The God’s honest truth is that I work at the Flight Center in Vancouver, BC. Everyday I struggle with a strange mixture of jealousy and boredom. I hear the same questions and dish out the same answers to people who are about to step into something exciting and new. So to keep myself entertained I make up stories about the folks that purchase flights.
  It’s a living.
  Here’s today’s story…

Crash ! Bang ! Pow !

    At seven o’clock last Thursday morning, waiting under the bus-shelter, Walter stares into a patchwork reflection of himself in the silver surface set up alongside a tropical beach in Mexico. “Where would you rather be?” the poster asks and he looks back and forth between the empty beach and the reflective silver of a cheap, makeshift mirror. This is how glue-sniffers see themselves, he concludes and he turns his head to look for the 135 when, out of the corner of his eye, his profile comes into clarity.  The bus arrives with a splash of dirty water. How much would return airfare be for four, he wonders.
    Three days later it’s still raining and he’s at the Flight Center with his wife and two boys- seven and nine.  It’s suprisingly busy, the travel agent laughs and Walter’s oldest son falls backwards into the legs of a young couple surveying a wall-sized map of the world. “We’ll have children someday,” the blond says as Walter and his wife apologize. His wife takes the boys outside while he negotiates between Mazatlan and Peurta Vallarta. Outside, the statue of a smiling pilot crashes to his demise and Walter suspects his sons who had too many Willy Wonka mini-bars and Spiderman comic books after lunch. His offer to pay for the broken pilot is rejected after a long pause.
    Sunday evening, they look over their finances and come to terms with the truth. His dream was a string of losing lotto numbers. A plot from a comic book.
   On Monday morning Walter avoids the Mexico poster but ends up looking straight into the dead eyes of a gunman who killed 32 in Virginia. He walks over to the paper box and pushes the box over face first onto the pavement.  It crashes with a satisfying splash. Shards of glass disturb several puddles. He closes his tired eyelids and feels himself relaxing in a world that he’s made just a little better. 
   The other commuters stare until the bus comes.
    

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