Fog Bastards 1 Intention

by Bill Robinson

  I close my eyes, and spread my arms wide, palms open, giving in. I can see the light penetrate the fog even through my closed lids, bright as the sun ever is. I can feel the living light envelope me, crawl inside me, then squeeze itself down into some dark place I didn't know I had. Then I dream, clear as all the others. I'm five, maybe six, playing catch with my dad, my mom watching us. It's in a park near where we used to live, a little stucco house in Anaheim, in a neighborhood we'd never go near today. I miss the ball and run out into the street after it, both my parents yelling at me to stop. I don't hear them, nor the car bearing down on me. I do hear the screeching tires before it hits me, I hear my bones break against the pavement. I hear my mom scream my name, full of terror, knowing what she'll find. I hear my parents cry, I hear laughter somewhere far away.

  It's nine when I open my eyes. I have to throw up. I do it twice, and think about doing it a dozen times more. I should go run, but I dive into the shower. It's almost 10 when I get out. I'm operating on sheer instinct, packing my bad, getting down to breakfast, downing a large orange juice, and meeting my crew for the flight home. I'm flying this segment, and if I were a passenger, I'd be scared shitless right now.

  Routine saves me. All flying today is checklists. You start at the top, run down them, and you'll get where you're going in one piece. For a pilot, life is a checklist. Do steps 1 through 42 before getting on the plane. We can do them in our sleep. By the time I'm sitting in my seat, my head is clear enough. By the time we're cleared and settled at 33,000 feet, I've thrown off almost all the baggage. It'll be back, I'm sure, but the air, the clouds, the sun have conspired with me. And, I have no sensation of having a light somewhere down inside me.

  Captain Amos was my teacher. I wonder if he can still play the part, so I ask him a question.

  "Hypothetically, if you woke up tomorrow and were Superman, what would you do?"

  He looks at me quizzically. "You had to say ‘hypothetically' with that question? Do you think it might really happen to me?"

  "You know what I mean. Guys in the comic books get bit by a spider one day, and they're saving the world the next. What do you think it would really be like?"

  He scratched his chin, which for the first time I had ever seen, he had not shaved. Maybe the flight attendant paid him a visit last night too. I have a sudden mental image of that which I do not find pleasant.

  "Do you really think any of those secret identities would last more than a week before people figured out who you were? How do they make a uniform that doesn't get ripped to shreds every five seconds? And that strong, how would they not hurt or kill anyone they went after? I don't see how it could possibly work. I'd probably do my best to keep it a secret, help out where I could, try not to wreck the city to save a cat."

  Secret identity. Spandex. Things I hadn't considered. I'm not wearing spandex. Uniform? Should I buy a pair of glasses to wear? Then I decide to try an experiment. There's a steel handle to my right used to steer the landing gear on the ground. It's a circle of metal, open in the middle for your fingers. I put my hand around the outside and squeeze as hard as I can. Nothing. Doesn't even move a millimeter. I am no stronger than I was yesterday. Maybe the whole thing was a test, and I failed or passed or whatever. I'm suddenly happier than I've been in days.

  I'm in love with the approach controller who clears us to descend, and then direct Santa Monica, even though he's a he. I don't mind the bumps we're getting from the Santa Ana winds. I think the tower controller is the coolest ever, even when she gives me 2-5 left clearance and our gate is on the other side of the airport. I no longer am bothered by the potholes that LA County won't patch on the runway. The 1970s carpet in the terminal looks great.

  I pat Starbuck's steering wheel, and sing country songs all the way to Jen's apartment in Costa Mesa. Half hour later I'm inside her, our hands locked together over her head, she begging me to fuck her harder, and me doing my damnedest to comply. Half hour after that, she's riding me until I can't take any more. Half hour after that we're both blissfully, and dreamlessly, asleep.

  Chapter 4

  Sunday morning I'm up and ready to go (in more ways than one). Jen crawls out of bed, grabs her gym bag, grabs my gym clothes from the drawer and throws them at me. I get the hint, and soon we're at the gym sharing side by side treadmills. It is exactly what I need. I run and run and run until I can run no more. Jen's already over working the weights, and I join her for a little while there too.

  I'm getting a weird vibe from the co-pilot's seat as I pilot Starbuck toward my place so I can change before going over to the parents'. I pull my pants off to hit the shower and she's there, taking me in her mouth, finishing me off while I lean against the wall. I help her up, and we jump into the shower to clean each other.

  Halloween is waiting when we pull back the shower curtain to get out of the tub, and she follows me around until it's time to go. I tell her I'll be back to spend the night, but I'm not sure she believes me.

  Starbuck gets us to mom's ahead of schedule, a small house in a nice gated community in Irvine. Mom's first question is an inquiry into what we've been doing all day, which I answer with a partial truth: the gym. I'm pretty sure that she would never believe that Jen is the queen of oral sex, much less that we just did it standing up.

  We spend the rest of the day drinking wine, watching dad barbeque, and playing with the dogs. Eventually I remind them that Jen has to be at work at 8 the next morning, and we say our goodbyes. I drop her at her place, and head further north to mine.

  Halloween gets a treat, I wash and dry a load of clothes, and then it's off to bed.

  That was a mistake.

  This fog is a lion or tiger, not some little five pound cat. It's warm, thick, choking me. It's moving too, and not in a gentle breeze. The swirls are of hurricane proportions, as if the fog is pissed at me. Little fog balls flash randomly through the air, sometimes missing my head by inches, darting across the limited sky at Mach speed. The path has changed. It is in front of me, but not behind. The evil grass has spread its roots, and now occupies 270 degrees of the world. There is only one way now.

  My boulder is gone from the path. I can't even see if the other boulder is there or not, the fog's too thick. I hear the boots, echoing this time through the fog. Fear strikes me that maybe death is today, maybe within three years actually meant one day. Then the fog backs away, the swirls slow to a stop, and the fog balls start acting like they're on an LA freeway during rush hour.

  He walks through the wall of the retreating fog, stops, points the end of his staff at me. I shudder, then give in. But nothing happens. The staff points back to the sky.

  "You have chosen wisely."

  "Thanks, Indiana Jones," I am as sarcastic as I can be. I think the dude has earned it. "But I'm no different than I was yesterday."

  "You are. The light will explain it to you when it is ready. We want you to have control over when the power is used, not to have it on all the time. To access it, reach down inside yourself, grab the light, and speak any word."

  "I have to say ‘Shazam?' Are you guys that into cliches?" More sarcasm. I don't care what the fog dude thinks.

  "We may have borrowed the idea, but no, any word, and it can be a different word every time or the same. It simply is a declaration of intention. Hold the light in your inner hand, and speak a word of intention."

  He keeps going. "The light will teach you and I will guide you. You're going to have to trust me, listen, and do what I say."

  "Oh," I am mad as well as sarcastic, "We make sacred pact. I say, you do. Wax on left hand, wax off right hand."

  The Fog Mr. Miyagi ignores me and goes on. "You don't have work in the morning. To begin your training...."

  Get a wet ball in the face. I open my eyes, and Halloween is sitting there, looking at me. She gives me a mew and jumps off of the bed. She is my hero. There is not enough catnip in the world for her. I think she needs some new toys, and she needs them now! Six in the morning,
I really do hop out of bed, happy to be alive, owner of the bestest cat that ever walked, fog or no fog.

  I get my running stuff on and head to the beach. For a mile and a half I try to find my inner hand and the light. Dude said it was there, but fuck if I can find it. Instead of heading home, I try circling the light house a couple times, speaking with "intent." I try "Shazam" about 50 times, in every different tone of voice I can think of, but I guess I don't know what "intent" means. I conclude that this whole thing is one giant joke.

  Only one thing bothers me. I get the feeling I'm being laughed at, that the joke's on me. Not the people at the lighthouse, not the people on the beach, the laughter is coming from inside of me.

  I spend the day doing nothing. Go to the gym and lift, refill the fridge, go to the pet store and stock up on balls, read my usual three newspapers. Nothing laughs at me. Jen calls to say she has to work late, and she'll be waiting for me after I get back Wednesday night (actually, she's a little more graphic about what's going to happen Wednesday night). I think about calling some flying buddies and going out, but instead I settle on beer and brats at the beach. I down two beers and one brat, then grab a third beer, and spend the next three hours sitting in the sand, watching the sun turn the evening sky a gorgeous red on its way down, and the waves roll across the beach and my brain.

  My mind at peace, I head upstairs, tell Halloween to keep me safe, and crawl into bed.

  Tonight there's a catty sort of fog, cooler than usual, hardly a swirl in sight. I can see the path pretty clearly, no boulders. The evil grass is swaying in the breeze, something I don't remember it ever doing before. I hear the boots, I know who's coming. I'd really like to see his face, but I doubt it's ever going to happen.

  "It's time we got to work. The first step is...."

  A wet ball in my face. Halloween is standing there, mewing. I throw the ball across the room, and she bounds happily after it. The clock says it's only 1 a.m., Fog Dude was early, but the cat never rests. I roll back over and fall asleep.

  The fog has gotten warmer, and there is a noticeable wind which is moving the grass with great vigor, but not affecting the fog at all. It's a good thing I'm past worrying about the laws of physics. I don't hear boots because he's standing exactly where I left him. He takes a step forward and the staff starts to point in my direction.

  "You need to...."

  Get another ball in my face. It's four a.m. now, and I throw the ball. Halloween expects more payment this time, and she quickly grabs it in her mouth and brings it back for a second toss. I never accommodate such requests in the middle of the night, but she has been a life saver, and she deserves everything I can give her. I try to make this one extra bouncy.

  Back I slip into the nether world of sleep. The fog has gone technicolor. There are blue wisps, red wisps, green wisps and yellow wisps in the swirls. I find them beautiful, but wonder if they mean the fog is mad. Mad fog. Yes, I have reached the point where I accept the concept of mad fog. The fog dude is instantly there, no walking, no transporter beam either. His cloak is blacker, if that is possible, blacker than before. He might be mad too.

  He starts to say something, then quickly looks up, ducks slightly, and grimaces. "Shit" is all he says before my cheek goes wet again, and I lift my head off the pillow.

  It's six a.m., and I am feeling both totally refreshed and pleased. I go for my run, looking again for that inner hand. I don't find it, but the internal laughter has changed, it's laughing with me now, not at me. I think it likes the mad fog.

  Off to LAX, we push back from the gate on time. Another captain I've worked with many times, plus the same flight attendant who visited my room last week and four fresh ones. Checking the crew roster saved me from having to say hello without knowing her name. She didn't say a word to me on or after last week's adventure, and didn't say anything today, or even give me a little smile. Kinda weird. Maybe it's because she knows about Jen, and is letting me know she won't be dropping by tonight.

  "Mountain 4-6-1, wind 2-2-0 at 1-5, cleared for takeoff."

  I push the button, help the throttles, wait for rotation speed, grab my yoke, and point the nose skyward. The tower sends us to departure control. I'm have a feeling we need to turn hard today, and that's exactly what happens.

  "Mountain 4-6-1, turn left to 1-8-0, maintain 3-thousand."

  It's unusual, but not wildly so, we go from almost due west to truly due south, and I'm sure it won't last long. Actually, less than a minute.

  "Mountain 4-6-1, turn right to 2-4-0, maintain 1-7-thousand."

  They've got us on a course to fly the two sides of the triangle, which will make it look like we flew the hypotenuse. We climb into the cloud layer, and break out into the bright morning sky. I am now trained to look for the giant version of Fog Dude, but he only made the one cameo appearance and hasn't returned. Not that I am disappointed.

  We're quickly cleared to our cruising altitude, and onto our flight plan, which means we set the "LNAV" button on to navigate (L is for lateral), and set 17000 into the altitude selector window. (Yes, we make everything sound way cooler than it really is.) The flight management computer can fly smoother and cleaner than any human, but you don't want the FMS flying you in bad weather or in a real emergency.

  Before long we're at 35,000 feet, seat belt sign off, cruising comfortably toward paradise. And to think I could have taken the Cleveland route and be fighting thunderstorms for four hours across America.

  We play a game for the passengers of "guess the mid point" where they get to write the time down when they think we will be exactly half way between LAX and KOA. The winner gets a free something, I've never bothered to find out what. That takes us a few minutes to set up, then it's just the usual checks on the hour and half-hour. If we're leaking fuel, it would be nice to know when we can still do something about it.

  We go through security procedure to get some beverages, and hit the head. I've got a clipboard in my lap, my coffee cup on the console, a pen in my right hand entering data on fuel consumption when I know I have to stop. I've given up trying to find out how I know anything anymore, but my head just pops straight up.

  Ken, my captain, looks over at me, and being a veteran captain, he is both puzzled and alert at the same time. If we have to act, it is often with only a few seconds notice.

  "There's something wrong." Now he's probably thinking that "act" means locking me in one of the overhead bins.

  "What?"

  "I don't know, but we need to find out."

  He's already been scanning his instruments, not sure what to make of his first officer.

  "FSuhcikt" That's him saying "Shit" and me saying "Fuck" at exactly the same instant. Big planes have cockpit voice recorders. When they crash, 99 out of 100 times the last word on the recorder is "Shit" so Ken is more correct than I am, but I am a big fan of the "F" word. I'm pretty sure the last word the Air France guys said before they hit the Atlantic was "merde."

  The clipboard is thrown aside, I grab my yoke, and push the button to turn off the auto pilot. The plane asks me if I really want to do that. I push the button again to say yes. Then I speak to Ken.

  "Descend?" It's my controls, but his plane.

  "Fast, please."

  I push forward hard, not worried about all the coffee I'm about to spill in the cabin, but wishing we had time to warn the flight attendants to sit. Not a second later the cockpit is crazy with horns and a mechanical voice screaming "Descend! Descend! Descend!" Ken switches that shit off (ok, shit works better in that sentence, I'll give you that), and recommends an even stronger angle of descent. I'm way ahead of him.

  Every big plane, and lots of small ones, have a device on board called a TCAS, which is a collision avoidance system. What we had seen on the HSI screen was a little red diamond of another aircraft at our altitude and heading right toward us from the north on a collision course.

  Ken's got visual, he points at it. "Fucking Gulfstream." Proper use of "fuck" by him this time. A
Gulfstream is a large private jet.

  I turn the computer back on, and let Mr. Boeing's creation return us to the correct course, speed, and altitude.

  Ken has the mic in his hand, and his finger's on the button to talk to the passengers, but he waits a second. Just because we practice this stuff all the time, doesn't mean our hearts don't get to racing. I am watching the instruments, and trying to get back to calm as well.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Captain Montara. You may have noticed we took a slight deviation in our routing. Once we are this far over water there are no radar stations tracking us and keeping other planes away. Instead, we work with a control center in Oakland who is talking to every aircraft out here, and in theory, plotting their courses, altitudes, and speeds to make sure they stay away from each other."