The plane came on the first day of summer break.
Let me first get one thing out of the way: I’m at my worst in the summer. I know this. I get anxious. Uneasy. All that free time and open space. The workless days, always longer than expected. Always more of them. I end up pacing. Cleaning the kitchen over and over and over again. Obsessing over grease spots and the crumbs beneath the oven while listening to podcasts about UFOs and Bigfoot. Not exactly what people call a “good place.”
Not that I ever plan on being that way. Far from it. I finish grading exam papers and submit final grades to the registrar with visions of bright afternoons spent in the backyard on a pool lounger, a gin-and-tonic in one hand and In Search of Lost Time in the other. Paradise. Summer always sounds like paradise in those first few weeks of May. It’s so easy to convince myself that it won’t be like the other years. That this one will be different.
And I’m saying that this time, it is different. This is not the usual thing. This is not the summertime slump. This is real. This is happening.
It started like this. I stepped out into the backyard for some air after helping my wife get out the door for her job at the post office because I wanted to see if the grass needed a mow. You can’t beat mowing the lawn for keeping a summertime mood at bay, and I wanted to start out strong. Proactive. The best offense is a good defense, etc.
I stood out there in the backyard grass for a minute, sipping on coffee, taking it all in: songbirds going nuts in the trees above me, the sky soft blue like well-washed denim, a little breeze dancing in the green-leaved branches. Just a beautiful morning. Just wonderful. I felt good. Blessed. No summertime mood for me. And then I hear this plane start to pass.
Now, look. The sound of a passing plane is not uncommon around here. We hear them all the time. The airport is just down the road. I’m just clarifying that I didn’t look up because I was surprised or anything. I looked up because it’s something I like to see. I like watching a plane pass overhead on a clear blue summer morning. I like the way they cut across the sky so slow, like little paper boats floating on the surface of an upside-down river. That kind of thing is just good for the soul.
When I looked up, I saw right off the bat that this plane flew much lower than the big, commercial planes we usually see. It flew so low that I could see it pretty well, and I saw that it looked like some kind of vintage, old-school situation, the kind of plane you see in Indiana Jones and movies about WWII, with two levels of wings sticking straight out on either side and a propeller on the front and, even a little open seat right in the top for a single pilot. Like a Charles Lindburgh, Amelia Earhart, goggles and leather cap kind of situation. Not something you see flying by all that often. I figured it must have been some rich guy’s hobby.
I stood and watched it float across the sky for a while, until the neighbor’s trees blocked it from view. The sound of the engine got quiet and distant. Honestly, I got a kick out of it. Like I said, I like watching planes pass, and you don’t see a plane like that every day.
When the sound of the engine was almost gone, I looked down and thought about the grass again. It really didn’t need cutting, but I started to think I might go for it anyway, just to feel productive, until I noticed the engine sound reversing course, getting louder again. I looked up. That exact same plane appeared over the neighbor’s trees again, this time coming from the opposite direction. I watched it go by until it disappeared over the other horizon, in the direction of the airport. Again, I listened as the sound of the engine grew quiet, more and more distant.
Just a quick jaunt, I thought. A little joyride. Sounds nice.
This is when things got weird, though. Because just at the point when it should have gone silent, when the engine sound should have become totally inaudible, the volume reversed again. The sound started growing louder. Then louder, then louder and louder and louder and louder and louder, until the plane came passing overhead again, back in the opposite direction, disappearing again over the neighbor’s trees. I stood and I waited. A minute or two later, same thing. Quieter, quieter, almost fading, and then the turn. Louder again, until the plane passed back overhead and toward the other horizon. Back and forth. Back and forth. I watched until the sun got high and my coffee got cold. An hour, maybe more. Still, the plane kept passing. The same route every time. Back and forth, back and forth. Intentional. Methodical.
This guy is buzzing me, I realized. I’m being watched.
I dropped the mug of cold coffee and sprinted through the backdoor into the house. I pulled down every shade. I hit shut off every light. I locked the doors, I double checked them, and then I stood in the living room in the middle of the house without moving. I listened, and as I listened, the plane passed by again. Closer. Closer. Closer, closer, closer, right overhead, then on into the distance. And then, again, the volume reversed. Closer. Closer. Closer, closer, closer. Right overhead, then distant again. Almost fading, then the turn.
I’m typing this out on my living room floor with all of the furniture pressed up against the doors and windows. Not that it will do anything when they finally try to come. I don’t know what they want with me. I don’t even know who they are. The FBI? The NSA? China? Russia? Aliens? The guys behind the guys, the shadow operatives pulling all the strings, the ones even the ones were not supposed to know about aren’t supposed to know about? I’m innocent. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. I don’t know anything about government secrets. I don’t even understand the government, really. If I’m really forced to answer, I’d say I’m a moderate conservative. Or a moderate liberal. I don’t know. I just want everyone to get along. I want to drink gin-and-tonics and read Proust and enjoy my summer break in peace. I’m a nice guy.
But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s what they’re onto. Maybe they’re coming just for all the guys like me. The ordinary guys, the boring guys, the guys without yard signs who smile and nod and try to fade into the background when current events come up at dinner parties because we don’t know what the hell anyone is talking about but for some reason we can’t admit it. Maybe we’re the enemy. Maybe they’re coming to wipe us all out.
I’ve flipped off the breaker and turned off my cell phone and pulled the TV off the wall and smashed the alarm system mounted on our bedroom wall. I don’t know how they listen to me. I don’t know how they found me. I don’t know what’s compromised, or who is. I’ll throw my laptop in the crawlspace when I get this typed and sent. Or take a hammer to it.
If you’re reading this, maybe it’s a warning. I don’t know. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you’ve done. I don’t even know what I’ve done. I haven’t done anything. I don’t know what’s happening. I just want you to know that I didn’t make it up.
I hear the plane passing back overhead right now. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s been getting louder. Closer. Descending. I don’t know what they’re going to do or where they are going to take me, or even where they’re going to land the damn thing, but I know they’re coming for me.
Let me get one last thing straight: this isn’t just a summertime mood. Just make sure everyone knows that. I’ve got no bees in my bonnet. I didn’t have too much time on my hands. I really mean it. This really happened. Remember that. Remember.