Liftoff…


My name is James Libre, I am a sixteen year old kid trapped in the body of a thirty four year old man. “What is life? An eloquent cloud floating throughout the sky, waiting to go out with a storm? A car on the road, never diverging from its path? A train holding 400 metric tons of cargo waiting to run your ass over? You decide. I want a six-page paper over exactly what life is on my desk by next Tuesday.”

I’m a full-time philosophy professor at the University of Colorado, although, I’m not supposed to be. I was supposed to be a professional chef when I grew up, creating my tasteful, artistic, and delectable magic in the finest Italian restaurants in the world. “When I grew up, when I grew up.” My inner-monologue never lets me live that one down. Technically speaking, I’m grown. I’ve got a six year old son named Carson, and a breathtakingly beautiful wife named Alexis. Though, at the same time, I’m not a “grown-up”. I’m not the guy who shows up for work in a three-piece suit and sits around all day from nine to five, discussing the route I take to work with my colleagues. I show up to class every day in a flannel shirt and a pair of cargo shorts because I feel like, well, me. And it’s not unheard of for me to be mistaken for one of my own students.

What is age? Do we ever get it all figured out? I’m thirty four and I still have no idea how I make things work. All I know is that I get up and teach a few days a week, and somehow provide food, clothes, a nice house, and the oh-so necessary Netflix membership for my family every month. I hope Carson ends up better than I will ever be. The kid has a great mind on his shoulders, I can already tell. It takes a special brain to take a look at a leaf through his father’s microscope, and then try to move what he saw into a drawing.

I still take another cooking class every now and then. Whenever I can I also volunteer in the kitchen of the restaurant that an old student of mine owns. Vincero, down on West street, ask for Thomas if you want to meet him. That used to be where Alexis and I would spend our weekends before we decided to settle down and have Carson. I remember the one time I accidentally almost caught the kitchen on fire. Tried out a new technique to get a catfish to blacken quicker, almost burned down the entire eastern wing of the building. Luckily, we got the fire out and celebrated afterwards back at my place with a few drinks.
Hah, celebrated.

So Carson decided that he wanted to be a pilot today. His face lit up like the broken night sky right as the sun begins making its breakthrough after he ripped into the package I gave him. I ordered him a specially-made pilot’s helmet online with his name engraved in the back. He didn’t take it off until it was his bed time when Alexis and I had to wrestle it off of him. Gripping it in his arms, he rolled off to his side and launched his way into the skies in his mind.

Breakfast time, Carson bursted into the kitchen, making airplane noises with his mouth, his arms out wide, and of course, wearing his new helmet. I just put the finishing touches on one of my favorite dishes -eggs benedict with prosciutto, pesto, and a hollandaise sauce- when I turn around to find Carson looking up at the sky. Listening in closely, I could hear the faint sound of a plane passing overhead. We live a few miles from the airport, so it’s not common to see one passing overhead every now and then.

“Daddy,” Carson chimed with a hint of curiosity in his voice, “how come the plane only goes in two directions when it can go anywhere in the world it wants?”
I paused for a moment. “I don’t know Carson,” then turned back to my dish, grabbed the plates to set them on the table, and asked myself the same question.

Tuesday rolled around, lazily as usual. I decided to cancel class that day, that’s the only way I’d be able to sort through all five hundred of these papers. “Sun, flower, song, song, song, flower, bird, cheese sandwich,” It’s almost surprising how repetitive some of these answers get. The cheese sandwich one was surprisingly depressing, one part because it was genuinely sad, another because it was about 4 sentences long. It wasn’t even a short, deep paper that a student threw together last minute. I once had a student who simply wrote, “What life?” and turned it in for a grade. I had to give him a one-hundred based on insightfulness, regardless of how clearly I saw him writing it as he was walking to hand it to me.

Alexis called, she was taking Carson to the Harry Potter marathon that one of his friends was having. All that I heard was, “We’re out for the night, you’ll have to cook for just one tonight.” As delighted as ever, I rushed to grab my bleak, subtly dark skillet alongside my sauce pot. I gripped the old, worn-out handle of that skillet in my hand and slowly let the stovetop warm up. I’d had that same piece for almost sixteen years now. (It was a house-warming gift from my father. He had it imported from India, supposedly one of the finest skillets that money could buy. He knew I was going places.)
Knew.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked myself. I lingered over to the freezer and pulled out a piece of catfish from the back. Not exactly old, not exactly fresh, it’ll work. I decided on a beer-battered catfish with a subtle lemon glaze.
I prepped the catfish, oiled the skillet, and laid it flat. I went to pour two shots of Jack I was going to simmer it in. “Well, no one’s home. Why not?” I tossed one back, poured another, and threw them in with the fish. I felt a warm rush in my body, looking around, everything else went dull. The white walls all over the house looked old and boring, our new TV system felt obsolete, this door looks like it’s from the 1800’s. “Wow, it’s cold out here. Will someone turn that TV off!?” I yelled out. The sound of those sirens was getting on my nerves.

“Stupid door. Why dun ya open?” I slapped the door and crawled over the backyard gate, backdoor worked fine. Thanking the door, I went inside and began the search for the remote. “Hello? Remote? Where’d ya go lil’ buddy?” I tried calling after it, but it never called back. Fumbling into my room, I fell onto my bed. “Maybe he’s in here somewhere,” I concluded.
Those sirens were getting louder and louder, it was hurting my head. “How long is this commercial?” I asked out loud, waiting for Remote to answer. I threw the drawers everywhere in a search for him. It was getting warm, someone should turn down the fire place.
In my search, I found my old gun. A Smith & Wesson Model 625, my grandpa gave it to me. It was warm in here. “I like the stupid door better!” I exclaimed as I fumbled out of the backdoor, through the fence, and lay next to the bushes out front. I could hear the TV from the living room still blaring sirens, and the fireplace too. I hate that sound; the crackling takes me back to that night. I’m sick of it. That night never happened.
I felt the cold steel against my head. The sirens were as loud as they could get. There was a bunch of red, flashing lights everywhere. I saw Carson run up to me, “Daddy! Daddy what’s wrong!? The house is burning! Daddy what are you doing!?”
“I’m flying Carson,” I responded, tears lining up around my eyes. “I’m flying in the only other direction I know.”

Silence.

My name is Carson Libre, and I’m a 34-year old man, trapped in my six-year old memory.