Free Fog Bastards 1 Intention by Bill Robinson Page B
Authors: Bill Robinson
plane). I think I'm pointed in the right direction, but every shot is in the trees or in the water. I lose $50, four balls, and the honor of Mountain Pacific Airlines. Captain Amos threatens to make me run home behind the aircraft. I would, except that I'm sure I would dent the plane.
Chapter 6
On a "normal" night in Hawai'i, I wait until after midnight to head out for my running track, but it's only 11:30 and I can't wait any longer. I close my eyes, listen to my breathing, find my inner hand, grab the light, speak my magic word, and let the feeling come. It starts in my middle and spreads through every inch of me, warm and strong and stuff I can't possibly name. Some nights I think about abandoning the run to sit on the bed and just turn the power on and off all night.
Running clothes on, I look through the peeper in the door to make sure no one is out in the hall to see the other me leaving my room, and hit the road. Ali'i Drive winds along the coast, dark houses full of sleeping people on both sides, short glimpses of the dark ocean, waves crashing noisily against the rocks. It's me and an occasional mongoose or squirrel (not moose and squirrel), until I get to the empty shopping center, and then up the hill.
The hill and the stop light have become the pathway to my power. Something about climbing that giant hill, the ocean endless behind me, then having the light turn green at the top. Probably another stupid light trick playing with my head, but it's there just the same. Only tonight I know not to turn right.
In the comics, Spiderman gets these wavy lines over his head, but that doesn't mean he knows what's going on, just that something bad is. I have no wavy lines, but I know. No right turn. There's a point on a hill a hundred yards or so down the road where something bad is happening.
The light turns green and I cross the highway. A small two lane road winds up from there into a residential neighborhood of kinda dumpy houses on nice size lots. I cut right 10 feet in, onto the dirt of someone's backyard, through a hole in their fence.
The black volcanic soil is wet and should be cool beneath my feet, but it isn't. I'm barefoot, or rather he's barefoot, but what should be cool, squishy not quite mud in my toes is just wet dirt. I have a huge advantage in life over him.
To him, the temperature is always cool. Flying across LA on a warm summer night, the temperature is cool. Flying supersonic and heating my clothes (sorry, his clothes) to the point they burn, feels cool (temperature wise). Climb to 35,000 feet, where the instruments on my 757 would say the outside air temp is minus 40 degrees, and the temperature is cool. Only Pele can make him feel anything else. A few inches from fresh lava, and the temperature changes to "warm." We haven't touched the lava to see if it burns, because I'm not that stupid. The light wants me to, but I resist.
If it were me out tonight, I would enjoy the feel of the dirt, cool and wet and squishy in my feet. I never used to like cold, but now I do. I languish in the hot summer sun on the beach, I enjoy the cooler fall breezes. He has made me more human. Or just more aware of the good parts of being human. Go figure.
I pad along as quietly as I can over the soft dirt. There are trees and big frondy palmy bushy things in the backyards, and no fences beyond the one on the road. Hawaiians keeping the haoles away, but not fencing their neighbors out.
There are two shapes laying on the ground on a outcropping of lava rock overlooking the road where I run. I go higher, closer to the houses, their lights off and occupants thankfully asleep. When I get directly above the two, I stay low, keeping a particularly solid bush between me and them, and descend toward the road.
I can hear them from about 25 feet away, and settle in 15 feet behind them, in a cluster of bushes and a palm tree. It's two kids, look
Chapter 6
On a "normal" night in Hawai'i, I wait until after midnight to head out for my running track, but it's only 11:30 and I can't wait any longer. I close my eyes, listen to my breathing, find my inner hand, grab the light, speak my magic word, and let the feeling come. It starts in my middle and spreads through every inch of me, warm and strong and stuff I can't possibly name. Some nights I think about abandoning the run to sit on the bed and just turn the power on and off all night.
Running clothes on, I look through the peeper in the door to make sure no one is out in the hall to see the other me leaving my room, and hit the road. Ali'i Drive winds along the coast, dark houses full of sleeping people on both sides, short glimpses of the dark ocean, waves crashing noisily against the rocks. It's me and an occasional mongoose or squirrel (not moose and squirrel), until I get to the empty shopping center, and then up the hill.
The hill and the stop light have become the pathway to my power. Something about climbing that giant hill, the ocean endless behind me, then having the light turn green at the top. Probably another stupid light trick playing with my head, but it's there just the same. Only tonight I know not to turn right.
In the comics, Spiderman gets these wavy lines over his head, but that doesn't mean he knows what's going on, just that something bad is. I have no wavy lines, but I know. No right turn. There's a point on a hill a hundred yards or so down the road where something bad is happening.
The light turns green and I cross the highway. A small two lane road winds up from there into a residential neighborhood of kinda dumpy houses on nice size lots. I cut right 10 feet in, onto the dirt of someone's backyard, through a hole in their fence.
The black volcanic soil is wet and should be cool beneath my feet, but it isn't. I'm barefoot, or rather he's barefoot, but what should be cool, squishy not quite mud in my toes is just wet dirt. I have a huge advantage in life over him.
To him, the temperature is always cool. Flying across LA on a warm summer night, the temperature is cool. Flying supersonic and heating my clothes (sorry, his clothes) to the point they burn, feels cool (temperature wise). Climb to 35,000 feet, where the instruments on my 757 would say the outside air temp is minus 40 degrees, and the temperature is cool. Only Pele can make him feel anything else. A few inches from fresh lava, and the temperature changes to "warm." We haven't touched the lava to see if it burns, because I'm not that stupid. The light wants me to, but I resist.
If it were me out tonight, I would enjoy the feel of the dirt, cool and wet and squishy in my feet. I never used to like cold, but now I do. I languish in the hot summer sun on the beach, I enjoy the cooler fall breezes. He has made me more human. Or just more aware of the good parts of being human. Go figure.
I pad along as quietly as I can over the soft dirt. There are trees and big frondy palmy bushy things in the backyards, and no fences beyond the one on the road. Hawaiians keeping the haoles away, but not fencing their neighbors out.
There are two shapes laying on the ground on a outcropping of lava rock overlooking the road where I run. I go higher, closer to the houses, their lights off and occupants thankfully asleep. When I get directly above the two, I stay low, keeping a particularly solid bush between me and them, and descend toward the road.
I can hear them from about 25 feet away, and settle in 15 feet behind them, in a cluster of bushes and a palm tree. It's two kids, look
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