Fool’s Odyssey 3

Fool's Odyssey

To read Fool’s Odyssey from the beginning, click here.

Chapter One: April Fool’s Day

And so it began.

I bought a ticket for midnight, April first, one way to London.

Why London?

I haven’t the foggiest.

No pun intended.

OK, pun intended.

I mean, where else do you begin looking for yourself

except for somewhere other than where you are?

Don’t answer that.

 

Those old charter airline terminals were so godawful weird.

I don’t know what it was, quite,

the pasty orange and yellow walls

or the steward who looked like he shaved from the inside out,

and raised mushrooms for fun and profit

in his spare time

in his hair.

 

After filling out the waiver

that said I wouldn’t hold them responsible

for what happened to me,

I had the feeling a strange South American doctor

would suddenly run up and want to perform surgery on me

with a dull Swiss Army knife.

 

I wanted to be free,

to be up in the air

in a clean aluminum and vinyl jet

with big, strong, masculine

Rolls-Royce engines.

 

Nevertheless,

there was a kind of fellowship there,

a splendid, internal sort of aching,

as we sat together, all of us passengers,

staring at the bloody mustard-colored walls,

and sticking together like gluey little aphid babies.

 

Finally, we swarmed aboard.

I’d already seen the movie and the earphones hurt.

What was I doing there?

The floor groaned.

I held the plane together.

 

Then suddenly we were up,

up in the clean air, the friendly skies.

The stewardesses (stewardi?)

were lovely but aloof—

like those little African deer.

We climbed swiftly.

The little deer bounded about

checking seat belts in the marshy lowlands

and carefully removing complimentary drinks

from the paws of the great polyknit-bemaned lioni

who yawned and stretched in the first class, grassy veldtland

of the foremost northern plane.

 

This swiftly fleeting vestibule,

this Herculean dart,

was, for five hours, like an orange

lobbed by a snotty, laughing, happy youth.

And when it came down in Bangor, Maine,

there was a good, drippy, succulent splat!

And we, like so many giggling, sticky aphid babies,

slid out with the seeds,

glinting in the punchy early-morning

freeze-dried coffee sunrise,

mainly,

in Maine.

Bangor, Maine.

Bangor, Maine?

Ah, what’s in a name?

 

And then,

pound-thrust, thrust-pound, rush-roar–

ain’t no big thing, we done this before.

See the sea?

Water, water, water, water–

clouds.

To read Fool’s Odyssey 4, click here.

About mitchteemley

Writer, Filmmaker, Humorist, Thinker-about-stuffer
This entry was posted in Culture, Fool's Odyssey, Memoir, Poetry, Religion/Faith, Story Power and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to Fool’s Odyssey 3

  1. Pingback: Fool’s Odyssey 2 | Mitch Teemley

  2. mimiseton says:

    I love your writing, Mitch. Always. This piece made me laugh a LOT. Fabulous imagery. I was not sure about the ending. . . were you taking off for England, or crashing! It took me a moment to determine you lived.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. mimiseton says:

    Cut one of those ‘just’s.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Sue Ranscht says:

    Read. Re-read. Tapped into the right hemisphere of my brain and read again (a very nimble-minded trick). And even after all of that, I still have no idea what “the steward who looked like he shaved from the inside out,” looks like.

    Liked by 1 person

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