With great effort, regretting her actions as she did them, yet not knowing how to avoid them, she registered at the shack, put the stickers on her plane and tent, and then wandered out, alone, toward the flight line.
There were planes parked and camped as far as the eye could see both to the north and the south and seemingly lawns farther than that. Taxiway Poppa stretched north and south right through those lawns, with Runway One Eight/Three Six just beyond to the east. Planes were landing constantly, then taxying up or down Poppa, directed by ground crew.
She went up to the "burn line" that ran north and south along Taxiway Poppa-the limit line drawn in the grass beyond which pedestrians should not go-and looked carefully. Everywhere she looked, to the north and south, there were planes and grass, and the occasional shack for some kind of operation. Bikers were riding around with planes in tow. She could hear the occasional something-other engine-like a car, or a John Deere "Gator," or a scooter-but it was mostly aircraft on grass. Thousands of them of all kinds: Pietenpol, Cub, Travel Air, Fleet, Stinson, Pacer, C-120, Waco, Stearman, Grumman...
People were smiling, happy, sometimes laughing.
She didn't see any disgust with wall-to-wall concrete.
There didn't seem to be any pain over impossible life choices.
At that time, middle of the afternoon on Friday, with thousands of planes coming in for the upcoming show, the sound of airplane engines was constant. Yet it wasn't noise to her. It was more like the rustle of a crowd at a major sporting event, before the game.
The biggest airshow in the U.S. was getting ready to start, and this year, for the first time, she'd be a part of it, if only as a camper, a pilot who flew in, which-
She thought to herself.
-was the heart of the show.
Lourdes felt her life was so empty, without much of any real validation for anything in herself, she needed to jump to accept anything she could get. Being part of the real heart of the airshow felt, to her, like a tiny bit of validation for something, at least, at that time of her life: however small, it was something real.
For one of the few times in her life, Lourdes didn't feel like a fifth wheel, out of place, a pretender trying to fit in.
Maybe that guy Jim had something to do with it. Or Mike. Or Millie, or Fran.
Or maybe it was the flying, for no matter what else she was in life, or feared she wasn't: Lourdes was a real pilot.
A Cub taxied by her, south on Poppa, presumably toward a tie-down for static display.
She caught herself thinking she was real-something she'd learned usually led to disappointment-and turned away to wander back northwest toward Show Center.
What was that? She wondered about her thoughts.
She'd been dumping on herself for so long she didn't know how to stop. Her brain patterns had formed around it. But what else could she do? She felt like nothing, any more in life. Yet she surely was something. She needed to be something else, but biology- Neural limits made that impossible in some key ways that mattered to her.
Yet she had to survive, somehow, to find a way to make it through life and fit in, in some way, to try to find happiness as much as she could and minimize the pain. Transitional newbies had a less pessimistic outlook? But she'd been in this for thirty-five years, and decades of constant games from people-or the never-ending games that rocked her life at random intervals-left her seeing problems, she felt, that most others seemed to miss.
She was the weary, wary warrior who had somehow survived countless unpredictable dangers-yet who wasn't always in danger. She was hyper-aware of way too much.
A problem with denial, she didn't have. If she compared herself some of those telepathic characters on Star Trek, hers wasn't a mind that was isolated unto itself, thinking only whatever it thought, oblivious to what others were really thinking; hers was the mind of, as it were, a telepath who knew so much of what was going on, that she had trouble shutting it out. What other people felt about her drove her crazy-partly because it agreed with what she felt about herself-and if she didn't learn to shut some of it out, including her own feelings, it'd drive her crazy.
Because she was what she really was.
And the world was what it really was.
Maybe she should fly away to a desert isle somewhere? Land on the beach. Even if she died in fewer years than otherwise, she could live in peace with herself for a while?
No, she corrected. She'd allowed herself to brainstorm, looking for ideas, but the desert isle thing wouldn't work, either. Because she'd be there-with herself-on that desert isle. The problem was inside her, and she couldn't shut it out or leave it behind. Denial was not her problem. Handling the onslaught of awareness was her problem.
Her "social fraud" sensor was highly attuned, maybe even overactive. Yet, around Jim and his friends, she sensed only genuineness.
No, she reminded herself. She couldn't tell so well any more.
So she chose to endure. Even at Oshkosh, endure. Face each day, live, get through it, do her best, survive, and find a way to enjoy something now and then to make it worth while.
She cried for a half second before her automatic shut-off kicked in and stifled it.
Live, she thought.
Be here.
She wandered over through Show Center. It wasn't parked yet with gigantic static display aircraft. It would, she speculated, be filled with some notables or very large aircraft for central display during the show. But it was only Friday so far.
She noted there was a stage being erected in the northwest corner of Show Center, but didn't think to wonder who was going to play. Some kind of concert, maybe.
Commercial tents were being erected everywhere. People bustled about getting ready for the show, three days hence.
Moving to the north, she found a large clothing reatail store, but it wasn't open yet. Little was, at that point.
Her wandering was aimless, angling back toward the northeast, until she fond herself in front of a large brown arch. It looked like it may have been a gateway to the flight line years ago, before the airshow grew larger. It had very nice stone work, and a path under it, with hundreds of square tiles in the path for people to commemorate sentiments.
She sat cross-legged on them to rest and read: Honor this person, remember that person?
These people had real lives.
They had no idea.
Another tear stifled.
She felt so badly. It never seemed to end. Every moment of every day-
She got up to leave again.
Ice cream cones, the sign said, just north. But they weren't open yet, either.
She was on a hard deck, a tarmac path, more than a road, that wound north. The flight line with row after row of homebuilts on display was on the right, her east side, and small buildings for show-related things were on her left.
Then the buildings stopped, and she was presented with wide-open acreage, again, filled with commercial tents and factory or experimental airplanes on display, being organized for the show. All kinds: Kitfox, Sonex-and RV.
Jim had mentioned he built one of those. She went over to take a look.
They were clean, simple designs. Low wing. She'd heard they were fast for the horse power, and heard that RV was a good company, but she didn't know that much about them.
Her Cessna flew.
Lourdes was thankful she had anything at all and prayed to a nameless god she'd always be able to fly. Without that, she feared, she'd have nothing to look forward to in life.
And then she found the homebuilt parking and camping area, filling with hundreds of RVs.
"Goodness night sakes!" she caught herself saying out loud.
It looked like the RV camping area, but it was really for any homebuilt. It's just that most of them happened to be RVs.
She couldn't tell one kind from another, though it was clear some were taildraggers and some were tricycle gear. Some were painted in loud color schemes, some conservative. Some were p
ainted as P-51s or warbirds. And one was airbrushed in the most beautiful blues and greens, with teeth on the cowl, feathers on the wings, and claws on the horizontal stabilizer. She stood and stared at it for a long time. It was gorgeous, the most beautiful paint job she'd ever seen.
"It's an ikran," Jim said, walking up to her from behind.
Lourdes jumped. "Are you stalking me?"
"No! My plane is right over there. I saw you walk up, so I'm saying 'Hi," again. Maybe you're stalking me? Because I told you I was here."
"Touch?," Lourdes said.
"That's an RV-3," Jim said.
She looked at him unclear.
"See? It has 'cheeks.' Those bulges on the sides of the engine cowl? They go around the cylinder heads. And it's a single-seater. RV-3. It's painted like an ikran. Remember those flying creatures in 'Avatar'?"
"Oh, my goodness, it is!" Lourdes was astonished. "It's beautiful." She wanted to stare at it a long time.
"Yes." He stared with her. "Makes me envious every time I look at it, but if it were me, I'd have painted it like the big red one Toruk Makto rode near the end."
"That was a great movie. It clearly should have won the Oscar for Beast Picture of the Year, and it missed. Unfair. Political choices, not artistic. But it was truly great. One of my favorite of all time."
"You actually like movies?" he asked.
"Yes. I guess it's another escape for me. But I do enjoy them. And reading books. And playing some games, sometimes."
They sat on the lawn near the ikran and rested where they could stare at it.
"Games?" he asked.
She was a little embarrassed to admit it, but she said, "Star Wars, The Old Republic. It's an MMORPG online-"
Jim laughed. "Wow! I know exactly what that is. I'm a Jedi Knight in there, a Sentinel, running around saving people and fighting Sith Lords. Melee Damage Per Second. D.P.S. Like Luke Skywalker."
Lourdes was surprised and happy with that.
"What are you?" Jim asked.
"Well, I have a few-"
"Don't we all."
"But my main one is a Jedi Sage. I'm not into melee fighting-too athletic for me. I'm more at ranged Force and D.P.S., but I'm a healer-"
"A healer?" Jim laid his head back and laughed a good long time, until he could talk again. "We always need healers! You know Mike? He's a Sith."
Lourdes laughed.
"Yeah! He runs around and does his evil laugh at people: 'Muahahaha.'"
"Playful crazy?" Lourdes asked.
"Right! That's the truth."
"Right now, I'm on Tatooine with a smuggler I'm working on," Lourdes said. "Normally, I just work the Black Hole on Corellia with my Sage healer, but I'm tripping. I'm not normally a desert-dweller, but I enjoyed being able to see a long way, so-"
"So your Jedi Sage is level fifty?" he asked.
"Yes," Lourdes said.
"Me, too. Right now, I'm on my ship organizing some of my stuff."
"Same ship my Sage has," she said.
"Yup. Same design. Mike got me into the game, but then he's responsible for getting me to do a lot of things. Helps get me out, adds color to my life."
"He's your best friend?"
"Yes, I guess he is. And a fine one, too."
"How long have you known him?"
"Uh, maybe eight years or so. He lives over in Kansas City. I go there sometimes, but he's been coming to Greenhills, also, more and more over the years because he's dating Millie there."
"And you're really from there."
"It's my cover. I'm an international arms dealer, trying to appear as a small-time farmer on the west side of town."
She laughed.
"But it's not what it seems. I'm the local chief of SPECTRE We fight the SITH, relentlessly. The Society for Intentional Tricks and Hate, I think it is, or ought to be."
She laughed at him again.
"The hidden compound underneath the town is larger than the actual farm up above. James Bond would love to blow it up."
"You're mixing your movies, I think."
"Yeah, but they're really just documentaries about part of my life." He said with a smile.
"Come on. I'll show you my plane. It's right over there."
They got up and walked back a few rows to the west, when they came on a beautiful, red RV-6 with a tent behind the left wing, covered in a tarp exactly like Lourdes'.
"Tent looks familiar."
"It should."
"And that plane is gorgeous. Black and white checkerboard racing stripes across the cowl and up the fin. Yellow points. It's hot. It looks like a NASCAR plane."
"That's right. Flies like one, too."
"That's your get-away machine?"
"Yup," he said. "She flies up-side-down and down-side-up-most anyway you want, so long as you don't leave it in the hangar."
"And you built it?"
"Every rivet, yes." He was pleased with it, she could tell.
"What distinguishes it as an RV-6?"
"Well, it's pretty similar to the RV-7-side-by-side seating, smooth cowl, no cheeks on the cowl-but the RV-7 has a slightly larger fin, and I think there's a little different angle across the top of the fin on the 6. There are some internal differences, but on appearance, they're kind of like fraternal twins. It's hard to tell 'em apart. For most folks."
"Low wings."
"All RVs are low-wing, unless they're upside down."
"Go ahead. Sit in it." He reached over and slid the canopy back. "Step up on the wing there, step into the seat, and then sit down."
She did, and admired the quality of his work. "You've really done a nice job here. This plane looks new. What year did you build it?"
"It's a 2000. But I take care of it."
"I can see you do."
She moved the stick back and forth, right and left. "Feels light."
"It is. It's connected by linkage, not cable, to the ailerons. It's something of a sports car of a plane, if you will. Like a light weight Corvette of a sort, if it were a car. Really an innovative design."
"You've got an inset in the panel here?"
"For my G.P.S."
"I don't have that. I'm using an iPad with Foreflight in it. It does well overall."
"That's actually better than my G.P.S., but when I built the thing, the iPad and Foreflight weren't available yet. Hadn't even been invented. But I could bring one, if I got around to it. I suppose a Jedi might."
"Yes," Lourdes said. "But a Jedi knight could reach out with the force and tell where to go without it."
"Outside of game, my spidey sense isn't that good. Maybe I will break down and get the iPad someday. But I'm not really happy with the cloud, information-sharing, that's on it. I prefer to keep my stuff private."
"I know what you mean there," Lourdes agreed.
She got out of his plane, careful not to touch his paint job while she did it.
"What's this plane right beside you?"
"That one is an RV-7A. It looks like my 6, but see the slightly larger fin? And it's a tricycle gear, so it's an A."
Lourdes noted that the 7A's vertical stabilizer, "fin," appeared to have a more squared-off angle to it, across the top.
"Mike is building a 9A, like that one over there." They walked northeast through the planes.
"I don't see any real difference."
"Well, it has a longer wing and is a little different overall. I think it's not supposed to be aerobatic. But it's supposed to be maximized for good cruising from A to B. All designs are compromises. Get something, lose something else, and that one's meant for comfortable cruising."
"Okay."
"This one over here's a 4. See the cheeks on the cowl? And the tandem two-seat?"
"The 3 is a single-seat with cheeks."
"Yes. And that one over there's an 8."
"It looks like the 4."
"Close. Tandem two-seater. But it's larger, and it has no cheeks on the cowl. See? Look close. I think the size matters to some
folks who want the room."
"And the 4 has cheeks," Lourdes said.
"You're quick."
"Now the 12 is over here."
They walked farther to the northeast.
Lourdes looked at it and thought. "It's not an 'A'?" she asked.?
"No. Right. It's a trike, yet no A. This one's an exception. It's a 'Light Sport' RV, a faster build with those rivets, and it has the Rotax engine in it."
"I don't know much about Rotax engines," she said.
"Well, they've been earning their mark, and seem to be a very good engine-and they get better fuel economy than most any other. That's turning out to be a pretty smart airplane, and a lot of people are building them. I think they're the most popular kind of engine in a Light Sport."
"You don't need a medical to fly them," Lourdes mused.
"Right."
"And that's a good mark, too." Lourdes didn't like having to report her medical history to the FAA. It wasn't ill health; it was just private and not relevant.
"I agree completely. I think a lot of pilots agree."
Lourdes wondered if she could find herself owning a Light Sport. Relatively inexpensive fuel costs. No need to report private medical things to the FAA.
"How fast does it go?"
"I hear about 110 knots."
"That's like 126 miles per hour!"
"Oh my god! That's faster than my plane. Less gas- I am livid!" Really, she was enthused.
"Yeah, and lands slow, too, which makes it easy to put into short little fields. You can cross the country in that or land on grass trips, all with ease."
"Grass strips?" Lourdes looked at him suspiciously.
"Not if you don't want to," Jim said defensively.
"I'd like to sit in one of these 12s," Lourdes said.
"You can get a ride in one over at the RV tent, that-a-way. Go over there after they open on Monday and sign up for an appointment. Better make it early that day, though. They'll fill up quickly."
She made a mental note, took a good last look at the 12, and then proceeded more northeasterly.
"Are there heads over there?" she asked.
"Yeah. Over by Warbirds. Come on. Maybe we can find something to drink and go sit and watch planes come in."
Water bottles in hand, they sat under the large wing of a C-47-large, World War-II, twin-engine cargo plane, a taildragger-parked on the lawns of the warbird area, watching plane after plane coming in to land on Runway Two Seven.
Someone had his aviation radio going, so they could hear the tower.
"White high wing, land in the middle of the runway, on the green dot. Green dot. Great. White low wing, land on the orange dot, near the thousand foot markers. Good. That's it. When able, exit the runway to the left onto the grass and follow ground crew to parking. Welcome to Oshkosh."