Fly, Boy
by Michael Kozlowsky
It was in the Czech Republic I found a man who could fly. Not that I was looking or anything; I just happened to come across him at a dance club.
I was going through a mid-life crisis at the time. I was fully aware of it; I wasn’t in denial. People unaware of their situation are rather sad. Any crisis should be embraced – anger, depression, futility, afflictions of all kinds; they all enrich the soul.
My wife left me recently for the usual reasons. Our lives became banal and insipid. I’m sure there was infidelity on her part (there was on mine), there were fights – those vicious arguments that made me hate myself even more than I already did, because I might have pushed her too hard at times; I felt like I wasn’t a man anymore, like I became some savage beast without a heart, but what was I supposed to do when she humiliated me with every punch she threw to my head, with every object she hurled at me that gained hate along with speed each successive time she found something I cared for, with every demeaning phrase uttered from her inimitable verbal arsenal? – there wasn’t any make up sex (that is a myth, a ridiculous notion amplified in movies), there were arguments in front of relatives, some in front of friends, many in front of the kids. If we didn’t fight, we didn’t talk. This occurred for the last four years of our twelve year marriage. But I still love her. The problem wasn’t our relationship; it was that we allowed everything outside it to come inside. For a marriage to work it has to be on the terms of the couple and no one else. Once the blithe and thoughtless fools of the community, especially family, get too involved the relationship rots like forbidden fruit. My wife finally had enough and left, taking the kids with her. I’m living in an apartment now and I’m not crazy about my job – it’s nothing you haven’t heard before. But, I’m pretty sure what you haven’t heard is a story that ends like this one does.
I needed to get away from everything I knew. Far away. I figured Prague would be nice, I mean, everyone raves about it. So, I left in the middle of October to spend a week there. I arrived without any knowledge of where to go, where to stay, the language, or the people, and I didn’t care. I settled in quickly and had a good time regardless of my ignorance.
The city had a magnificence that pulled me around each crooked corner as if it held a gold carrot in front of my face. I discovered public squares that swallowed me with their beauty and in them I was lost like raindrops on an ocean. The sky seemed to match the colors of the buildings and I couldn’t tell which was more awe inspiring. The hidden alleyways I stumbled upon opened into spaces where long journeys always seem to end. I saw isolated cemeteries. I saw random churches that looked so close to crumbling disasters, yet when I entered them each one outdid the other in grandeur. There were marionette theaters scattered about the city and the alluring pull of the Charles River and Bridge was magnetic. The city made me want to read more Kafka and listen to more Mozart. I could go on for a long time but you’re not looking for that or you’d be reading a travelogue. Instead I’ll sum up: I didn’t enjoy the food, but the views, churches, history, and people pulled me out of my depression for a few days. Then, on my last night, a man who could fly changed everything for me.
I decided to spend my final night in Prague drunk at a dance club. I figured I’d see gorgeous women, have some exotic drinks like absinthe, dance the liquor loose, and pass out before taking a late afternoon flight home. The plan was a good one; the execution was poor.
The club was on the roof of a building. The walls were floor-to-ceiling-windows and the go-go dancers could be seen in them from the streets below. There were two levels, several bars, and a bathroom the size of the inside of a drawer. Bulbs of all colors flashed in every direction like rapturous spotlights in a converted prison and the music thumped with a Morse code rhythm that translated to, ‘You can’t leave until you fall in love at this volume.’
I arrived at 11:00 thinking it was a suitable time – I figured the place would be jumping, girls would be taking their clothes off, I’d see guys puking their brains out, and people would be grinding on the dance floor – unfortunately, I forgot I was in my 40’s, and that 11:00 is early for a club like this. I walked in feeling double my age. There weren’t enough people for me to hide among, and the few that were there were in their mid-twenties or younger, had perfect bodies, and the outfits to reveal them. I felt the air leave the room as if the door I came through was a vacuum. I couldn’t breathe and every step I made forward was accompanied by thoughts along the lines of, they can see my receding hair line, I’m not dressed cool, I look like my father, and he’s dead, I’m doing something wrong, they can notice I’m panicking, they’re laughing at me, and so on. It was a humiliating experience and I wanted to leave immediately, but that would have looked even worse, plus, I remembered handing $25 to the hulk at the door. My best option was to get drunk as quick as possible, thus, depending on which way the alcohol decided to take me, I’d either end up not caring or becoming even more depressed, which I didn’t think was possible. It turns out I was wrong; it ended up being the latter.
At the bar, I ordered a rum and coke from a gorgeous blonde. She placed it down in front of me without ever making eye contact. I tried to convince myself that that would not have happened when I was young. At least she made it strong – maybe out of pity.
I found an empty table against a window because I enjoy watching people and like to be out of the way for them to watch me. I sat there and sipped my drink while taking in the view. At the time there wasn’t much to see. Small clusters of friends talked. None of them danced on the dance floor, but many bopped and swayed in place. Most of the girls laughed obnoxiously loud; they threw their heads back and grabbed their chests or the arms of the boy next to them. I wondered what could be so funny. Most of the boys joined the conversations, but constantly eyed the rest of the club in the process of looking for targets of their night long passions. For them, it wasn’t a fun night unless they ended up in bed with a strange girl, or, for a really amazing night, strange girls.
There were some stragglers at the bar; some were couples on a first date they already regretted. Why would they go there of all places? There were loners waiting for drinks. It looked like they received eye contact from the bar tenders, but that was probably because they were half my age. Some patrons sat at the bar hoping to draw attention to themselves with their supposed lack of interest in the surroundings, some leaned their backs against the rail, and with nonchalant stares, took in the view. The males only got drinks from the female bar tenders, and the females only got drinks from the male bar tenders, but all were looking for a date or a discount.
The dancers were on black boxes by the windows or in cages surrounding the dance floor. There weren’t any male dancers and all the females looked like strippers, porn stars, or girlfriends on the night of their lover’s birthday or, maybe, Halloween. Their bodies were lithe and the way they danced instantly made me hard, which nowadays is a difficult task. They looked like moving erotic poetry, the perfect drug for a dead soul. But the more I watched them the more I wondered what they were thinking and feeling. The job had to get old quick just like their dance moves. They started to repeat themselves, slowed down a bit, and did not look enthused. Even with their skimpy clothes and slim bodies they began to look ordinary, they became poetry written by a child. They all had blank stares and behind their eyes I could see they were as lonely as I was. No man was going to approach them because most men would be intimidated and other girls would not pursue a friendship with the dancers because most normal girls would feel threatened. I doubt the dancers could see this; they probably think their men constantly screw them over or beat them, their girlfriends stab them in the back, all because of bad luck and not because the only people brave enough to try and develop a relationship with them are scum. Oh where, oh where, will they all be in twenty years?
I looked out the window behind me and watched the people hustle around the square. The people reminded me of all the others I have ever met. There were bums sleeping on benches, drug dealers hanging on corners, husbands fleeing wives, college dropouts, dreamers, realists, believers of love, orphans, gardeners, diner owners, femme fatales, brothers, sisters, all scurrying about like army ants in a mad world hoping for heaven to fall down on top of them. The night sky was so dark it actually made me believe silence could be heard. I think it said, “Forget her.” Unfortunately, every time I try to I miss my wife more and my hate then grows like a black hole. I saw sin inside every shadow below me, but the beauty of the city made it excusable. How could someone mind the degradation of souls in a place like Prague? I guess it’s the same reason men fuck porn stars.
I could see myself among the scattered pedestrians; I was no different. We all had nothing to believe in, but hoped we were wrong. Each day we lived was another disappointment, but we woke up the next morning thinking it was the day we would be blessed. I decided to give that up. I found my God and he lived in glass bottles.
I turned away from the window and noticed the club was beginning to get crowded; a few girls were even dancing on the floor near the DJ. A waitress came around. I ordered another drink. When she left I noticed a man staring at me. He was all the way across the room in a crowd of people, but I couldn’t tell if he was with any of them. When we locked eyes he threw back his drink and looked away. He was at least fifteen years younger than I was; he was of average height and weight, had dark hair that came down past his ears, and his face was covered with stubble. He wore a leather jacket which I found odd in such a sweltering atmosphere. He looked like an enigmatic thief, and as slippery as black ice.
The man vanished in the growing crowd, and I didn’t see him again until I finished my third drink. He was definitely alone. He didn’t have any friends there, yet he stood next to a group of guys like he was listening to their conversation. I think I even saw him laugh.
I started to feel a buzz and noticed my most recent drink vanished faster than the others. I kicked my head back and released as much of the alcohol as I could from its prison of ice. When my head and the glass came back down I saw the man standing in front of me.
“Allow me,” he said in broken English. He waved over the waitress before I could respond. “What would you like, friend?”
I adjusted my posture and, while fingering my empty glass, told him my preference of drink.
“I’ll have the same, please,” he told the girl. “May I?” he asked, pointing to the empty chair across from me as if I could actually still say no. He sat down and brushed the hair from his face.
“Thank you for the drink,” I said.
“No problem. The name’s Andre.”
I gave him my name and we shook hands.
“You American?” he asked.
“Unfortunately.”
He laughed at that. He told me he was from a small town just outside Prague. I can’t remember the name of it, maybe it was because his words were hushed and smothered as if his voice box was too far down his throat, or perhaps it was the alcohol, or the loud music, or maybe I couldn’t care at the time.
“You here by yourself?” he asked.
“Unfortunately.”
He laughed again. I haven’t been so funny for a long time.
“Me too. Lot of good looking girls here tonight.”
I looked around again and noticed his observation was accurate. I nodded. “Not that I can talk to any of them.”
“You shy?”
“Well, yes, there’s that. And there’s also the problem that I would not understand anything they said. I don’t speak Czech at all.”
Our drinks arrived and he gladly paid for them. Then he paid for the next round and the next after that. He made a lot of small talk. He told me about the university he dropped out of because they couldn’t teach him anything he didn’t already know. He told me how he kept wandering from job to job and girl to girl. He said there was always something new to discover and enjoy, that nothing kept his interest. It seemed to be another accurate statement because I still didn’t reveal one thing about myself. He never asked. Thanks to the alcohol, I let him know it.
“I’m sorry. So sorry. I tend to do that. Please,” he waved a hand, “tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Nothing really.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Well, I’m going to tell you anyway, cos I’m drunk and don’t give a shit. How’s that for ya?”
“Let me have it then.”
“I miss my wife. I miss my kids.”
“Oh, God. It’s going to be like this, is it?”
“It’s gonna be like this. I hate my life, Andre. Hate it. Do you know what it’s like to have nothing? To wake up and know that the day isn’t gonna get any better? The week? The year?”
“I do, man. I do. I remember all too well.” He paused. “But I can fly.”
I laughed again. “Well, I’m not Superman, okay? I hurt. Bad. Most nights I can’t fall asleep. I’ll stay awake until five, six in the morning. Then I’ll sleep when the sun rises, wake when it sets. I lost thirty pounds cos I can’t eat and lost my job cos I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t even see my kids. Do you have kids, Andre?”
“No.”
“What do you love more than anything?”
“Being able to fly.”
I laughed a third time. “Right. Okay, whatever. We’ll humor each other then. Picture not being able to fly ever again. Imagine looking out each window, this one here, the ones at home, on the street, all of them, and knowing what awaits you once you reach the other side, the joy it gives you, but every time you try to jump, the glass won’t break or the window won’t open. Day after day, week after week. Your heart wants to fly so bad it begins to sap you of all your other emotions just to sustain itself. Then, pretty soon you have nothing left. You become empty and you even give up on any thought of getting what you love back. It becomes hopeless and you realize there is no end to it except for death. So you wait for that. You just wait to die. How would that feel?”
“I see.”
“We need to hold on to what we love.”
“But you can learn to love something else. There’s more out there.”
“Like what, Andre?”
“Learn to fly. There’s nothing like it. When I’m flying I forget everything. All the trivialities that are built up like skyscrapers into problems and anxieties – they all vanish. I forget about my mortality, my past, my future. All I concentrate on is the moment. And it’s the most beautiful moment I’ll ever have. And I experience that every time.”
“And how did you learn to fly, pray tell?
“It’s easy if you try. You can do it. We all can do it. It’s all in how we think, how we look at things. The instructions are written right in front of us but we ignore them. We don’t see things for what they are. We don’t use all of our brains. We all have the ability to fly and so much more, but we’ve given up. We’ve become lazy. As a kid, after my parents died, all I wanted to do was join them. I was a ghost on this planet for years and then, one day, I decided to kill myself by jumping off a building similar to this one.” He looked over my shoulder and out the window. “It was just as high, I think. My parents were everything to me, you see. I didn’t have any siblings, relatives. I was all alone. So, I got on the roof of that building and looked over the edge for a long time. A long time. It was cold, much colder than today. There was snow on the ground. God, looking back now, it was so beautiful. The things we take for granted, it adds up to sums we could never pay. Anyway, I pictured what was going to happen to me when I hit the street, what I would look like, what it would feel like, how people would react, the red blood on the white snow. It’d be some sight. I thought, maybe I’d wake some people up in the process, prevent that sum from getting any bigger. You know, seeing something like that, like suicide must really have an effect on people.
“Well, after looking down for so long, I became dizzy. The city danced for me, the buildings spun like ballerinas and the streets swayed to the music. Then, I fell. I figured that was it, but somehow I grabbed on to the ledge. I didn’t let go. I should have, that was why I was there, but I didn’t. Then, while hanging from the ledge, arms getting tired, hands sweaty, I realized I could see everything I always missed. When you’re that high above people everything seems different. It’s like a sudden rush of sweet dreams. I suppose it’s like anything else, sometimes you just have to look at things from a different angle to understand them. It was at that moment, while hanging there, losing my grip on the world, that I decided I wanted to fly. And then I did it. I flew off that roof.”
“Right. Right. Excuse me, Andre. I have to use the bathroom.” I laughed, got up, and patted him on the back.
To get to the toilet I had to go across the dance floor. The hour was late and the club was filled to capacity. The dance floor was just as crowded as the bar. There was no room to walk without being obstructed and I was becoming frustrated. The music pounded against my eardrum like a rushing river against a dam, I couldn’t walk straight and I was sweating profusely. I had tremendous trouble parting the dance floor; people hit into me like I was in a mosh pit. I tried to avoid the large men and made sure to rub against the beautiful women. Then, something odd happened. I wanted to dance. I looked around at the crowd and watched them move. They appeared to be having so much fun. The girls were sweating but still looked gorgeous. All of them. They danced as if their problems fell off them like avalanches of disregarded emotions. They were laughing and strengthening friendships, releasing stress, and turning on boys. I wanted to be one of the boys. None of the boys seemed to care if they got rejected. Most of them lacked rhythm and it didn’t bother them. They jumped in place without regard to the drinks in their hands or the expensive clothes on their bodies. It was a small world of forgotten worries and I was passing through it, shoving by so I could relieve myself. I wanted to belong but I just wasn’t brave enough. I missed my chance years ago. Things change. Besides, they were fools, I told myself. They were young and naive. They tried to hide their problems, but in twenty years they’d be just like me. They’d see how horrible this world really is, they’d witness first hand the miserable things that can happen, and they’d see how futile it is to do anything about it. As much as they danced, as much as the young want to believe it, music can’t save the world.
When I finally escaped from the dancing crowd, that mad world without rules, there was a giant line for the bathroom. I waited impatiently as Andre’s comments floated through my head. Was he serious about flying? Not that I believed he could, but was he crazy enough to believe it himself? Humans weren’t meant to fly. We have to remain grounded as much as we all hated to. I made it to a urinal and pissed for a long time. I didn’t stop thinking about Andre until a guy next to me said something to me in Czech. He was a kid, actually. Probably just turned 21. He was laughing and obviously wanted me to join in. He looked so happy and his heart so light that it could have floated from his chest, out his mouth, and into the urine-saturated air above us. He was just like all those people smothering me on the dance floor and all I wanted to do was smash his head into the wall in front of us. I wanted his nose to break and have the bright red blood snake down the white tiles until it met him on the floor. I could then smash in his teeth and maybe rip an ear from his head. I could wake him up. But I didn’t.
When I came back from the bathroom Andre had another round of drinks waiting to enter my already heavily intoxicated world. I sat down and almost fell out of the chair.
“Okay, after this one you’re cut off.”
“Fine by me,” I said. “Are you feeling it?”
“Drunk? Pretty much.”
He looked it too. His face was flushed and his eyes looked extremely lazy.
“Tell me, Andre. Do you really think you can fly?”
“I know I can.”
“You know you can. You’ve done it before?”
“Many times.”
“Ah.”
“Would you like me to show you?”
“Now?”
“I’ll jump out that window,” he said pointing behind me.
I laughed once more. “Maybe later.”
“Maybe later, then.”
I downed my final drink and I looked at the glass. I could relate to it. I was empty but filled with ice. And here was this man telling me to fly. He didn’t know anything about me or my problems. How dare he? As if flying could bring my family back. He was delusional. Asleep like all the rest. I felt he should be as miserable as I was. I thought I’d wake him up.
“All right. Go ahead. Fly, boy. Show me.”
He didn’t say anything. He stood up and faced me with a cold stare. He was serious. I got up and moved next to him. I tried to tell him I was kidding, that I didn’t really want to see him fly, that I believed him. He ignored me.
I was convinced Andre was going to jump through the window. I grabbed him by his leather jacket. He shoved me to the ground and ran for the window. He stepped on his chair, then the table, and then jumped through the window. The glass shattered and fell like my heart, like Andre fell.
I was still on my ass when the club turned into pandemonium. People ran all over, many for the exits, many crowded around the broken window. I saw some people steal drinks from behind the bar and I saw some steal the tips left for the bartenders. Some girls were crying, some boys too, and the bouncers were nowhere to be seen. I continued to sit, stunned. I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually people moved away from the window. I got up and asked the remaining people if they could see Andre from the window. I asked them if they saw him fly. No one responded. I don’t think they understood me.
I got to the window and looked out. It was higher up than I thought and the wind whipped my face like a disapproving master. I couldn’t see the street directly below the shattered glass, but I could see people gathering. I didn’t hear any sirens and thought maybe help already arrived. I heard commotion but I didn’t hear screams. The shock must have been too intense. Andre was dead and it was all my fault. I ran out of the club carrying the weight of a guilty conscience.
When I got downstairs there was a large crowd of people blocking the street. It was tighter than inside the club and I couldn’t get through. I pushed and shoved but didn’t get anywhere. I begged and asked questions but no one ever answered. No one understood me. No one tried. They only cared about the meaningless. They cared about a topic to tell friends and relatives, they cared about violence and tragedy, about distractions, media, and a bleeding corpse. The never cared about the bleeding world. Everyone had a look of shock on their face and many pointed above them at the broken window. The buzz was incredible and I wished they’d all just wake up like Andre would have wanted. It was then that I had a revelation. I stepped back from the crowd and took everything in. It all came to me.
Andre flew. I believed it. The people pointed to the sky, not at the window – that was why I didn’t hear any sirens. That was why I couldn’t see him from the club. That was why everyone was in shock and awe, not screaming. That was why I didn’t need to move through the crowd. That was why I didn’t have to stick around. There was no need. A man flew – it was actually possible. Andre succeeded.
I was awake. I saw everything.