Flights of Fancy That Get More Fantastic With the Telling

If my grandmother told a story once, you could live with it, but the more times she talked about an event the more exciting it got.

If there’d been a cat-and-dog fight in the alley in the morning, by the end of the day Grandma would be telling about the mountain lion that had wandered down from the hills and was attacking the neighborhood dogs.

Some people said she didn’t know the truth from whole cloth, but Grandpa scoffed at that. He said she was only doing out loud what everybody else did in their heads, trying to make things a little more interesting, that she just figured reality needed work if you were going to have to live in it.

What with being married to a self-educated Irishman and starting a family of six children before the turn of the century, she was probably right.

It’s in the Genes

My wife, recognizing this aggressive “reality-adjusting” factor in the family gene pool, wisely helps me keep such adjustments out of what I write.

This time, though, the story is about that reality-adjusting tendency. The proper label for it is fantasizing, and we all do it.

Even Joyce, my constant seeker of truth, does it. She sometimes starts her fantasies when our trips are in the planning stage. I know because I can hear her making little airplane and bus noises while she moves a finger along routes on the map.

Personally, though, I never start before we get to the airport. But then, when we’ve checked our baggage and boarded, when we’re in our seats and the aircraft is loaded and pulls to the center of the runway. . . .

“I’ll take her this time, Chuck.” (My co-pilot is always named Chuck.)

A Quick Scan

“You got her, Skipper. Mind if I watch? I might learn me a little something.” Chuck, with his slow grin, rolls his toothpick to the opposite corner of his mouth.

I make a quick scan of the instruments and a visual of the flaps on my side. Chuck, reading my mind, does the same on his and nods. “By golly, I think the wings match, Skip.”

The word comes through the headphones: “Air Canada, you are cleared for takeoff on runway 2-L. You are cleared.”

Chuck acknowledges the tower. I make another quick check of my instruments, the runway and the air space ahead, and advance the throttles to the maximum power setting.

I glance at my engineer as we approach rotation speed. We are the ungainly about to become pure grace. “Wiley?” (My engineer is always named Wiley.) “No. three feels a tad heavy.”

“Yes, sir, you’re right. She’s running a tenth of 1% rich. Correcting.”

Airborne at Last

“I thought so.” I try not to sound smug. We are at rotation speed. I pull back on the yoke and we’re airborne, vaulting into the sky over the Pacific.

“Gear up, Skip,” Chuck says. You can feel the light surge as the drag of the landing gear fades. Lord, I love this!

“Reduce to climbing power.”

“Beautiful takeoff,” Joyce says.

“Thanks,” I answer.

“Sir,” says the flight attendant, “you’ll have to keep your seat belt fastened.”

“My seat belt is fastened,” I answer.

The girl is embarrassed. “Oh, sorry. I couldn’t see it there.”

“ You’re sorry you can’t see his belt. You should hear him complain about it,” Joyce says. “Of course, if we really cared, we could skip lunch.”

Sometimes reality just doesn’t seem like it’s got a whole lot going for it.

Blue Denims

It was on an airplane that I first really got into an active discussion on fantasizing. The man next to me was all in blue denims and wearing a lettuce-picker’s hat with what looked like a squashed chicken on the front. It was back in the time when a lot of people were wearing Western clothes.

“Rancher, are you?,” I asked.

He put down his paperback. “Naw, play at it a little.” Then he introduced himself as a doctor.

We talked about fads like wearing Western clothes. The upshot of the conversation was that he thought fantasizing was an indication of good mental health, that insanity occurred when people had too firm a grip on reality.

“We’re always leaping in and out of fantasy, for our own good,” said the doctor. “Watch anyone around a large mirror. They sneak a peek and then kind of shape up and stay that way until they get on by. Protecting the self-image.”

As far as I was concerned, shaping up for a mirror was pretty small stuff.

-- -- --

With the Eiffel Tower always in sight, it’s difficult to get lost in Paris. Joyce and I have accomplished it, however. At least we have become considerably misplaced a time or two.

Once when that happened we approached a parked taxi. The driver was eating a sandwich. He looked at me angrily as I bent over and smiled. “ Excusez-moi,” I began. He rolled up his window. Joyce and I were astonished.

Joyce tapped on the glass. “ Ou se trouve la gare ?” He turned his face away from us. “I only asked him the way to the station,” Joyce said, bewildered.

As we walked away, my temper began to rise. Ten feet down the street I could feel the hackles rising on the back of my neck. I turned and went back to the cab.

Incredible Hulk

My hands were becoming hairy and my jacket, no longer able to contain the writhing masses of green muscle, split up the back. My shoes burst and my shirt fell in shreds at my feet.

A crowd started to collect.

I dug my fingers into the glass at the edge of the windshield, ripped off the top of the taxi, lifted the driver out and held the trembling wretch over my head. He dropped his jambon et fromage (ham and cheese) sandwich in the street.

“ Puis-je vous aider? “ he whimpered.

“ Monsieur Green Man,” called a lady from the crowd, “he is asking if he can help you.”

“He had his chance to help me. Now, it is too late,” I roared. “I’m going to throw him in the Sayne.”

Down to the River

“Le Sayne? Non! Non! “ the driver cried. Holding him high over my head, I walked the half block to the river bank. The crowd followed, cheering me on.

Just before I hurled him he said, “Oh, the Seine , you mean. You have mispronounced it so bad. . . .”

In my suddenly rekindled rage I threw him. He went a little too far and landed in a heap on the other side of the river. I watched him pull himself to his feet and stagger toward another parked cab for help.

He didn’t get it, however. The driver of the other cab was eating a sandwich and rolled up the window. The wretch slumped to the curb and wept. Justice had been served. The crowd faded away and I could feel my color returning.

“I think you showed admirable control,” Joyce said.

A Little Hook

“Actually, I hooked a little and I really wasn’t trying for so much distance.”

“That taxi driver was so rude.”

“Guess we just have to learn to live with it.”

“Paris is such a beautiful city,” Joyce said. “But in some ways it certainly needs work.”

On our trip home that year, a few minutes after takeoff, Joyce picked up the in-flight magazine and turned to the page with the world routes on it. Before long her finger was on a path and she was making little noises. I could see she was already planning next year’s trip.

“Iron Curtain countries, huh?” She didn’t answer. I didn’t repeat it. Didn’t want to bother her while she was driving.

(Recently, the French Government’s Tourist Office, aware of Paris’ deteriorating image in the world press, made an all-out effort to improve the situation, contacting and working with virtually every organization in France that does business with the touring public. The effort met with considerable success. Most experts are in agreement, the City of Light is again a nice place to visit. There have been no sightings of the Incredible Hulk in Paris since this action was taken.)