The Pilot (3)

 The Pilot

Chapter Three:

Clancy was off doing things no one expected him to, as usual. A woman named Hazel had enlisted his services. They chatted while he put up her Tv, and hit it off. So well, in fact, that they found themselves that night at the Spicy Cranberry, a hip young gastropub. While they dined on odd salads, their conversation turned to life.

Hazel had just finished a moving speech about helping restore the great barrier reef, when she asked, “So, Clancy, what are your plans for the future? Not going to be doing odd-job home installations forever, are you?” Clancy, who had been having a marvellous time, locked up. A deep, deep well opened up in him. Out of it escaped confusion, fear, and dream-like nausea.

He muttered something about the bathroom and left. He did run back in with a sorry face and left some cash on the table, not wanting Hazel to be stuck with the bill. He was going to say something, but got scared off by her scorching look of consternation.

Worried broadly, he walked along the beach he had first fallen on, and repeated a mantra: “Wake up”

As the sounds of people faded, the sands shifted. Numerous foxes raised their hitherto unseen heads from the sand, small mounds of the stuff dripping from their perked ears. A dozen paces pass. A baker's dozen. Clancy noticed all fur surrounding him to be pointed towards a singular point in space. His gaze refocused, and he once again had to officiate a wrestling match between his eyes and mind. Already knowing the outcome, his body vetoed the battle and closed his eyes as he leaned headfirst into the void. Bonaparte awaited his sandwich for five days before leaving.

He thought he would awaken back in America, just where he left off. He did not. He was in a bathroom, and his adrenaline was fast rising as he realised the room was shaking. He threw up in the toilet, and did it again. After washing his mouth in the sink, he went to flush, and realised the vehement liquid shot right out the bottom of the bowl. He looked around. Every odd-shaped panel in the bathroom wall screamed at him. He was on an airplane.

He flung open the door as the room shook again, startling a previously-unassuming hostess, who promptly gave a very stern lecture. “Sir, did you not hear the announcement? We are experiencing turbulence, you must stay in your seat with the buckle fastened. Please return to your seat immediately.” Clancy asked about fifty questions at once, which resulted in a bit of a grumbled moan, and spun on his heel to face the aisle. 

He found a seat that was not in use, sat down, and buckled up. The hostess was right, the fasten seatbelts sign was on and the in-flight telemetry display showed a few minutes of turbulence over the Pacific. Luckily, the passengers in the seats adjacent to Clancy were fast asleep, and wouldn’t have the chance to be startled by their newfound companion.

Whatever magic the universe wrought, it seemed to have a funny take on causality. The plane that Clancy had half-consensually boarded happened to be headed straight home. He rejoiced. 

Accepting his free airplane chips and snuggled up with the complimentary blanket, sleep took him. He slept well, and dreamed of walking back to the Foxtrot upon his arrival and embracing Hans. His mind fit the threads of his old life back together in a lovely tapestry. But as his dream-eyes looked down the work, they came to where the threads were still winding. And winding. And they kept winding, all the way into the void. 

He awoke with a start. The turbulence was long-finished, everyone was peacefully asleep in the dimmed cabin lights. He muttered, “Alright Clance, bad dream. It’s okay, get it together. You’ll arrive soon enough.” He broke into a cold sweat, but with enough internal coaxing he rocked his fears into submission and entered dreamland once more. Hans waved dorkishly. The tapestry appeared again. It was quickly swallowed whole by the stars. By a portrait of the universe from above. 

“WORMHOLE” Clancy yelled. Several passengers angrily awoke and looked around for the source of the jarring sound. The one host still awake attended to Clancy and asked if he was alright. Clancy started to apologise, but a shaky voice came on the PA, “Can the passenger sitting in seat 55F please come to the front cabin?” Clancy checked. That was his seat. Everyone cleared a path for him, relieved they could sleep in his absence. Clancy, groggy and on autopilot, walked to the front of the plane.

He had never seen the cockpit of a jumbo jet before. He expected dials, knobs, a big computer, and two stunningly confident pilots. He was mostly right, but the pilots seemed to be quaking in a way worrying for those keeping you flying. When he entered, they glanced at each other, and a balding one let his eyes bore into Clancy. He spoke hesitantly, “What did you just say? Out there, just now, in the cabin?” 

Clancy, still not in sound mind, mulled the question over, “Well, umm, I was having a dream about myself, I guess? And it kept going to the time I was, umm, teleported by a thing, and the dots connected and I think I shouted wormhole. That doesn’t make much sense. I had a nightmare. I’m really sorry for yelling, can I get back to my seat?” The pilots glanced at each other once more. The balding one motioned to the other, in a sort of “I’ll take care of this” kind of way.

Clancy was brought to a tiny cabin, and left alone for a moment. He was getting real scared now. Why did he say what he said? He hadn’t told a soul either time he had been, well, teleported was the word he used in the moment. This must be a ward, something to keep his undoubtedly crazy self from the other passengers. He really questioned if his experiences were real. Him and Hans had tried mushrooms once, maybe they had stored something latent in his system. Yes, he was just on a really long psychoactive trip. His train of thought was interrupted when the balding pilot came in after him, and locked the door. He wasted no time. “Are you sure you have ever been “teleported” as you put it?”  

“I wasn’t on this plane when it took off.”

“I checked the list of passengers, I didn’t think so.”

“What do you want from me?” 

The pilot took his cap off. “These teleporting things you speak of are real, and they’re called wormholes.”

Clancy thought, “At least there was someone else who could entertain my fantasy land.” 

The pilot continued, “They are real, and I’ve been letting them slip by.”

After formally introducing himself as George Dunful, he shakily continued, “This is top secret, but I can't keep the charade any longer. I’m one of a group of pilots tasked with visiting these open wormholes and closing them before, well, anyone in the public sees them. I’m not really sure why. And something in my gut tells me I don’t really think they should be hidden any longer.”

Just for a moment, Clancy faltered. Thankfully, a bright idea appeared to him before he questioned himself too hard, “George, I'm trying to get back to America to find my friend Hans. We’re reporters. We could help break this to the public.”

“I’ve thought about trying that. But the pilots are so quick to cover their tracks, and I am under strict watch whenever I dismantle a hole. I don’t think we could ever collect proof.” 

They both sulked, but Clancy remembered something. “George. Hans and I, we took pictures.”

Something was up. Hans wasn’t normally a conspiracy theorist. But he had seen the camera. And he had seen how the Foxtrot treated planes. And he had, seared into his psyche, the look on Pistol Pete’s face when he had appeared in his office. His mind was a cork board full of sticky notes and red wire. 

Work was relentless. Pistol Pete seemed to live in the office, a king never leaving his throne. He seemed to retire to his office at night and emerge in the morning. The piece on that Nadia woman seemed to get through alright thankfully. Still, Hans wasn’t sure how many more errands he had in him.

He decided the solution was to take a day off. Clear the cobwebs, so to speak. He called his boss. Told him he’d be gone for the day. Pistol Pete, for once, didn’t seem to care. Hans hung up the phone. He teared up. Started bawling. Out loud, he fretted, “What if this is it?” The boss didn’t care. “Am I finally worthless?”

He got himself together and drove out to find some comfort food. Naan’s diner presented itself alluringly. The place had an aura of mystique around it now, but the Tikka Masala was still enough to soothe the soul. Right? Looking at the rice on his plate, he saw a face. Windswept hair in little grains, a goofy smile in the white mush. No, it's just food. 

He paid, and ran out to the beach. The choppy waves rolled like the wrinkles in his skull. He screamed. For Clancy. For his job. For things to go back. His eyes bored into the horizon. He wished he could bring back Pangea.

“Hey!” called an apparent mother of five, likely looking for a relaxing night out. She gestured to her kids.

“Sorry!” Hans righted himself. He was on his knees. When did that happen? Sheepish, and with a lot of self-consciousness, he walked back to his car. The forest that he had last seen Clancy, it was staring at him. The starry eyes were no longer there, but he was looked down upon regardless. Spooked, he got in the car and drove. He didn’t want to see his apartment. He went to his office instead. The winding road was windy that night, blowing him right along. 

He checked the glove compartment on a whim, and found Clancy’s pirate spyglass. It was an odd memento, but maybe it could fill the void. He pulled up and paused. The lights were on. And with them, so were the lights in his mind. The camera. He could grab it. He climbed a nearby tree to plan his heist, putting some dirt under his eyes as a makeshift eyeblack. It seemed logical in the moment, can you blame him?

Hans had the spyglass to his eye when he heard a voice below, and he turned to focus on the unexpected newcomers. It was Clancy. His eyes opened wider than when he had seen the wormhole. The hand he had barred across an opposing branch slipped and he tumbled right out of the gnarled oak tree. So much for eyeblack, he was spotted immediately. Hans and Clancy hugged. George, waiting to be introduced, kinda just stood there awkwardly, getting mad when a portly fellow with a cigar shoved him out of the way. This same double-knit stranger stooped low over the reunited roommates.