Weekends are for leisure reading. As in fiction.
Once upon a time such leisure reading was a staple of American life and culture, best embodied by the Saturday Evening Post, which dates back to 1821 when its earliest editions were printed in Benjamin Franklin’s printshop.
From the 1920s through the 1960s, “America’s Magazine,” as it was known, reached two million homes every weekend. The Post was revered for short stories and literary serials (along with its cover illustrations of classic Americana by Norman Rockwell).
In that spirit, here is my own Saturday evening post: A novelette titled Sentience.
“The wolf will live with the lamb, The leopard will lie down with the goat,
“The calf and the lion and the yearling together;
“And a little child will lead them.”
-- Isaiah 11:6
DAY ONE
I shut down my desktop computer and descended from my home-office over the garage. Mularski was already waiting, having arrived at 8:33 a.m., as stipulated, with stylistic military precision. By the time I hit the ground, Chris from Seaside Taxi was pulling into the pebbled driveway.
“Morning, morning.” I opened Seaside’s trunk and stowed my carry-on.
Mularski, sporting aviator shades and a baseball cap, did the same with his bag and off we rolled, morning sunlight beginning to cast its soft glow upon the San Ysidro Mountains, rolling north on I-101 towards Santa Barbara Municipal Airport.
I’d been suffering a little emotional trauma not worth talking about and got into the kind of lethargic funk that often accompanies sickness and recovery, stuck like a dog in my daily rituals.
But now we were off, two buddies: Me, a writer, just over a half-century old, and Mularski, an artist, a few years younger.
Our mission: Check out the Pacific Northwest, new sights, sounds and aromas; fly to Seattle, make our way to Portland, and return to Santa Barbara by overnight train.
Nebraska was sitting in the airline terminal. I didn’t know if she’d turn up or not. We’d met a few times. I called her Nebraska because that’s where she was from, though now she was based in LA—a good 20 years younger than us, but sharp for her age, and reclusive in nature. Which is why her presence surprised me—and also Mularski, who was meeting her for the first time. I’d mentioned our trip to Nebraska in passing a few weeks before and invited along her as a lark.
After I introduced each to the other, Mularski turned to me. “What’s our theme this trip?”
I always had a tagline whenever we took occasional jaunts in search of creativity and madness. “Mysterious garnet,” I replied, spur the moment.
“What’s that?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I really didn’t. It came from a dream I’d had, stuck with me. “But that’s it. We’re searching for the mystery garnet.”
“Works for me,” said Nebraska, attempting to ingratiate herself into our chemistry.
When Mularski travels, he takes his gear along—paints, boards and a portable easel. And though his bag included highly flammable turpinoid and varnish, airport TSA officers were more concerned about shampoo and cologne, so he breezed through, minus a nail clipper.
Horizon Air’s 10:30 flight boarded on time and we took our seats on the Canadair Regional Jet. I settled into a Frommer’s travel guide to Seattle while Mularski dozed.
Nebraska sat quietly, reading a book about hoboes, a subject that fascinated her.
Most of the flight was uneventful.
Until the inexplicable happened.
Cruising 33,000 feet above Washington State at around 500 miles an hour, the small jet suddenly lurched, causing a sensation of weightlessness before taking an unexpected turn. Downward.
Picking up speed, the jet nose-dived at a 30-degree angle. A few passengers not wearing seatbelts launched to the ceiling, while others took a clobbering from carry-on baggage released from luggage compartments that unsnapped.
It’s funny what people do when they’re reasonably certain life, as they know it, will end within moments. Some holler or scream; others are petrified to silence.
Me? I suddenly remembered childbirth; being delivered from a warm, secure womb into a strange new world. This was followed by other memories I didn’t even know I had, from when I was a baby, and then a toddler. When I reached the age of eight, I was jolted from my trance by a sudden change of direction, as if some deity determined we should go to upwards to heaven instead of hell.
A loud thump from underneath suggested that landing gear had been deployed—though a quick glance through the window confirmed we were still high in the sky, if moving somewhat slower than before.
A shriek of air came next, followed by a terrible noise of metal parts being ripped from the plane. And then eerie quiet, as if both engines had stopped functioning. Or maybe my ears had blocked from a severe change in air pressure.
A shaky but firm male voice punctured the sounds of sobbing and gasps of pain that now filled the cabin. “Flight attendants, prepare the cabin for an emergency landing.”
A stench of bowel evacuation filled the air as two female flight attendants hurriedly worked through rows of passengers demonstrating the “brace for crash” position.
Some passengers cried, others prayed.
I tried to return to my memory of being eight years old, but got stuck, and could not progress further as our plane bumped through the sky, descending steeper than normal.
I could see ground now, coming up fast. And then the plane thumped hard on the tarmac, at greater speed than any landing I’ve experienced. A popping sound suggested burst tires as the plane braked, and within seconds we were surrounded by fire engines and ambulances.
Looking around, it was the first time I noticed children sitting in the seats occupied earlier by Mularski and Nebraska.
A boy and a girl.
I just assumed my mind was playing tricks on me as the flight attendants jumped to action. One opened the main door and deployed an emergency slide while the other issued evacuation instructions over the intercom.
Row by row, the cabin methodically emptied, until it was my turn to slide. I felt exhilarated and carefree—as if I were back in my elementary school playground.
Hitting the ground, I surprised myself by springing to my feet with youthful agility. And I watched, astonished, as firemen hosed burning tires beneath the fuselage.
“Go! Go! Go!” hollered the firemen, pointing away from the plane.
I sprinted a comfortable distance, amazed by my lightness of being, and looked around. “Mularski? Nebraska?”
“Yo.” The voice came from a boy.
“I’m here,” said a little girl in braided blonde pigtails and a zillion freckles. “Who are you?”
“It’s me,” I said. “But… I…” I looked down at myself and suddenly realized the ground was nearer my eyes than usual. I studied my hands. They were… boyish. “What the…?”
“Oh my God!” hollered Mularski, pointing first at Nebraska, then at me. “You two are kids!”
I thought of my mother, and suddenly felt and an urge to speak with her. “I want my mom.” My eyes welled with tears. “What am I, eight years old?
And then it dawned on me: My friends and I… the three of us… had… been… transformed… into… eight year-olds.