Fog Bastards 1 Intention

by Bill Robinson

  "As you are now aware, that system is imperfect. Fortunately, we saw other aircraft far enough away. I've been flying this route for eight years, and today is the first time this has ever happened to me, and I sincerely hope it's the last. I apologize for any inconvenience, and suggest you sit back, relax, and enjoy the rest of our flight."

  Not long after he finished, we hear a bell, which means that the chief flight attendant wants to chat. I only hear one side of that conversation, but from Ken's description after he hangs up, all hell had broken loose. No one was seriously hurt, though a couple passengers, and all the flight attendants, had bruises. They were starting free alcohol service, so soon no one would be feeling any pain.

  Now we have work to do. First we send Oakland a really nasty email. We have both electronic and voice communication, but the voice is full of static, and we never use it if we can avoid it. Then we send our company an email, letting them know what had happened.

  Finally, all our work done, Ken looks over at me.

  "How the hell did you know?"

  "I have no fucking idea. Maybe I caught the diamond in my peripheral vision and my subconscious wigged out on it."

  Our high frequency radio starts chirping, meaning that Oakland is trying for voice communication. We can barely make it out, but it's an apology, and notice that the Gulfstream was both off course and at the wrong altitude. Nice of them to make the effort to say it, not just email it, even though it wasn't their fault.

  I still can't quite get back to normal. It's like I have to burp, but it won't come out.

  We're about 300 miles out when our email dings us, and the company tells us our maintenance people have flown from Honolulu and are in Kona, and they want to inspect the aircraft. They also will have paramedics ready on landing, though we are sure now that no one needs them.

  At the usual spot, we contact Hawaii approach.

  "Hawaii, Mountain 4-6-1 with you flight level 3-9-0."

  "Mountain 4-6-1, Hawaii approach, radar contact, descend pilot's discretion 8-thousand, direct Kona, cleared visual approach runway 1-7."

  Apparently, they've cleared everyone out of our way, and we are number one with a bullet. Radar contact has a nice sound to it. Between LA and Cleveland, you are in radar contact all the way. Maybe that's not such a bad route after all.

  Twenty minutes later we're stopped at gate 9 running the after landing checklist, when our flight deck (cockpit to you old school folks) is unexpectedly full. The two pilots flying our bird back to LA, a maintenance person, and the Honolulu operations manager are all trying to crowd their way in.

  Ken tells them to get out. Captain Amos is there, chief pilot, so that doesn't work on him, but everybody else leaves. Ken gets "the look," and starts talking. He gives me all the credit for catching it before the electronics, and for flying through it without killing anybody.

  I add my two cents, "It handled normally during descent and landing, no sign that I could tell of any damage." Ken agrees.

  The three of us go join the maintenance crew (apparently two had stayed outside when the one had tried to crash out party) and the manager doing an extended walk around. It appears that, indeed, no damage had been done. I still need to burp, but I don't consider that important enough damage to report.

  Ken and Captain Amos had been talking and walking the plane by themselves. They come back around to where I'm standing, and Captain Amos whispers in my ear, "How did you know?"

  I shake my head and make the palms up, arms out, shoulders squishy move that relays my lack of knowledge. The captain pats me on the back, and signals his first officer to get on board. Ken and I turn toward the gate. There are 188 passengers staring at all the activity around the aircraft they are about to board. Should make for a fun trip for the flight attendants.

  We get to the Royal Kona as the flight attendants are gathering at the bar. They grab our bags to prevent us from going upstairs, and make us tell them what really went on. Ken plays up the "we would be dead if Simon wasn't a psychic" angle, which is likely not true, we would have just had a quicker descent and more injuries in the back.

  Our food arrives, and we eat as, one by one, they all show off their bruises and we debate whose is biggest, baddest, and ugliest. Laughter is the best medicine. The flight attendants have a tough job, they couldn't control the plane, they didn't know exactly what was going on, they were outnumbered 40 to one by the passengers, and yet they kept everything together, under control, and running smoothly, despite the bruises.

  Finally, I get to go upstairs. I change into my running clothes, get to the beach, and run for an hour. In the sun and humidity, it's more than enough, especially since I still have not been able to burp. I get the shower going as hot as I can, get naked and get in. Then the burp hits, loudly enough that I think the whole hotel heard it.

  I get clean, though I'm feeling bothered again, same as on the flight, but it's not a Gulfstream on attack vector. I go back into my room, still naked, grab my e-reader, finish the morning papers, work on a sleazy novel I've been reading a page at a time for months, and scratch my balls occasionally. The clock says it's eight, after sundown. I need to pee, so I go take care of it.

  Then it hits me. I never turned the light on in the front room, or bathroom, which does not have a window, yet I can see as plain as day. It should be dark in here, really dark. It occurs to me, in the way that things have been occurring to me lately, that I burped light. I say that to myself again: I burped light. Could be worse. It could have been a magic fart.

  I walk back into the room itself. The curtains are closed, the lights are off, but it's bright in here. I peek back at the bathroom, and it's dark in there. Just call me Brother Love, I am a traveling salvation light show. I sit down on the bed, in what should be a dark room, cross my legs, and close my eyes. I learned meditation techniques in college, but running always did the same thing and gave me a cute ass at the same time. Momentarily I wonder if sitting naked on the bedspread in a hotel room is wise, then decide getting the DNA of 40 men on me isn't my biggest worry right now.

  I work to breathe in rhythm, relax and calm myself. The room is dark, except my eyes, even shut, are telling me there's light out there. Makes it harder to focus, but not impossible. I don't know how long I sit quietly, but later I'll figure out that is was a couple hours.

  At some point, the light must mistake my meditation for acceptance, because it dims, and then sure as heck I know how to reach inside myself. I hold the light in my hand (virtual, not actually my hand), and feeling extremely stupid, whisper "Shazam," not knowing if I actually have intention.

  Nothing happens, except it goes dark. I open my eyes, not sensing any difference other than I am no longer a human flashlight. I stretch my legs out, slide to the end of the bed and stand. I have trouble gauging the distance to the floor, and almost fall. Pausing a second to stabilize, then head back into the bathroom to finish up from my shower, I hit the light switch, though it takes two tries. This light must have really fraked with my balance.

  There is a man in the mirror and he is not me. I jump and something unintentional comes out of my mouth. He's taller. Maybe six foot four. Where my hair is brown, his is black, though both of us have short spikey hair. His face is long, mine is rounder. We have the same nose. The iris of each eye is black, inhuman, shiny, mine are blue. His muscles are ripped and huge, mine are tight, but not bulgy. There's a salami between his legs. I have a nice brat, but this is a serious Kosher salami.

  Just to make sure, I reach up with both hands and run them over my face and then down over everything, even the salami. It's really me. No way my clothes are going on over this body, and I have no idea how I'm going to leave my room. The light says to squeeze, though it has no voice. I close my eyes and search for that inner hand, find it, and squeeze the light back in. When I open my eyes, I'm me again.

  I get dressed and run down stairs. The gift shop is directly across from the elevator and it's about to close for the evening, b
ut I convince the clerk I have an emergency. I don't tell her I just burped light. I grab an XXL sand colored swimsuit and an XXL t shirt emblazoned with a sea turtle swimming under water, throw three twenties at her for a $50 outfit, and run for the elevator.

  The room is dark and I leave it that way, returning to the bed in my naked meditation pose. I close my eyes, find the hand, grasp the light. It slips out. I try again, but now I can't find the hand. I'm way too anxious and not being helped by the light laughing at me, the bastard. Can a light have parents? Is it possible that they were married? Bastard. Pretty sure that's the truth.

  I spend more time just breathing. The hand is easy to find now, I gently hold the light and speak, "Fuck me," which apparently is full of intention. A rush of something courses through me which I know is the light. Then there is light in the room for a couple seconds, but I really don't care. This is better than sex, or at least better than all but the last 20 seconds of sex, and it's in every inch of me, feet to head. I breathe a couple of times just to enjoy the after glow.

  I can't see my face, but I grab for the salami and it's there. Still in the dark, I carefully exit the bed, realizing now that my longer legs will take getting used to. I put on the outfit and grab my room key. I am tempted to just leave, but I decide it's better to check and make sure that I look human before I go, after all, I did not buy underwear so I am going commando. The same new face stares back at me, shakes it's head, and barefoot, exits the room.

  Without any doubt, I could get to the ground floor by going through the concrete to get there, all I'd have to do is step harder. I would describe the feeling better, but no human being has the words for it. I've never moved so fast. I head down the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, and I am able to travel from landing to landing in great leaps (single bounds?). I break the lock on the door to the street I'm in such a hurry to get it open, forgetting that it's after 10.

  There's no real beach in Kona, so I jog up the road toward Kahalu`u Bay. I get there after it's technically closed, except that a couple homeless people are always hanging around. I don't know what to do with myself, how do you learn to be Superman? I decide to see how high I can jump. My normal hops are about 18 inches, so in my mind I think 150 feet? Then I think about coming down from that height. I turn toward the ocean so whatever happens I'll end up in the water. The light can barely contain itself laughing.

  I bend my legs, take a deep breath, hold it, close my eyes, grimace slightly, and jump as hard as I can. Don't know how high I got, but when I open my eyes, I'm well above the Outrigger hotel just next to the bay, and it's 12 stories. I am also well out over the ocean, the wind in my face, dropping toward the dark surface below. I am scared shitless and screaming like a little girl. I hit the water hard, slide quickly 20 feet or so below sea level, and then bob to the surface, my swim trunks and nose full of water and slimy something. It didn't hurt, except that I have no manliness remaining, and I have to spend a couple minutes treading water, cleaning out my pants, portals, and pride.

  I swim to shore with a couple strokes and a few kicks. I look back and have literally left a wake behind me. I turn to the ocean and do it all over again without the screaming. Then a third time and a fourth. The last time I end up a long way off shore, my brain thinks at least a mile, which makes me sure I have this part down, and I'm enjoying it. Actually, I don't know what jumping into the ocean has to do with saving the world anyway.

  There's a car, an old school Civic, parked on the side of the road. I get a crazy idea. Walking over, I stand in front of it, reach down with my right hand, and lift. I get the front end a couple feet up before I realize there is no way to get under it without damaging it. I put it back down, walk over to the passenger side, reach back down, tilt it up and then put my left hand on the underside. Ten seconds later I am walking down Ali'i Drive carrying a vintage automobile. I go 100 feet, put it down, and discover I've bent the side panel in. I decide to leave the car where it is.

  Ok, so not really sure what I'm doing. Running, it occurs to me, running is safe. I do what I used to think was a jog, but is probably faster than I can run when I'm me. Down Ali'i and then up the big hill to Keauhou shopping center, then up the bigger hill to the Queen's highway. I've run three miles up roads that are as close to straight up as any road I have ever been on, at 20 plus miles per hour, and it's nothing, not even breathing hard. As a side benefit, the running has dried my clothes.

  At the top of the hill I turn right at the stop light, heading away from town, and put the hammer down. It doesn't look anything like it does on TV. Nothing appears to be moving fast, but it does. I think I'm getting sea sick. The rocks and grass are moving at normal speed and they are zooming by me at the same time.

  I ignore the ground and focus on going faster. The air pushes back. Am I at the speed of sound? On the ground? Like a hound? Alright, so I am too happy being this fast and my inner Dr. Seuss is coming out. I work harder and push faster, even as the air fights back. And then there is no sound. Which means I'm found, on the ground, in one big bound.

  A real thought hits me. If you can run 100 times as fast as a normal person, then you have to be able to think 100 times as fast as a normal person, your nerves have to impulse 100 times faster than normal, etc., etc., and I do not think any of that is happening. My brain is still the same screwed on sideways lumpy thing it always was.

  I stop. I have traveled 10 miles or so up the road, in about a minute, my rough mental calculation says I averaged about the same speed as my 757 in total, though obviously faster at the end. I look back at where I have come, and utter one of my less nice epithets. The road is a disaster. I walk back toward town at normal human speed, passing my footprints which are about 15 feet apart, and six inches down into the road surface.

  The spot where I broke the speed of sound is obvious too. I generated a shock wave, the same thing that creates a sonic boom. From where I stopped back to that spot the entire road is ripped, bent, torn. Lumps of asphalt litter what was the road surface, and the shoulders as well. Three miles of pavement are undriveable. My year's salary would not be enough to undo the damage I have done. Having fun. Without the sun. How could I be so dumb?

  I go back to my 20 or so mile per hour jog, head into town, down the Kamehameha III road to Keauhou center, and back up Ali'i to the bay. The light is feeling sorry for me. It suggests flying. Which does not mean it says anything, I just suddenly know how to fly, and since I never did before, it must be my luminous friend.

  Standing on the little strip of sand at the bay, next to the bathroom complex, my bare feet feel the sand beneath them as any feet feel any sand. I curl my toes and push the sand around. Then I let myself really touch the sand. The molecules are mine. I gather them beneath my feet and align them just so, they have force, and I can take it from them. I have them push and then I wish I hadn't.

  If jumping was terrifying, flying is much, much worse. I am easily 400 feet up, easily moving at 400 knots, easily 400 feet out over the ocean, and easily again screaming like a little girl at 400 decibels.

  I forgot to ask how to steer. I reach out for air molecules with my feet, the only body part I know how to find them with, and have them pull me back in. I'm standing on them, very high up, asking them nicely to put me down slowly. Molecules apparently don't understand English. They drop me, or I drop them, or we drop each other, but I manage to find them again after falling about 394 feet and screaming 3,940 times. So now I am standing on air, six feet above ground. I am still stupid enough to ask the molecules for a little push.

  I discover that the sand on the beach is only a foot and a half deep. I discover that my head and neck together are less than that. I discover that whatever magical hair gel the light used on me is resistant to sand and impact. I discover it's dark under the ground.

  Feeling even more stupid, I pull my head out of the beach's ass, and admire the further additional damage I have done this evening. I am done and WALKING back to the hotel, the light
urging me to run the whole time. It's like a five year old whispering at me to go ahead and jump off the roof, it won't hurt, and the cape we made out of a bath towel will slow my fall. The sun's coming up anyhow, and I have no desire to be on YouTube.

  I can bend steel in my bare hands. If there was a train, I'm sure I could kick the locomotive's ass. No bullet could beat me in the 40 yard dash. I can leap tall hotels screaming like a nine year old girl. I can cause more damage than humanly possible.

  I pass one of the flight attendants out for her jog, say hey, and she completely ignores the come on from the unknown man. Good disguise at least. I think briefly about jumping up to my room, but figure that might cause too much of a commotion, so I head into the stairwell. It is a typical design, metal and concrete stairs in a square circle (you know what I mean), with an opening in the middle that goes all the way to the ceiling. I stand at the bottom and give in to the light, which is egging me on. I jump as straight up as I can, which is a stupid thing to do, turns out you can't steer while jumping either, and the light is not your friend. It laughs, at me now, not with me.