The Paper Airplanes

This story was actually written quite a long time ago. It originated in a dream that was very visual to me and, as dreams usually go, fairly incoherent in terms of story. I've pulled it out, dusted it off and hopefully made it into something. Some of the best ideas seem to come in dreams but they usually require a fair amount of work to make them into something that makes sense. Dreams tend to have complete random thoughts and situations and tumble them all around, so they can be really cool but very strange and lacking in details. I try to write down as many as I can of the good ones but sometimes they can be fleeting.

As this was written (and dreamed) long before my lady got cancer, I found it kind of odd that cancer popped up in the story. Not that I think I have ESP or can see the future or anything. I probably just thought it was a good dramatic device...
I think it could maybe work as a music video or something.

THE PAPER AIRPLANES

High above the water, atop the tallest tower of the tallest bridge in the city sat a lone man. By all accounts he seemed peaceful and at ease with his surroundings. He looked out from his lofty perch at the world around him. The sun’s rays skimmed off the water below, turning the waves into diamonds. He glanced over the city sprawled out to his left and right. It was urban living as far as the eye could see but for the green oasis off to one side, the city’s venerable park, stretching out and pulling in the harsh light that was reflected off the buildings. The wind rushed against his cheeks, he closed his eyes and slowly stood up. He took a few cautious steps until he was standing at the very edge of the steel beam, the tips of his shoes hanging out over the emptiness.

No one knows how long he had been up there until he was noticed, but when he was the reaction was swift and phone calls were quickly made. Emergency vehicles responded and made their way to the scene in record time. This was not the first time they had rushed to the scene of a potential jumper. The traffic below came to an immediate halt. The fire trucks’ sirens wailed and shrieked through the air and were so piercing that even the man high above looked down to see what all the fuss was about.

There was a flurry of activity as emergency personal rushed around trying to take hold of the situation. As they emptied from their cars and trucks they all glanced upward. To no one in particular a firefighter remarked, “How the hell did he get up there?”
The same question was running through many of their minds and no one responded. Traffic on the bridge sat motionless on the warm asphalt. The occupants of the vehicles slowly emerged from their cars. They were immediately curious about the delay and angry as well. As they scanned the scene for clues to the slowdown they followed the attention of the police and firemen and their eyes were inevitably drawn to the empty sky above and the lone figure atop the tower.

The man stood for quite a while with his eyes closed, teetering on the edge but seeming very calm about it. Then he retreated to his sitting position and again closed his eyes. A cacophony of car horns blared below over and over and over until the man’s reverie was broken and he looked down at the commotion. He leaned over the metal girder to get a better look and a gasp shot through the crowd, quickly followed by nervous titters of laughter. The police watching through their binoculars from far below
were perplexed. The man looked neither happy nor sad. “He doesn’t look distraught,” said one.
“He doesn’t look crazy,” said another.
“He doesn’t seem like a jumper,” said a third who was older and known to be very clever in all matters and never wrong. Many nodded in agreement with him.
However, when the first asked, “But why is he up there then?” the clever one had no answer.

The man got up and took a few steps along the girder to where a large cardboard box sat. The police, still watching intently and preparing for the worst, ordered everyone back twenty feet. The man pulled out something white from the box and then sat down cross-legged on the narrow beam. His hands moved about quite rapidly but the crowd below could not make out what he was doing. The minutes passed as he sat there working furiously and without pause.
The Firefighters stood watching him. One firefighter said to another, “He’s crazy.”
The other nodded knowingly and replied, “Certifiable.”
Neither took their eyes off him as they continued to talk.
“Fifty says he jumps,” Declared the first.
There was a pause as the other considered the offer. Then, “You’re on.”
The minutes passed some more until one sharp-eyed policeman got a good look and figured out what the white object was and what the man was doing with it.
“It’s paper!” he said out loud and quite happily, and then a lot less exuberantly he added, “and he’s folding it.”

More minutes passed by. The Policemen, Firemen and assorted powers-that-be held meetings. In their conversations they made decisions, changed them, and then made them again. Solutions were hard to come by and the crowd grew impatient. A voice boomed out “just jump already, will ya!”
The voice came from one of two large men standing on a pickup truck, laborers with no time for feelings and things like that. There was nervous laughter from some members of the crowd and stern looks thrown their way from others. Lines were being drawn, however temporary, between the empathetic and the thoughtless.

The sun fell lower in the sky. It was a beautiful evening, warm, bright and pleasant. The man watched the sun setting and the seabirds flying about below him. He saw the cars moving along the distant highway and the joggers and cyclists making their way through the park. He could feel the warm sun on his cheeks and the cool air brushing by his ears. The yelling and chatter from the bridge deck continued to grow. He knew it was time.

The man stood up, stretched his legs and took a glance below. The crowd sensed things were going to happen soon and the man could feel the electricity of the crowd reaching up to him. The Police sensed it as well and they begin barking orders. The Firefighters prepared themselves for action. The Police called up to the man one last time and got no answer, just as they had expected.

The man picked up the box and moved towards the edge. About thirty cars back and off to the left, a young woman looked away and quietly began to weep. No one noticed her small body quivering. All eyes were on the strange man high atop the steel tower; the stranger with the box of paper, now folded, the one screwing up the traffic. The poor crazy man who should get the help he needed.

The man took a step and raised his arms, as if to leap. The crowd went silent and held their collective breath. His body suddenly halted but the box in his hands went flying and the contents were unleashed into the wind. The sheets of paper, folded into airplanes, took air and headed off in every direction. The box tumbled head over tails as the paper airplanes spilled out and took flight. A jolt of excitement ripped through the crowd as they realized what they were seeing. Paper airplanes zipped around the sky in every direction as the box flew past the bridge deck still emptying its cargo. Some of the airplanes got caught in an updraft and climbed back up to the man. He stood there smiling at the edge as they whirled about his head. The box landed harmlessly in the water below, its contents empty, and its job done.
“Well…” started one cop, relieved that he would only be fishing a soggy cardboard box out of the bay, “at least we got him for littering.”

Down the paper airplanes slowly fell, taking their time and enjoying the air currents. Some were seen to be doing loops while others seemed to fly like jet fighters, zooming along in one direction and then veering sharply into another direction. One finally made its way to the bridge deck. It spiraled around and around above one policeman as if it knew exactly where it was going. As it got lower, the policeman reached up for it but couldn’t quite catch it. Still, it got closer and closer, and then it landed, right in the palm of his hand, as soft as a feather. He looked at it for a moment and a quick smile flashed across his face. The paper plane was the same style he used to make in grade school when the teacher wasn’t looking. He noticed some writing and unfolded the page. Another policeman, with one eye still on the other soaring airplanes, watched as he read the writing on the paper.
“What’s it say?” he asked.
“Probably some great stuff there, no doubt.” Another policeman said with a smirk.
But there was something wrong. The policeman just held the paper in front of him and stared at thirteen simple words in basic black lettering on basic white stationary. The page had left him stunned and speechless. The other officers shared a quick glance at one another and suddenly grew very concerned.
“What’s wrong? What does it say?” asked one.
The officer didn’t reply, he just turned and began to walk away. His arms fell to his side and the paper slipped out of his fingers and floated to the deck. One of the officers quickly followed behind and picked it up. He scanned the words looking puzzled, as did the other officers who were growing impatient and angry wondering what the contents of the letter were. Impatience succeeded in prompting one officer to bark, “What does it say?”
“I don’t get it,” he replied. “It says ‘She has it. Go to her. You have two years left starting now.’”
The other officers looked puzzled as well, save for one who suddenly looked as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. He slowly lowered himself onto the bumper of a nearby car and sat heavily. The others noticed and waited for him to speak. Finally, he did.
“His wife. They were doing tests. For cancer…” He trailed off. The officers turned and looked up at the man high above.
“That’s impossible. How would he know?”

Soon other airplanes were landing on the bridge deck and were being unfolded and read by the waiting commuters. Some people smiled, folded up their paper and tucked it into their pockets as they walked back to their cars. Others looked puzzled, stuck on trying to figure out what the message meant. One airplane swirled around for eleven minutes before coming down. When it finally did, it poked into the back of one man’s head rather roughly. He cursed in pain and grabbed the paper plane and threw it to the ground. It was there that he saw the words ‘It WILL work. Don’t give up now.’ written all over the plane. He immediately snatched up the paper and headed for his car, still rubbing the sore spot on his head.

The gambling Firefighters stood there as one plane came towards them. The first firefighter reached to grab it out of the air but it dodged away from his grasp.
Surprised, he said, “Did you see that?”
He tried to chase it but it dodged him again. He chased it even harder, his arms swinging and straining, but the plane darted and dipped and finally climbed out of his reach. It circled back and fell towards the firefighters again. This time it headed toward the other Fireman, who watched it approach without moving. As it neared, he put out his hand and the paper floated right into it and stopped on a dime. They looked at each other.
“That’s impossible!” said the first firefighter.
The second one opened the airplane and read the contents. He looked up at his partner.
“Well?” prompted the first.
“It says: Who is worse? The one who makes the bet on someone’s life or the one who accepts it?”
The two men looked at each other, like kids caught in a lie, then they glanced up.

All around, people received the words written to them from the man up on the tower, but not one of them could explain what it was all about. There was one young fellow who was close but he had a short attention span and never followed through on it.
The sobbing woman, whose pursuit of her plane got her hit by a cyclist, (such was her luck) held the paper tightly to her chest and began to smile through her tears. She refused to let anyone see what her message was.

The man watched the sun go beyond the horizon. As soon as it disappeared the last airplane landed and it was time for him to go. He walked back across the steel girder, sat down at a large piece of canvas and began to fold it. Down below not many people were still watching but one cop, who was the diligent type, hadn’t taken his eyes off the man. The cop didn’t want, didn’t need and didn’t get an airplane.
“Naw…it can’t be…” he said to no one in particular.
But the man was building a paper airplane, or more accurately a canvas one. One big enough for a person to ride on if they had wanted to. Of course, thought the cop, that would be impossible. Still, he stayed at his post and kept his eyes on the man, very much needing to see the impossible.

The authorities found the canvas airplane in a small clearing deep inside the park an hour later. By all accounts it was just a regular, plain piece of canvas. Maybe a little bit thicker then expected but regular nonetheless. There had been no trace of the man. The news and police helicopters had followed the man after he launched himself off the bridge but they had some trouble keeping up with him. He floated smoothly and effortlessly through the air and the fading light had made it hard to track him. He had finally eluded them by zipping low over the trees and going down into the park where they could not follow.

Oddly, aside from all the affected citizens on the bridge, there had been very little in the way of eyewitness reports. Had the joggers in the park looked up or if the drivers on the highway had taken their eyes off the car ahead for a moment they might have noticed a figure soaring across the sky high above them, silhouetted against the dazzling sunset but still a recognizable shape. It was a simple, basic design, the classic paper airplane. And if they had seen it and looked closer they would have seen a small bump at the back of the airplane. And if it were possible to see even closer, they would have seen the head of a man, who, on closer inspection, was smiling grandly.