense gaze I’m steering it to a safe landing. I’m praying it lands safely; I’m worried about these passengers. It lands just fine, and without any help from my intense need to worry over that which I can’t control.

As it lands, the wings are pulled back into the body of the “plane,” and I see that it’s actually a large bus…with windows so big that I almost throw-up from thinking of how inescapable they would be from 30,000 feet in the air.

Oh, god, I think. If the plane’s windows on Wednesday are this large there’s no way I can fly. Because I need to be able to not see outside the plane.

I start to panic.

Whoever is standing next to me points to the window that’s selling Moroccan food, and that gets my attention, that seems to do the trick.

The last time I flew was from Indianapolis to Jackson, Mississippi. U.L. wanted me to sing in some gospel concert. The ticket was purchased at the last minute, perhaps as a means of making it all happen so fast that I wouldn’t have time to get afraid.

That, by the way, never works. Just FYI.

The plane was leaving very early in the morning, and I thought: This might be do-able. If it’s too dark out, it won’t seem as frightening. Of course, by the time I got to the airport, there was the Sun. Bright as a new penny. (Which by the way, very few people like, anymore. Who even uses a penny, these days?)

Lincoln did a lot, but can he save the penny?

In an effort to make myself feel better, I’d rented a limousine to pick me up at the house and drive me to the airport. Maybe if I stepped out of a long-neck limo, I’d feel important, special, famous, a singer, Watch Out, World – that’s what a limousine says to an airport – We’ve got Someone Special in this car so you have to fly right, and not crash.

Of course, when you go to any airport, you get out on the opposite side to the air field. No plane ever sees the car that brings you to the “dance.”

That’s ok. People saw me, and that almost made up for it.

Until I stepped through the metal detector…then, there was no turning back.

I had four drinks in the airport bar. It wasn’t even 9:30 in the morning, yet; the bartender had to be convinced, persuaded. Thankfully, she took pity on me. It calmed me just enough to walk onto the plane and find my seat; then, my nerves came back. I immediately started to order another one, from the airline attendant, when I realized that I’d be seeing U.L. that afternoon, and tsk, tsk, tsk, that kind of breath just wouldn’t do at all.

I ordered instead tomato juice, told myself I was going to be pretending it was a Bloody Mary. I didn’t want to be drunk, mind you – if the plane did crash, I didn’t want to stand before God and have him think less of me. But, nothing else was going to calm my nerves, either. So, what to do?  Pretend. Just try and pretend, I said to myself.

She brought the tomato juice and then asked me, Was I prepared to sit in an Exit Row?

I said I didn’t know what that meant, but No, Thank you, I was fine where I was.

Where I was, was an Exit Row, she informed me. That’s why my legs weren’t cramped. Exit rows, you know, have extra space to accommodate for the mass exodus of other passengers who would be flooding my small three-seat row in the event of an emergency landing.

I, in one flat second, spilled the contents of my tomato juice all down my shirt.

I could move, I said, I should probably move.

You’ll do fine, she replied. We were about to taxi down the runway.  “Let me get you a napkin, sir. In the meantime, you should familiarize yourself with this.” She handed me the laminated tri-fold pamphlet explaining the procedure for emergency landings. There were no faces on the people jumping down the yellow slide to safety. I found that creepy. Maybe if they were smiling, I’d feel less inclined to barricade myself in the bathroom and sing spirituals.

Fact: tomato juice always looks better in a glass than on a shirt.

She returned and then began to explain that they’d never had to use an Exit Row before, but it was protocol to explain to each passenger who sat in one.  I looked around; apparently I was flying with a seasoned group of passengers.  No one else was in an Exit Row; or, if they had been, they’d moved already.

She continued, If were to experience an emergency landing either on land or over water, all passengers needed to be made aware of how to exit the plane calmly.

Do all airline attendants take a “crash” course at Disney, or what? This wasn’t real language; this was make-believe. I turned to her, in an attempt at being funny, and said, Well, if we crash in water, we’re in really big trouble.

I was only flying down to Jackson, Mississippi, I grinned, Where was the water? (A question that I should have never asked).

She, in as professional a voice as I suppose they can teach you at Northwest Airlines, reminded me that we did fly right over the Mississippi River. And, that it was a large enough body of water. But, not to worry.

We were in good hands.

Sure, sure, I thought, I just don’t know whose.

At least, she gave me my next tomato juice for free.

I feel pretty sure God said He was going to stop doing that to people.

I love bad weather. I hate flying.

Putting the two together does not help, because the spectrum on which they reside is of equal value. Both haunt my dreams, and continuously.

I’m hoping…against hope I would imagine since we’re entering that stage of the season where thunderstorms lurk around the farthest oak trees, down the highway, and then appear suddenly, from the limb tops…still, I’m holding out that the weather will be nice toward the end of June when I must board a plane and fly to Tacoma, Washington.

For funsies, you say?  No.

Not for funsies.

My thoughts exactly.

For competition. The community theatre I work with is taking a play to Nationals, this year, and those are being held in Tacoma, Washington.  As the director, I have no choice but to get on a plane, and fly to an airport, where I will de-board and get on another plane and fly to another airport.

I’ve already had nightmares, now, for weeks.  We won regionals back in March. We are now in June. That is like, what, more than a week, at least. That much math I can do.

Last night, though, perhaps a shimmer of calm?, I dreamed I was on a plane flying to Washington, and I was actually doing all right. Of course, there were large beds in the plane, and a high ceiling, and a bar, and it was at night, and the windows had heavy curtains that were closed, and so OK, basically, it was a house, not a plane, it was a flying house.  

Whatever, get off my back.

What’s important is that we landed, this time. In Washington. And we had to grab a taxi which was, in fact, a boat with wheels, in fact, eight of them, and it was very cold in Washington; I had no jacket, so the cab driver gave me his scarf, which I never gave back to him.  On the way to the airport, because in my dream I had apparently only flown all the way to Washington to take a taxi to yet another airport and fly right back, I got to see two moose mate.

I guess that’s the way you’d say that.

It wasn’t a real pleasure to watch, but I was rather unable to do anything about it. (Maybe make it an -ing word. I saw two moose mating).

The point is, I made the trip there and back and all was well.

But, if the sky looks like it does today, I may not get on that plane. Even though Lyle says I have to because the ticket’s already been paid for. And, money spent is a big bag of guilt. That much we all know, huh.

(Sidebar: one of my students today told me her initials were B.A.G., and that she didn’t know it was “stupid” until she got an L.L. Bean bookbag that Christmas she was in third grade and there, emblazoned on it were her initials, which, her friends quickly and readily identified as being a word that also described the thing itself. They were smart children, I guess. 

Please tell me that you’d laugh at her, too?)

I don’t know exactly when I became obsessive about bad weather. I’m not negatively affected by it, like my friend Angie, who, no matter what time of day or night it is, will call you every minute of the hour until the storm passes to make sure you’re alive, or in a basement, or a closet, so forth, and so on.

She’s as bad as U.L. Except he calls every minute of the hour, everyday, regardless.

But, at some point, in my tender years, which I should tell you only came to their end last month, I began to hoard, in my subconscious, some irrational attachment to severe weather. The worse the weather, the greater my fear and enjoyment of that fear, I can’t explain it, but it’s that feeling that makes my groin tickle, in a good way. I was a man born in crisis, so I suppose I have an affinity for it.

Never know where you'll find a promise.

Amanda often says what I’ve heard U.L. say before: there’s a safety in the sense of having something happen that is so much larger than we are. To be made to feel small is an equalizer, a reminder that we’re more alike than not. Despite the fact that I heard a sermon once which indicated that we bring destruction on ourselves. I heard that sermon, no lie, at least three times, in the immediate wake of Katrina. I was embarrassed and upset, I couldn’t accept that anyone would believe that.

I mean, I feel pretty sure God said He was going to stop doing that to people.

What I mean to say is after great tragedy, comes the simple reminder that wealth, age, race, gender, status, none of it holds back the Hem of Fate. It drapes without consideration.

As much as I dream about flying and crashing and all the anxieties that come with air travel…I also dream, and a great deal more, of tornados. Specifically, tornados. Out of all the bad weather phenomena.

They’re not on my list of phobias like being struck by lightning (which comes I think from wearing metal rims on my glasses all these years), or ingesting glass (I blame GamVa for this – she gave me a book, when I was very young, about the Roman Emperors and How They Dealt With Their Foes. In particular, the story of Elagabalus and his feeding ground glass to his “invited guests,” i.e. his competitors, really seems to have stuck. To this day, if I’m in the kitchen and cooking and I drop a jar, a plate, anything, and it shatters, the entire kitchen must be put on lockdown and cleaned, glass or not. FYI: I will not drink from a chipped glass, either).

No, tornados are just wild. A fascination, not a phobia. A fear, not a fault.

But, why I dream about them is anybody’s guess.

Mississippi isn’t in Tornado Alley, but we get our fair share of them. I think they probably cause more damage in our state, per capita, than elsewhere. I’m not sure, but for some reason, I’ve grown up in awe of their beautiful devastation. They remind me a little of family reunions…except you’d have to share the basement.

Amanda sent me an email awhile back describing the “meaning,” or “implication” of my dream motifs. Along with tornados, I tend to dream about shoes and feet, a good deal, and almost nightly, about teeth. I was intrigued by the “meanings” these habitual images portray in my dreams, but also, a little exhausted by it. 

Here, read for yourself about tornados:

Tornados
To see a tornado in your dream, suggests that you are experiencing some extreme emotional outbursts and temper tantrums. Is there a situation or relationship in your life that may be potentially destructive? To dream that you are in a tornado, signifies that you are feeling overwhelmed and out of control. You will be met with a series of disappointments for the next week or so. Your plans will be filled with complications. To see several tornadoes in your dream, represent people around you who are prone to violent outbursts and shifting mood swings. It may also symbolize a volatile situation or relationship.

 That’s hardly conducive to a good night’s sleep.

You only got two options.

And yet, I wait, in anticipation, to go to sleep each night…mostly, I should be honest here, because I can’t wait to see where my dreams will take me. I do curl up with some trepidation, as I certainly don’t want to get caught in a nightmare. Last night, for instance, was a close call. I’ve only had a few lucid dreams in my lifetime. So, it’s a risk.

But, as I sit here typing, I hear a soft peal of thunder in the background, and in that bizarre way that bad weather has over me, I feel comfortable knowing that if danger is stinging the edges of these clouds, I’m as helpless as anyone else to it, and so, why worry.

 

No, instead, I’m thinking to myself: I might as well take a nap – what happens is going to happen, either way. So, if you’ll excuse me…I need to brush my teeth and settle into the couch…because I’ve got a tornado to catch.