The Day of Wreckoning
Four hours out of Chicago, somewhere over the Nevada desert, the mother of all lightning bolts struck the engine on the right wing and it went dead. The fear of death gripped our private airplane like a hand clutching a gemstone in rictus. Dave was on the floor in the back, inspired. It was rumored that Dave was Jimi Hendrix’s grandson. He might have been. He was found in a big plastic trash can, floating down the Mississippi River, three months old. He was raised in an orphanage until the age of twelve when he walked out the front door, following the sound of a traveling band. He played guitar all night and slept all day. Three years later he was gigging. In the belly of the storm, guitar in hand, “Are you hearing this? We should have died years ago! The sound of fear! Death sounds, man! It’s groovy!” Dave was the inspiration for the name of the band, Atomic Rocket. His guitar playing was so edgy, so fierce, that rock ‘n roll journalists started describing his playing like the sound of atomic fusion. Before that, we had called ourselves Moebius Strip Club. I liked the first name better, but people responded to Atomic Rocket. Record sales improved.
Our bassist, Fish, held on to the arms of his chair, trying to pull himself into its cushioned safety. “We’re not dead. We might not die!”
Emerson, our drummer, long black curly hair covering his face, swallowed earnestly from a fifth of whisky, fumbled nervously for his envelope of Columbian gold. The white powder spilled across the shaking floor. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” Emerson dropped to the floor, snorting powder where it could be found, snaking his body under the seat in front of him. The plane, in evil turbulence, knocked hard, sending Emerson’s body off the ground and slamming him back down, bloodying his nose, leaving his face looking like a peppermint, spackled white and red. Emerson howled.
“We’re not gonna die. Chill, just chill. We’re gonna be alright.” Fish, for all the soothing words he spoke, breathed fast while looking out the windows to see thick storm clouds, lightning flashing in terrible ionic blasts. The right engine quiet and still. “The pilot’s an ace. He’s the best. We hired the best.”
The door to the pilot’s cabin swung open, revealing a parachutist holding a gun. He was a squat, little man with a long greying beard. “Stay back, assholes!” He spun the exit lock and kicked the door free to instantly disappear in the raging atmospheric hullabaloo. “I’m not dying with you bastards today! See you in hell.” The pilot embraced the storm in the air, disappeared into the dark world below.
Dave remained in trance despite the present situation. With the Pilot gone, the solo had taken on its own life. Eyes closed, only the music remained.
I found Adina, drinking from a wine bottle in the co-captain's chair. “He took the only parachute.”
“He’s probably dead.” I sat down behind the controls.
“You can fly?”
“I can die trying.”
A grin grew on Adina’s face. She was pretty. Skin so white it was almost translucent. Long brown hair with maximum volume. Red, red, lips, puffy. She had on a neon pink mini-skirt and our band tee cut into a midriff-exposing wife beater, Atomic Rocket written across the front in red with a girl in a classic pinup pose, her breasts nuclear-tipped warheads. Adina was our band manager, our roadie, our cook, our realtor, our financial manager, and when Emerson got too stoned to play, she burned up the drums. She didn’t mind doing everything because she was earning millions upon millions with the band. Truth be told I’m pretty sure she made more money than anyone else. Adina wrapped her arms around my chest and put her face up close against mine, whispered in my ear. “Then do it.”
Adina handed me the bottle of wine and I took a fortifying draught. It tasted dry with a hint of earthiness, tobacco, and gravel.
I threw the bottle against the side of the cabin. “Let’s make magic!”
The control board was daunting, to say the least. Was down up in flight? Or was down down? I hoped Adina didn’t see my hands trembling. I pulled the throttle down and the plane nosed upwards. A lightning flash blinded me. Adina pulled me out of the pilot’s chair and took over. Dave’s solo grew to a frenetic pitch. He played diabolus in musica. He played heavy metal, heavier and heavier still. He ripped. He shredded. He became a god in the back of the plane while our financial manager dipped and dove the broken machine through the hellish sky.
Fish’s voice pierced the cabin: “Tom! Help!”
I jumped up, dashed out of the cockpit, and saw Fish struggling with Emerson, pulling him away from the open door.
Emerson tried to get free. “Get him off me! I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Emerson! You’re high!” I ran to help Fish.
“Yeah! And I’ve got to get low!” With a shout, Emerson heaved himself toward the door, Fish gripping tightly. As if one body, they disappeared into the open maw of the storm. The roar of the airplane hid their screams, if they did scream.
“We’re losing altitude! I can’t keep her up.”
I went to Adina’s side. She turned her face, her lovely face, to look into my eyes with her own eyes like supernovae. The tension sent me into an acid flashback. Adina’s hair like indigo coral, her energy and her body morphed into a single thought: transmigration. We were bound for eternity--whether eternal reward, punishment, or nothingness, it was unclear. The lightning zapped the plane in slow motion and I saw Adina’s bones, capillaries, grey matter. Adina smiled at me with a knowing look of love. “If I don't meet you no more in this world, then I'll meet you in the next one.” She turned back to the controls and the plane plummeted into the water below.
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