Dream

My entire family gets on a plane. When we check our seat numbers my mother is perplexed.

"You're not with the rest of us, you're in a different section. That's not good."

I look at my seat number: 1b. I make my way to the front of the plane. 1b. It's the seat next to the pilot, who is perched in front of a steering wheel, like the wheel of a car.

"Welcome," he tells me. It looks like you're my co-captain."

I look around, then back at the open plane. We're not in an enclosed cabin. People are going to be watching us fly this thing, apparently.

"I can't be your co-captain. I've never flown a plane before."

"Neither have I," he says. "I work at Home Depot. In fact, that's where we're going right now."

I look back at the passengers, trying to make eye contact with anyone who heard that. They all did, but they seem to find nothing absurd about it. This is oddly frustrating, but it reminds me of life sometimes, no one to raise an eyebrow with when something strange is articulated.

So we drive the plane to Home Depot. We take surface streets, driving over curbs, knocking over stop signs. When we get there, the captain parks the plane in the parking lot. We go in and he helps people select light dimmers and garden hoses and door knobs.

"Looks like we won't have to fly to Vietnam after all," he says.

"Why not?" I ask

"Because everyone found what they needed right here." And it's true. Everyone has forgotten where they were supposed to go, what they bought tickets for. Everyone looks perfectly content, perusing the aisles of Home Depot, looking for garden shears and paint brushes.