Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Nicaragua 9

He wanted to be a pilot. He had been to the city once with his parents, and they visited a museum where they saw a cockpit. There were plastic pilots in the seats. He saw planes fly overhead every so often, and always thought of the pilots, speaking calmly into their headsets. They would reassure their passengers that it would be a great flight, and to enjoy themselves. The pilots were always calm, because icewater ran through their veins instead of blood. They knew what every dial and button did. Pilots were always handsome, too. They dressed in the darkest of blues, and their flight attendants always fell in love with them. He had read a story where a pilot married his flight attendant, and they bought their own plane. It was his favorite book.

His friends wanted to work in the fields, picking coffee or farming other crops. But he didn’t. His teacher in school told him that his parents didn’t have enough money to send him to college or secondary school, and that he would never be a pilot. He didn’t listen to his teacher. His father had asked him once why he didn’t want to take over the family convenience store when he grew up. But the boy told his father that his place was not in a store selling coca-cola. He wanted to be up in the sky, soaring through the clouds like a bird. He would be the best pilot in the world, and his passengers would always say he was their favorite pilot. He would fly them through storms safely, and his crew would adore him for his bravery. Yes, he would certainly be a pilot.

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