Flying Man
Summer, the back room of a Trader Joe’s, late evening, maybe around eight or so, temperature in the late 60s, so it’s coolish, and the sun’s still setting so it’s still light out, and Pete’s got the most of a pack of cigarettes and some time to smoke at least one, and Tim’s got some food, and the two enjoy each others’ company, so why the long faces, boys?
“Some people”, Pete offers, “aren’t very good at being happy.” He’s older by a few years, and done with college, and presumably wiser, so it falls to him to give the advice, make the observations. “Maybe,” he continues, “you’re just like that. I know I am.” And this is true: generally something navy-colored hangs out in the middle of Pete’s chest, where the ribs meet, and sometimes things like cigarettes or proximity to Tim help that, but sometimes, nowtimes, for example, they seem to deepen it.
“I just wish I’d cheer up,” Tim says, and looks to Pete for help. So Pete decides to do a little trick that he knows.
“As long as you can keep a secret,” Pete says, and Tim nods. So Pete goes off to the side, where there’s a helium tank and a bag of balloons that they blow up for children who come in.
“What, you’re gonna suck helium? Anyone can do that, I find it annoying.”
“Nothing so prosaic, kid. Wait, will you.”
So Tim waits while Pete inflates two balloons, ties them to two pieces of white ribbon, and ties the result to his arms, around the biceps. Tim laughs. “Is that the whole trick? Because it’s making me smile.”
“Asshole. I’m gonna do it, just wait. I mean, if you quit bugging me. If you keep bugging me, I’m not gonna do it.”
“Okay, Daddy, I’ll be a good boy.” The two smile at each other, and Pete takes a breath.
And Pete, in a fluent movement, crouches down, jumps about two feet in the air, and floats at that height. He makes two fists, holds each next to its respective shoulder, and flaps his arms like a chicken. And he rises a few more inches.
“This is one of my many little secrets,” Pete says. Tim smiles grandly and wholly at this, and Pete’s concentration falters for a second and he falls about a foot before catching himself. He lets himself down gently. Tim is all awe, and it’s a moment before he speaks.
“Teach me.”
This is not in Pete’s plan: he’d expected Tim to be impressed and repay him with kisses, perhaps, or at the very least a hug for the floating guy. “It’s not something I can teach, he mutters, you know? It’s just something I can do. Just something I figured out how to do at home. You know how everyone wishes they could fly? Well I figured out the right muscle to twitch.”
“What else can you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you had a lot of secrets.”
“Oh!” Pete laughs. “That’s more, you know, the personal shit everyone has. Most of mine are sexual. But I’ll warn you, I don’t know the first thing about getting a woman off beyond not gagging from the smell. All of mine are techniques to use on boys. Now those I can teach you to do.” This is, of course, clumsy desperation talking, a hopeful wish that Tim would take him up on the offer. Pete wishes hopefully that Tim doesn’t notice and makes a note to remind himself later that he’s the biggest asshole in the world.
“Hey,” Tim says. “Even if you knew a good series of techniques to use on a girl, I still wouldn’t have anyone to use it on.”
“It’s a fucking shame,” Pete says, his eyes steely. “A guy like you, you’re a catch, any girl would be lucky to have you, it’d be hard to find a woman who deserved you.”
Tim blushes. “The fact remains. So you got no other powers?”
“It’s not a power. It’s a parlor trick.”
“It’s a talent.”
“Talent is only talent if it makes you money or gets you laid.”
“Well I think it’s impressive.”
A moment hangs between them until Pete realizes he still has the balloons tied to his arms. He takes out his boxcutter, suddenly self-conscious. Fact is, he didn’t need the balloons, or the flapping of the arms. That was simple Barnuming designed to cheer Tim up. He’s not sure if it worked or not.
Pete enters the store the next day, goes into the bathroom, has a very satisfactory urination experience, changes into his uniform shirt (loud and bright and slightly obnoxious, much like the store’s decor), puts on his nametag (a fake one, labeled “SCOTT K,” left by a former employee in a drawer years before, probably when Pete was still in college), and walks outside. He finds himself steered by Bill into the break room. “I haven’t punched in, Pete says.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll fix it later.” He ushers Pete in. Tim is sitting down; when the two come in, he stands. Tim and Pete look at each other. “Sit down, Pete.”
“Okay.” Pete does. “What’s going on?”
Tim looks at the floor, then straight in Pete’s eyes. He sits. Bill coughs. “Well,” he says. “Tim told me what happened in the back room last night.”
After work, Pete had come home and had, in his head, come up with a very different outcome for the conversation between him and Tim, one which would have necessitated a shower afterwards, and for a horrified moment Pete is worried and thrilled that he’s switched fantasy with reality, that he and Tim did do all those horribly wonderful things to each other. Bill has a smile on his face, and this only adds to Pete’s confusion: neither Pete nor Tim is in a position of power over the other and therefore, according to the Trader Joe’s employee handbook, are permitted to fraternize, and Bill would be happy for the both of them, and would be almost scandalously thrilled to hear of the slightly dirty romance between two of his favorite employees, one of whom, as far as anybody knew, was straight, and would be vicariously and pleasantly jealous, as things with Jennifer have been a bit rocky lately, but Bill is, at heart, a man of order and cleanliness, and the fact that all of these wonderful things had happened in his back room would be too much for him. But Pete reconsiders: certain parts of his body would be extremely sore and uncomfortable were last night’s fantasy to have come true, and that’s not the case. So, shit. He must have floated, in front of Tim, and then the two had simply chatted about meaningless things, the effect of the float seemingly diminished, neither of them happier than they’d been at the beginning of the night. He’s not sure whether he’s relieved or not. But let’s make sure: “What, exactly, did he tell you,” Pete asks.
Bill smiles. “Tim here seems to think you were able to float in the air. Said you came up about three feet. Was that some sort of trick? How’d you do it?”
“Um. I can just do it.”
“How high?”
“Um. Maybe four feet without concentrating, higher if I have no distractions.”
“Can you fly?”
“No. I’ve tried, but I can’t change my position. It’s simply up and down.” These are all lies: Pete can hit a good six feet without trying, can go up to ten feet if he concentrates, and has a personal record of about fifteen. And while he can’t fly in a Superman sense, he can do a minor bit of locomotion. It is easier the lower down he is, but he’s been practicing, and maybe someday he’ll be able to get by without owning a car. But he’s not going to tell Bill this, and he doesn’t think Tim deserves the information now. Maybe if the two kissed he’d change his mind, but he’d cross that bridge later.
“You can fly–float–at any time,” Bill asks.
“Yeah, I guess so. I mean I like to eat beforehand, it makes me queasy if I have an empty stomach.”
“Have you eaten today, then?”
“Bill, you’re not gonna ask me to float right now, are you?”
“Well it would be nice.”
Pete sighs. “Couldn’t you just, I don’t know, ask me to suck your cock like a normal manager? I can do that. I would rather do that. I’ll do that right now.” He gets down on his knees.
“Pete, come on. Tim said it was so cool, I want to see it.”
Pete stands up. “I also said to Tim I wanted this to be a secret.” He looks at Tim.
“Well. Um. Pete, I’m sorry, but I was doing a lot of thinking, and this is something you should be sharing. I mean, it’s a talent, I said that, and talents are meant to be shared.”
“I don’t want to share this one.”
“You shared it with me!”
“Come on, Pete,” Bill says. “Just a few inches.”
Pete rolls his eyes, flips both middle fingers up, jumps, and hovers three inches above the ground. Bill’s jaw drops, but he recovers enough to take out his camera and snap a photo. Pete immediately drops to the ground, stinging his feet slightly.
“Dude,’ Bill says. “That’s seriously–like some magic powers you have? Like, it’s not mirrors or something?’
“No, it’s something I can do, and it’s something I can’t teach you, and I’ve shown you, and that’s it. I’m not doing it again.”
Bill stands. “Pete, come on. Tim’s right. You ought to share this with the world. He and I have been thinking, and talking.”
“And what have you been thinking?’
Bill tells him.
“No,” Pete says. “I’m not doing that.”
“Come on, it’s such a great idea!”
“Bill’s right,” Tim says. “It’d be so awesome if you could do that. Just pretend you’re doing it just for me, like you did last night. And it’d just be one day.”
“So many people’d come,” Bill says. “It’d be great for the store. We’ll get the local papers to come. Maybe News 12 or something.”
“It’ll be fun,” Tim says. His eyes get that pleading look.
Pete sighs and turns to Bill. “I want a fucking raise. A huge one.”
Somehow, Tim has convinced Pete into a diner, and the two of them drink cup after cup of coffee. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be upset if I told someone.”
“ Look, it’s okay. I just–I did it just for you, and I didn’t want you telling anyone.”
“But you said yourself, talent is only talent if it makes you rich, and if you keep it a secret you won’t get rich.”
“The three-dollar-an-hour raise was extravagant but I’d hardly call myself wealthy.”
“You’re thinking wrong, dude. Sponsorships. I’m sure dozens of places. Like, airplanes. ‘My name is Pete Lakeside, I’m the guy who can magically fly, and even I use Continental Airlines.’”
“Jesus fuck, dude. I’m a photographer and a cashier, not a corporate shill.”
“And you don’t think your new fame is gonna get you some pictures sold? You hate being a cashier, I don’t blame you. I hate being one too. I’ll be your manager. I’ll make you rich. Trust me. Just, let’s stick together. Okay? He adds cream and sugar, stirs.”
When he comes into work the next day, he sees a group of old women–his least favorite customers next to old men, children, middle-aged women, middle-aged men, teenagers, rich people, poor people, and people who buy more than five dollars’ worth of groceries–crowding around a sign in the entry. One of them turns around, looks at him, looks at the sign, looks at him again. “Is this you?”
“Is what me?” He pushes one of the women over to the side, and sees a sheet of posterboard that the store’s sign artist has decorated. It says:
COME SEE
THE FLYING MAN
SATURDAY JUNE 20 AT 10 AM
FREE BALLOONS AND FOOD!
There are drawings, in the artist’s cartoonish style, of airplanes and birds and balloons, and a drawing of the free food that is expected to be had, and in the midst of all of that is a large photograph of Pete which was taken at the store’s Christmas party. The picture features Pete with a goofy smile on his face, arms raised. It is intended to convey a message along the lines of, I’m so wacky and nonconformist, why, I may take off any second, that’s why I’ve got my arms outstretched, and I would love to be your friend. This appears to be the message the customers are taking from it. To Pete, who, unlike them, was actually there at the party, the photograph conveys a message which is more along the lines of, I’ve just made my way through most of a bottle of Jack, I’m having a swell time, and don’t tell anyone, but in about fifteen seconds I’m going to puke on the woman holding the camera. She had had a few herself, which is why she forgave him, and until now he’d simply assumed that the whole incident was politely fictioned out of existence. The photograph’s reappearance is one of several things which bother him. Others include, but are not limited to, the fact that Saturday is traditionally one of his days off; another is the simple fact of having to be awake and out of the house by ten o’clock.
“Excuse me,” he says, pushing the old woman back in her place. “I’ve got to punch in, I need to be doing work.” He walks into the store, finds Tim. “Hey, what the hell gives?”
Tim shrugs. “Hey, it was their idea. You know. They go kinda overboard with signs around here.” He smiles, and all is forgiven.
“But flying man? I mean, I don’t fly. Who came up with that?”
Tim blushes. “Actually, that was mine.”
“You know I don’t fly. You know I just float. Just up and down.”
“I know. But it sounded better than floating man. And besides–you ever play Earthbound? For the Super Nintendo?”
“No,” Pete says. “I never had one of those.”
“Well, there’s this one bit towards the end. You’re fighting alongside a few other party members for most of the game, but towards the end there’s a level where you’re by yourself. And you meet these little birdmen guys who can join your party temporarily, and they’re all named Flying Man. And they just go around with you and kind of protect you. And that’s what I think of when I think of you. You’re my Flying Man. You know?”
“No, I don’t.” Pete is starting to get a headache.
“It’s like, you’re like a big brother to me, I never had a big brother and that’s what I think you’re like, you know? Like, I can justtalk to you, when I’m having problems, girl trouble or whatever.” He looks at Pete squarely. “I mean, I love you, Pete, you know?” He claps Pete on the arm.
He arrives at nine and the place is already thronged with reporters and every single employee regardless of shift and customers and just curious passers-by. He gets out of his car. It is a carnival, it is a mad scene. A manager is giving out bagels, another is giving out balloons. He sees that the sign artist has set up a little table and is selling T-shirts that she’s had printed. It’s a bad photoshop job: a stick figure of someone in a Superman-flying position, with Pete’s head–the picture from the party–attached, and today’s date on the bottom. People are talking, excited, and cynical, and bored.
He lights a cigarette. A few people notice, and turn around, and begin clapping. He makes his way through. People grab his hands, clap him on the back, wish him good luck, want his autograph, and he looks straight ahead, ignores them all. Reporters thrust microphones in his face, ask him how he learned to fly, how old he was when he first knew he could fly, how he likes working for Trader Joe’s, what Trader Joe himself is really like, ha ha, what the bells mean, what his favorite food there is, what the managers are like, what his coworkers are like, who his favorite pilots and stuntmen are.
He holds his cigarette high so it doesn’t get crushed. The temptation to rise above the crowd is certainly there, but he’s not going to bow to their level, and eventually he makes his way to the front, where the stands are. The sign artist makes a joke that she’s going to charge him for the t-shirt, but gives him one for free, and a bagel is put in his hand. “You need to eat,” Bill says. “Don’t want you yakking on the crowd from high up.” His coworkers snicker at him, but smile–he’s well-liked so they don’t hate him too much. He turns to one, asks if she can scare up some coffee for him, and the expression on his face tells her he’s looking for a friend, not a servant, so she’s more than happy to.
And suddenly there is Tim, with a pretty woman in her thirties. “Pete!” He hugs Pete theatrically, smiles at a reporter taking a picture.
“ I’m very excited about this,” the woman is saying. “Mr. Lakeside–can I call you Pete–have you ever thought about going into television?”
Pete has not.
“You would be a natural. I hear many good things about you. We could pitch a reality series. What it’s like for a young grocery store employee who’s directionless but happy, when he discovers he has superpowers.”
“I’m none of those things,” Pete says. “I’m not directionless and I’m not happy.”
“We’ll iron out the details later,” Tim says. And to the woman: “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. I’ve got to talk to Pete for a few.”
When she leaves, Tim grins. “I hope she makes me fuck her to solidify the deal.”
“I don’t want to do this,” Pete says.
“Pete. Consider this the pep talk. You’ve got to. All these people are so excited, all these people are here for this, you’re gonna make every one of those people–me especially–really happy. And maybe you’re not the only one. Maybe there are other people who can fly, you know, and they’re all scared to. You’re being brave–you’re gonna be a role model. They’ll see you and realize that it’s okay to fly, you know, that they’re as normal as you. You’ll have so much money you won’t know what to do with it. And look, you’ll be able to get any guy you want after this, you know that? You’ll just look at any guy and say, I like you, I pick you, and he’ll come follow. Your days of being single are over.”
And with that, it’s time.
Bill finishes his introduction. They’d constructed a tiny platform in the parking lot, and Pete finds himself on it. Someone takes a hoop and puts it over him to show that there are no wires. Pete motions for the microphone.
“Hey,” Pete says. “This isn’t a magic trick, not really. It’s something I can do. But if I’m going to do this, you all need to be very quiet. I can’t have any of you talking. I don’t want to think while I’m doing this, I don’t want to be distracted. Turn that fucking music off.” A few of the audience members widen a bit, and the music is silenced.
Tim comes forward with the balloons, but Pete waves them away. “I don’t need that shit.” He gives Tim the microphone.
And he jumps, and he’s floating two feet above the ground.
The audience gasps.
He floats a little up, and he’s four feet off the ground, and five feet, and six. This is as easy to him as blinking. A few members begin to applaud. Some stop when they see his expression, but some don’t, and that group seems to be getting bigger, so he makes a show of slipping down a foot or so, which stops them. He climbs back to six feet, then goes to seven. It’s not very difficult at all once he’s up there, so he goes to eight, and ten feet.
And what now? He was never briefed, never told how long to stay afloat. Maybe I’ll give myself ten minutes, he thinks. Ten minutes should be fine.
He looks down, and he sees a few customers, regulars, some of whom he likes and some of whom he can’t stand, he sees the reporters, cameramen, people from local newspaper and television stations, photographers, people taking journalistic shots and people taking sentimental shots and a guy from his college that he knows slightly taking shots which make a statement on the human condition. And he sees the sign artist, and Bill, and the girl who brought him the coffee. And he sees Tim, and Tim smiles at him, and Pete smiles back. And really, it’s easy when Tim is smiling at him. Why, it’s like he’s doing this just for him. And Pete decides to go higher and he floats to fifteen feet in one clip and it’s as natural as anything.
But let’s draw some Venn diagrams: A circle representing everyone. A smaller circle inside that representing men A smaller circle inside that representing men who enjoy dating other men. A smaller circle inside that representing men who enjoy dating other men that he is physically attracted to. A smaller circle inside that representing men who enjoy dating other men that he is physically attracted to that are physically attracted to him. A smaller circle inside that representing men who enjoy dating other men that he is physically attracted to that are physically attracted to him that have personalities that he’s interested in. A smaller circle inside that representing men who enjoy dating other men that he is physically attracted to that are physically attracted to him that have personalities that he’s interested in that are interested in his personality. A smaller circle inside that representing men who enjoy dating other men that he is physically attracted to that are physically attracted to him that have personalities that he’s interested in that are interested in his personality that are also able to float or fly or whatever the fuck he’s able to do. He’s too demoralized now to think of any other restrictions, though there are probably dozens, hundreds, definitely more restrictions than men capable of passing through all of them, so he stops. Even if it were a sizable population that were left, and that’s doubtful, he’d still have to consider distance, still have to consider how to possibly meet these guys. He looks at Tim, and really, what did he expect? That by floating he’d somehow shatter the concentric circles, that that’d override the other obstacles? That Tim would be able to float too and that they really were a match?
He is fifteen feet up in the air and looking down on a throng of people as if he were a god, and he thinks, I’m really not like any of you, you know. I’m the only one in the world who can do this. And this doesn’t make me special. And he looks at Tim again, and he falters an inch or two, for real this time, so he looks away, looks forward, doesn’t think.
And really, at this point he could do anything. He’s sure that he could float up twenty, forty, a million feet if he wanted to, could
float into outer space. Or he could fly, he knows that if he wanted to it’d be in his power to fly anywhere. He could let himself just crash down too, he could just turn it off, or he could just stand there in the air, hang out, until everyone gets bored and leaves.
He’s not sure. He’ll give himself the ten minutes then he’ll make a decision.