It’s a quiet Sunday morning.
Thirty-one-year-old Brett Woods kicked back in his LazBoy in the den watching the “Grand Designs” British show.
“Brett, I’m ready to head over to mommy and daddy’s house for the afternoon,” a woman’s voice called out, entering the den.
Brett picked up the remote, pausing the Grand Designs show.
“Okay, Dorian,” Brett replied, watching her head over to his LazBoy. He stood up and met her halfway.
“You better keep the house clean while I’m gone,” Dorian ordered.
“I will,” Brett replied.
“Kiss,” Dorian said, touching her right cheek with her index finger.
Brett kissed her on the cheek.
“I’ll be home by seven,” Dorian added, leaving the den and heading into the kitchen.
“You better keep the house clean while I’m gone,” he mocked her after she was a safe distance away.
Brett waited. The sound of the garage door opening was heard.
He jumped from the LazBoy and rushed to the living room curtains peeking out.
Dorian’s shiny 1985 LTD backed down the driveway.
The LTD drove away down the street.
“I’m free for five hours!” Brett sang and danced back to his LazBoy. “I’m free!”
Brett picked up the remote off the coffee table, sat down in his LazBoy, and surfed the TV channels, stopping at the 2006 Flyboys movie.
Brett kicked back in his LazBoy. “Dorian, I’m watching a movie about flying,” he chuckled.
Brett got off the LazBoy, rushed out of the den and into the kitchen, and returned to the LazBoy with a bottle of beer.
Two hours and eighteen minutes passed. The “Flyboys” movie ended.
Brett switched to the YouTube channel on his TV and searched for flying instructions. He clicked on a twenty-eight-minute instructional video on a Cessna 152, kicked back, and sipped his beer while watching the video.
After this YouTube video, Brett watched numerous other flying instructional videos for hours.
“I’m home,” Doran called out from the kitchen.
Brett scrambled, grabbed the remote, turned off the YouTube video, and resumed the “Grand Designs” show.
“You’re home early.”
“Mom and Dad had a bridge game with the Andersons,” Dorian said, entering the den. “Didn’t you watch that show earlier?” Dorian observed, frowning.
“Ah, yeah, it was so good; I wanted to watch it again,” Brett fibbed.
“Okay, as long as you’re not watching flying shows,” she said, leaving the living room.
“As long as you’re not watching flying shows,” Brett softly mocked her.
It’s ten that night. Brett and Dorian are in bed.
Brett closed his eyes and was soon fast asleep.
Twenty minutes passed, and a satisfying smile developed on his face. A dream commenced.
It’s a beautiful, cloudless day in Brett’s dream.
He drove a 1915 Ford pickup down a dirt country road and then down the dirt driveway of a farm.
He drove his pickup to the two-story white farmhouse with black shutters. An older man in coveralls smokes a cigarette near the front wrap-around porch.
Brett parked the pickup near the older man. “Are you Homer Bartholomew?” he asked, getting out of his pickup.
“Yep, are you Matthew Sims?”
“I am,” Matthew replied.
“Where’s the Jenny?”
“She’s in the barn. Follow me,” Homer replied, walking with a limp to the faded red barn off to the right.
Matthew tagged behind.
The barn doors were cracked open.
Homer and Matthew slipped through the door opening. Matthew smiled, noticing a Curtis Jenny bi-wing airplane parked in the middle of the barn.
“Not a tear in the plane,” Homer said.
“She’s beautiful,” Matthew observed, inspecting the bi-
plane. “Beautiful.”
“My son, Oscar, bought her after coming home from the war. He saved up his Army pay. But Oscar had one flaw. His temper. A bar fight and three knife wounds ended his young life four months ago,” Homer said, wiping tears from his eyes.
Matthew walked over to Homer and then removed his wallet. “As I wrote in my letter, fifty dollars and my pickup for the Jenny?”
“Yep. That’s what you wrote. I need a pickup for my farm, and the fifty dollars will also help pay the bills,” Homer replied, holding out his hand.
Matthew handed Homer the fifty dollars.
Homer shoved the cash in his coverall pocket and then assisted Matthew with pushing Jenny out of his barn and into a long field.
Matthew returned to the pickup and got out his small suitcase, leather jacket, flight cap, scarf, and goggles.
Matthew dressed in his pilot gear, walked to the Jenny, and dropped his suitcase in the forward cockpit seat.
Matthew approached the engine and flung the propeller around with his hand. After a couple of attempts, the engine finally started.
Matthew rushed over and climbed up, sitting in the rear seat.
Matthew taxied his Jenny through Homer’s field. He gave it full throttle and rolled down the field.
The Jenny lifted off the ground and soared away.
Matthew banked Jenny, flying back toward the barn. He rocked the plane’s wings, flying over the barn.
Homer waved from the ground, standing by his new pickup.
Matthew ascended Jenny into the sky and glanced at the compass. He’s heading north.
Matthew flew his Jenny over the beautiful countryside higher up in the Indiana sky.
“Let’s see, I’m between Seymour and Columbus,” he said, observing the two cities from the air.
Matthew flew his Jenny into a loop.
After he came out of the loop, he flew his Jenny into a roll.
“Yahoo!” he yelled, flying his Jenny into a Cuban eight.
Matthew flew his Jenny into a Cuban eight.
He flew his Jenny out of the Cuban eighty-four feet above a field and headed straight at a line of trees.
Matthew pulled back on the stick, flying the Jenny wheels and scraping the trees’ tops. He ascended back into the sky.
Matthew flew his Jenny higher. “Yahoo!” he yelled again, performing another loop.
He flew into another loop. “Yahoooo!”
He dove the Jenny down toward the ground. The
annoying snoring sound filled the sky. Then, the annoying sound of an alarm clock filled the sky.
“What the hell is that sound?” he asked, scanning the sky,
then glanced at the few gages on the console. “Everything looks good.”
Back to Brett’s reality.
It’s Monday morning in his bedroom. The alarm clock on Brett’s beside table blared that annoying sound we loathe.
Brett woke up from his dream and noticed Dorian snoring next to him. He reached over and turned off his alarm.
“Man, what a realistic dream,” Brett thought, then glanced at Dorian. “ Too bad it wasn’t for real,” he whispered. “Monday sucks!” Brett frowned, then closed his eyes.
“You better get up, or you’ll be late for work,” Dorian nagged.
Brett opened his eyes, got out of bed, and moped out of the bedroom.
He went inside their bathroom, brushed his teeth, shaved, and left the growth of a mustache alone. “Looking good,” he admired.
“You will shave above your lip,” Dorian demanded, walking into the bathroom and then sat down on the toilet.
Brett ignored her.
“I said, shave off that mustache. I hate those prickly things,” Dorian barked, peeing into the toilet. Dorian flushed the toilet, got up, reached into the sink, and washed her hands.
She left the bathroom.
“I’d have more freedom if I lived in nineteen seventeen,”
Brett whispered, shaving off his mustache. It’s gone. He put his razor in the cabinet and walked out of the bathroom.
Brett walked back into his bedroom.
Dorian crawled back under the covers and went back to sleep.
Brett walked over to his closet dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.
He left their bedroom and walked into another bedroom. Inside that room was a child’s bed and a large kennel housing a golden retriever.
“Good morning, Abby,” he said, walking to the kennel.
Abby scratched at the gate of the kennel.
Brett unlocked the kennel gate. Abby got out and stretched, then jumped up on Brett and licked his face.
Brett walked Abby out of the bedroom. Brett walked Abby outside to his backyard, sniffed around the grass, found the perfect spot, and went to the bathroom.
Brett walked Abby around the backyard for some exercise.
Five minutes passed, and they went back inside the house.
Brett returned to his bedroom and quietly dressed for work in his suit.
Brett walked inside his kitchen, and Abby followed, wagging her tail.
He fed her, made a pot of coffee and a bowl of cereal, then ate his breakfast.
Abby gulped down her breakfast.
After eating, he cleaned up, left the kitchen, and returned Abby to her bedroom kennel.
Brett entered the bedroom.
He quickly kissed Dorian on her cheek and walked off to
the door.
“Did you put Abby back in her kennel?” she asked from
the bed.
“Yes, I did,” Brett replied, rushing out of their room. Inside their garage was a brown 1982 Ford Fairmont with
a light brown exterior and brown cloth seats in excellent condition.
It was parked next to Dorian’s LTD.
Brett walked into the garage. “I loathe this piece of crap,” he said, eying the Fairmont. “I wish someone would steal it!”
He opened the garage door, got inside the Fairmont, backed out of the garage, closed the garage door, and drove off down his street.
Brett drove his Fairmont out of the White- stone Estates neighborhood. The Whitestone Estates was an older upscale neighborhood.
“Why the hell does Dorian want to live in that stuffy neighborhood?” Brett grumbled, driving down the street.
He turned on the radio. “Good morning, Fort Wayne,” a disc jockey said from the radio. “Welcome to the Morning Rockers show. Here’s Deja Vu, by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young,” the disc jockey added.