[jerH]

Synopsis: Me and my grandfather. Wish it was fiction. I've taken some artistic license in transcribing it, but as far as I can remember the general set of events I dreamed is accurate.

A Dream I Keep Having


The sky is a bright, dazzling, blinding blue. In the distance a few puffy cumulus clouds are the only break in the uniformity. Even they fail to provide much perspective. Are they small and close? Or large and distant? Their amorphous folds make it impossible to say. The sun is so bright its light seems to come from everywhere at once. Below, the ocean stretches with a breadth to rival the sky's, sunlight rippling and reflecting off endless undulating waves. I feel a momentary sense of panic, a falling in the pit of my stomach as I realize my vantage point is high above the water and tethered to nothing. But it passes, and I accept without question that I am floating above this vast, silent expanse.

A distant hum becomes evident, its source unclear. It's impossible at first to even define its direction. I turn in circles, scanning the sky for the disturbing entity. A glint of sunlight off polished aluminum panels eventually betrays the trespasser. Though hardly bigger than a speck, easily obscured behind a fingertip, I somehow know that it's a B-29. The four-engined behemoth is slowly lumbering in circles in the sky. After watching it complete several circuits, I turn my attention back to the sea, straining to see what has anchored the plane to this patch of sky.

I finally discern a tiny speck of land, revealed less by its presence than by the consistent absence of shimmering reflections. My eyes attempt to focus, but the target is too small to discern anything. It is simply a round hole in the endless procession of golden waves. It hardly seems big enough to warrant the attention the shiny plane is lavishing on it, and I'm struck by the thought that there must be more here than meets my naked eyes. My stomach is aware before my brain that something ominous and terrible is about to happen.

Suddenly the speck blossoms, surging outward and upward in all directions. A shock ring grows around the speck, roiling the ocean at a furious speed as it grows exponentially. A light to rival the sun's is now apparent in the center of the growing cloud. Strangely this all proceeds in silence, which makes it all the more terrifying. My mind calculates the scale of the monstrosity given that it appears so large and is yet so distant that sound has not yet closed the gap. The words "hydrogen bomb" creep into the back of my mind.

The cloud has now risen atop a thin stem of smoke to towering heights. It has not yet reached the level of the silver airplane though, and judging by the rate at which its expansion is slowing, it never will. After another minute, the plane breaks from its pattern and takes a course to carry it over the billowing cloud top. It makes several passes back and forth over the top, and above the drone of the engines I hear the nervous clicking of Geiger counters.

***

The ground crew is joking and smoking cigarettes at the end of the flight line, waiting for the return of their precious machine. It was out on a simple mission, gathering air samples over a nuclear test detonation, but the Pacific Ocean is unforgiving. They're concerned for the crew, of course, but crew could be rescued in an emergency. The plane, their baby, would sink to the bottom of the sea if anything went wrong.

A young Airman First Class claps his hands and laughs at an off-color joke. The name-tape sewn to the blouse of his fatigues reads "Hager" and the name "Lloyd" is stenciled on the side of his toolbox. His arms, which years later would seem like tree-trunks when he threw them over my shoulders and called me "Little Guy," are like ropes knotted with muscle. He's the lowest ranking member of the ground crew, but the most mature. He'd lied about his age to join the Navy during World War II, and had been on a landing ship, driving onto the shores of Sicily when his supervisor was still in junior high. He was relaxed, more concerned about getting home to his family than about the plane meeting an untimely end.

The call comes from the tower that their charge is nearing the runway. They spring into action, relieved to know the plane is safe, and happy to have the waiting come to an end. They ready their emergency equipment, just in case something should go wrong with the landing. Cigarettes are extinguished and hidden in the red butt cans, binoculars turn to the south. A flickering on horizon grows larger and lower, details become clearer. Finally the huge bird touches down at the end of the runway, rolls to a stop, turns onto the taxiway, and slowly crawls to the hangar.

Each man moves to his assigned task while the crew chief waits for the pilot to climb down and report on the plane's performance. A few minutes later, satisfied that all is well from the pilot's perspective, he gathers his crew for their status report. That too comes in all clear, and he issues his final order for the day. "Wash her down and tow her in," he says and heads toward the ops center to begin filling out maintenance logs. It's a warm day, and his men strip off their fatigue tops and deploy their ladders and lifts to reach the extremities of the plane. Bare-chested in the sun, they set about scrubbing down the shiny surface by hand.

***

Chief Master Sergeant Lloyd Hager is pacing up and down the walkway connecting the sidewalk to the house's front porch, trying to soothe the baby on his shoulder. I recognize the walkway, know it well in fact. I took my first steps there, and tore up and down it on my Big Wheel. The Chief is heavier than the Airman was, and is missing quite a lot of hair from the top of his head. The wrinkles on his fore head hint at the responsibility that comes with his job. He holds the highest enlisted rank in the Air Force, a station only 1% of those who go through basic training ever achieve. He is charged with supervising classified operations at Kelly Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas. His office sits atop a rise known base-wide as Security Hill. He doesn't mind the darkening circle of drool on the shoulder of his service dress. I don't seem to mind that I'm looking at my infant self.

***

I'm floating again, but not worried about it this time. Below me is a field house, the stands full of parents. The floorboards of the basketball court are covered by thick carpeting, rolled out to protect against the legs of the 762 chairs. The chairs are filled by 18 year-olds wearing caps and gowns, happy to be done with high school once and for all. Chief Master Sergeant Lloyd Hager, US Air Force, retired, sits high above the floor and scans the program for today's events. He finds the name "Jeremy Hendrix" and next to it, "Air Force ROTC Engineering Scholarship." He smiles and looks back up from the page.

My eyes see through his now, and the scene is similar, but different. The seats are filled with older students; the arena is still a basketball stadium, but a different one. The class president is making a speech. "...There is no fear in flight," he says. On cue, Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University's class of 1995 rises as one and throws the paper airplanes they have fashioned out of their commencement programs. Lloyd laughs.

The university president is now calling names and students are crossing the stage. "Second Lieutenant Jeremy Hendrix, US Air Force," he reads. "Aviation Computer Science, magna cum laude." Our first officer, Lloyd thinks to himself. Three generations, but our first officer.

***

I'm standing in my grandfather's driveway, next to my truck. It's loaded with all my worldly possessions. I'm off to my first assignment: Hurlburt Field, FL. "Remember," he tells me. "There are only two good assignments. The one you just left, and the one you're going to next." He throws his tree trunk arms around me and gives me a hug. Three vertebrae in my back crack like it's an orthopedic adjustment. "And there are two things you'll never find. The real Air Force, and the big picture."

During my first conversation with my new commander I relay these bits of wisdom. "That," says the colonel, "is why a good chief is worth a hundred lieutenants."

***

I'm standing in the living room of my tiny one-bedroom apartment in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. The clock says 3:15 and I know it means a.m. My BDU's, starched and sharp when I put them on at 5:30 this morning, feel crusty. The exercise is three days old, three more to go. The light on my answering machine is blinking. Every fiber of my being says ignore it and go to bed. I have to be back at the base in about four hours. But I press play, and cringe when I hear my mother's voice. "I just wanted to let you know, your grandfather had to go to the hospital today. He had a small stroke. He's okay and I don't want you to worry," yeah, right, "but I just thought you'd want to know." I pick up the phone and call the squadron orderly room, knowing my supervisor will be sleeping on a cot there. "I need to take some leave, Sir. My grandfather just had a stroke." It never crosses my mind that he won't approve it. He's a good guy. "Come on in," he says, "I'll have the paperwork ready."

I stop by my shop one last time before I leave, nervous about abandoning my guys to see through the rest of the exercise without me. But they're sharp, and it's all under control. I pass the Lieutenant Colonel from the next office in the hallway. "I heard about your grandfather," he says. He carries a huge, steaming coffee cup in one hand and a stack of exercise status reports in the other. "What are you still doing here?"

I walk out to the parking lot and into my truck. A few minutes later I'm on Interstate 10, and it stretches out before me. All the way to San Antonio.

***

I hit the Texas state line. "El Paso, 970 miles," reads the familiar sign. San Antonio is only half that.

I drive straight to Wilford Hall hospital at Lackland Air Force Base. The front desk directs me to the room. As I approach I see my mother and grandmother in the hall, talking to a doctor in surgical scrubs and a white coat. I hang back with my father, who looks tired. The doctor's lips are moving, but I can't hear him. Then words start to appear in balloons above his head, as if this were some live action comic book. Acute monoblastic leukemia. Aggressive chemotherapy. 10 to 20 percent.

***

I'm sitting next to his bed, feeling guilty that I can barely keep my eyes open. After all the caffeine tablets I took to make the 12 hour drive here, I haven't been sleeping well. "How's your truck doing?" he asks.

"Fine," I say, "I love it." He'd loaned me the money to buy it when the CV joints fell out of my old car. It was Christmas break 1994 and graduation and a paycheck were still four months away. I'd promised to pay him back as soon as I got settled at my first assignment, but as of yet hadn't made a payment.

"What do you think of those new Dodge Durangos?" He still looks as strong as an ox, and I can't understand how he can possibly be confined to this hospital bed.

"They're okay I guess. I hear they don't get very good mileage."

"Would you like one?"

I want to cry, but there's no way I'll let him see that. "Mine's fine. And you've got bigger things to worry about right now."

A nurse swoops in and informs me that visiting hours are over. I promise to be back the next morning.

***

We're all sitting around my grandmother's dining room table, playing slow games of Uno. The cards move in slow motion, but the clock hands in the background are spinning in fast forward. It's like some bad film student movie. Or a Ramones video.

The phone rings and my mother answers. Her face looks ashen. "He was having some difficulty breathing. Fluid in his lungs. They've put him on a respirator to help his breathing. They'll reevaluate him in the morning."

More Uno, more spinning clock hands. The cuckoo clocks my grandmother brought back from assignments in Germany are maddening. The phone rings again.

"The ventilator tube was irritating him and making him gag, so they've sedated him," my mother informs us.

***

I'm shaken awake. "It's time," says my dad. The clock says 1:12 a.m. They sedated him four hours ago.

We arrive at the hospital and the doctor in scrubs is talking to my grandmother again. The balloons reappear. Chemotherapy. Release toxins. Kidney failure. Congestive heart failure.

He hands my grandmother some paperwork. "Send this to the Department of Energy," he says. "They'll pay you a monthly stipend." Somehow he already knows that 80% of the B-29 ground crew has already died of some sort of cancer.

It's been 72 hours since I hit play on my answering machine.

***

I'm standing in the national cemetery at Fort Sam Houston. An honor guard is folding the flag and handing it to my grandmother. I didn't bring any of my blue uniforms with me. It never crossed my mind I'd need them. You can't wear BDU's to a funeral, so I'm in a coat and tie. I feel like a clown. I tell my grandfather I'm sorry I'm not in service dress.

***

The dream me is watching the real me. I'm sleeping. The house is quiet. My uniforms are hanging in a forgotten closet, gathering dust. Budget cuts and an idiotic war brought my military career to a close 8 years earlier than planned. With it went my plan: take my pension and go back to college, become a teacher in an inner-city school, teach math and computers to high school kids, try to make some sort of contribution to the world. Now I'm a contractor. Contractor scum is what the active duty me used to call the civilian me. Being a defense contractor sucks, but after 12 years of active duty I'm not qualified to do much else.

The dream me can sense the real me feels lost. The dream me is feeling sorry for the real me. Then he feels stupid for feeling sorry for himself. He thinks, if I could just talk to my grandfather, he'd put it in perspective. He was always good at that.

***

I wake up, for real. It's been almost 10 years since my grandfather died. I still miss him.

[wave1345]

You have a way of creating an atmosphere with your words, and a certain elegant flow. Loved it!

You wrote: The sky is a bright, dazzling, blinding blue.
Suggestion: As a rule, I would try to keep descriptions to 2 adjectives, max.

You wrote: In the distance a few puffy cumulus clouds are the only break in the uniformity. Even they fail to provide much perspective.
Suggestion: The second sentence feels a little clunky to me. Combine them, maybe? In the distance a few puffy cumulus clouds are the only break in the uniformity, but even they fail to provide much perspective.

You wrote: I recognize the walkway, know it well in fact.
Suggestion: Semicolon or period instead of a comma?

The rest seems pretty tight! I don't know if it's me or not, but I see some errors in formatting from when it was copied and pasted, perhaps? All of the apostrophes are gibberish characters to me.

[Timmay]

wave has a lot of good ideas for editing. Like he said, id tone down the adjectives. i could say im a weirdo, bizarre, crew/ skiing/ lacrosse/ bass player, but either people will get the idea that im bragging, or just think im a descriptive motherfucker. either way, someone is gunna hate me for it.


ps, what is it's? i saw it on a couple other stories. its annoying as hell

[jerH]

Not sure what happened.....that didn't look that way last week! I'll have to fix that up pronto....

[Lubesh]

Originally Posted by jerH

Not sure what happened.....that didn't look that way last week! I'll have to fix that up pronto....

Thats was a current bug/issue on the site so no worries.

[jerH]

Yet another bu...I mean feature of moving web hosts!