Kramer was falling and he was far from happy about it. Only now it was slower and instead of cartwheeling he found himself in a sitting position. In front of him, millions of tiny atoms shook themselves out of their random movement and formed into a windscreen complete with wipers and green sticker announcing Sharon and Tonto.
In his hand appeared a joystick, soft to his touch like plasticine and apparently not joined to rest of the controls now visible all around him. He glanced sideways and was assured by the sight of a pilot, in full uniform, effortlessly flying the aircraft. It was a full sized, wide-bodied, 4 engined airliner. Kramer could see, as he looked behind him, the entire length of the craft. The passengers were sitting neatly in rows, being attended to by what seemed an army of hostesses. A film was being shown on the screens and judging by the gales of laughter was not one of Ingmar Bergmans.
Kramer settled to enjoy the flight, but was suddenly unsettled by the fact that they were now flying about fifty feet off the ground and were heading for the centre of a very large and very tall city. Kramer closed his eyes as the plane approached two tower blocks, less than thirty yards apart, and waited for the wings
to be torn off and the resultant carnage.
Nothing happened.
He opened them and turned to the pilot who just smiled back at him and continued into the heart of what now looked like down-town New York, turning at right angles, its undercarriage brushing the top of a set of traffic lights as it passed throught the high walled streets with ease. Gaps that were impossible to clear were cleared and all the time the pilot smiled. Trust me the smile said, and Kramer did just that.
Now that perfect feeling of freedom. The plane looped and somersaulted, climbed and dived, banked and rolled, impossible manouevers in the heart of the city, in the heat of the night, in the cool of the day. The pilot flicked a switch and turned on the radio. It was Desert Island Discs. The Pope had just chosen eight copies of the same record: The Mothers of Invention's all time, top five Gregorian Chants with John Lee Hooker on Triangle and Eric Clapton on washboard.
Dig that crazy rhythm, man . . . hot damn . . . take me home daddy! They were flying down to Rio now. Troops of dancing girls with no visible means of support, high kicked their way along the wings and tap-danced back.
Alcock and Brown . . . Lindberg . . .
Icarus . . . Montgolfier . . . Wright.
More right rudder and chocks away!
Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars.
Kramer took control. Control is all. Power to the people.
But the plane was dissolving, and so was the pilot. Soon all that remained was his grin. His grin and his headphones. The headphones, belting out a wild harmonica solo, Delta Blues, Chicago style. Or was it some ancient tribal chant. Kramer wasn't sure.
A Hammond organ perhaps. Ray Manzarek plays the solo from "Break on Through" until the keys melt.
Sounds in the brain. Head spinning. Half awake Kramer turned and saw the clock. Digital dawn. Digital night. Finger on the button. But the numbers are indistinct and moving. One second Roman numerals, the next letters.
Gimme an F.
Gimme an I.
Gimme an S.
Gimme an H.
What's that spell? What's that spell?
Then darkness once more.
Once more into the breech.
Once more into the beach.
Beach balls, beach babes, beech trees.
Omaha, Utah, three bags full.
Up yours Arthur Kramer, Oh ye of little faith.
