The Man Who Fell From the Sky

The sun blinded his descent. He looked up, the parachute above ballooned over him, reminding him of his mother's wash on the line when he was a kid. The white sheet floated, flapping in the wind, eventually dropping over him, losing his mom, who was still hanging clothes. He looked down; the brown landscape was rapidly approaching, and soon solid ground would be underfoot.

The cursed jet and its millions of high-tech secrets were now just a black mushroom of smoke on the horizon. As he drifted down into the unknown, the pilot felt confident that his squadron, his work buddies, and his drinking partners would be there to bring him home. Would there ever be stories to tell after this? He looked down onto the approaching plateau of pinion and sagebrush. He imagined his buddies looking up at him in admiration, saluting him, holding beer mugs aloft, and singing in unison, observing the man in a parachute, surviving a crash, and coming home to celebrate.

But this was not the welcome committee he was hoping for. He landed with a breathtaking pain that shot up his spine. He lost consciousness, but before this, he found a young brown boy standing, with arms above his head, like he was going to catch him, waiting for him to come down. That was the last thing he saw until he woke up. This young Indian boy was there to welcome him to his land. Unfortunately, a leg that had shattered when he ejected and when it found ground, a scream, unlike anything he had ever heard at Indian pow wows, greeted him.

The boy was able to find a tree to place himself under. The shade was sparse, but it would have to do. He watched as the pilot shook in his unconscious state, sweating, the leg shattered and lying at an unusual angle, like something he had seen with one of his Kachinas when it fell off the shelf. He soon ran to his grandfather's hogan to tell him what he had witnessed.

In a slow, steady voice, the elder grandfather asked the boy after calming down from his run and taking a bite from the fried bread, "I hope this isn't one of your stories you dreamed up. I remember how you had the whole clan shook up when we gathered in the old sweatshop. You managed to scare us all with your story of the arriving sandstorm and evil within, something you saw coming down the mesa."

The grandmother was sitting next to her husband; she convinced him to get the young teenagers who were getting off the bus to find this man and bring him to the hogan. The two teenage boys and girls were like other teenagers. But they were different in one way. They knew not to disrespect the elders despite having other plans. So they left, following the young boy on a hike that took away two hours from their busy day after school.

They hiked several miles. They labored across the land, avoiding one rattlesnake and stepping on cactus, up and down dried-up ravines and rocky riverbeds. They find him, still unconscious, under the tree. The two young men and woman studied him, his parachute hanging around the tree, blowing in the soft breeze. A recent rain sprang the plants to life, returning a freshness to the air. They admired his uniform, discussing among themselves while staring at his unsteady breathing, how it resembled what the pilots wore on "Top Gun."

But they knew he was hurt badly and needed help. They fashioned a sled with a couple of old trees and branches held together by a rope they brought. The parachute provided a place to put him for this trip back. They laid him on this and dragged him back, taking a long route to avoid the river beds and deep slopes, and three hours later, they walked into the little gathering of hogans and trailers, a clan that stood together for many years and still kept the old ways alive.

The pilot woke up after several days of sleeping in a feverish haze. His eyes slowly opened, having the eye of a big horn sheep staring down at him from his perch on the wall. The eyes seemed angry, and the look reminded him of an old teacher, a look of disgust for not turning in an assignment. It took a little time to realize he wasn't somewhere he had ever been. Looking around from this old bed he was lying on, smelling of smoke and pine. It wasn't unpleasant, and soon he was asleep again.

A small window on the side of the hogan brought in a ray of light that landed on the pilot's face, warming and waking him. Next to him, a pretty woman in black braids was washing his face with cool water, bringing him out of his semi-conscious state.

"How long have I been here?" He asked

"Oh, I'd say about a week," She replied

"How bad am I hurt?"

"We did our best; a nurse here reset the leg. She works at the Indian hospital. She watches over us when not in Gallup, working. You were very sick, and the road to the hospital is long and uneven, unpaved with many potholes.; it would have been tough on you."

"Thank you for taking care of me. I need to contact my commander. Do you have my cell phone?"

"All we have is what is next to you on the side table; there wasn't a phone, sorry."

He sat up and immediately felt pain shoot down his leg. He wasn't going anywhere soon. Next to the bed was his wallet, loose change, and a picture of his girlfriend. Also, folded over was a newspaper, a thin copy from several days ago, the headlines loomed at him.

" 50 million dollar jet crashes just outside Interstate 40, pilot feared dead." When he ejected, his jet seat should have been emitting a beam back to help recover him, but he remembered being told that his leg and the seat were all damaged. He looked around and decided he wasn't in a bad place; he would make a call on his cell later. Knowing this, he once again succumbed to the need for sleep, which quickly came upon him, and before long, the dreams and all their demons followed.

The pilot dreamed of his home in Maryland, his parents, and his Navy buddies. His comfortable lifestyle was intermixed with dangerous adrenaline-raising training procedures. He put the jets through warfare missions in the air against his fellow pilots. Flying at low altitudes, chasing or being chased through narrow canyons and over oceans. A successful mission meant a showdown at the bar. More competitive games and lots of drinking are designed to ease the stress and tighten the bond between the others. This was his home, lifestyle, and career; he once felt he had made it and had it all.

Five days later, sitting in an old metal chair, a rusty and faded chair that seemed permanently situated outside the door, he watched the young Indian boys play soccer while a dog nipped at their heels. Looking at the mesa off in the distance, he marveled at the colors, the reds and pinks, and the changing perspective while the sun slowly dipped below the surface. What a transformation from his previous life. His doctor back in Maryland was concerned about how the anxiety of what he was doing was contributing to his blood pressure. The night's drinking did not help, especially the next morning. He was no longer happy, and his girlfriend knew this. The life and death situations he encountered while flying at high speeds were taking their toll. Decisions continually needed to be made in split seconds. And because of these things, he had often dreamed of a different life. That was it because he had no ties, family, or girlfriend; they had recently split up.

"Hey Top Gun," The young Indian boy who saw him "fall from the sky" yelled out.

"What is it?"

"Somebody's coming up the road fast," he said, pointing down the valley.

The pilot painfully stands up and walks over with the help of crutches, something the nurse could sneak out of the hospital. Looking down, he saw three plain brown sedans driving up, blowing a large cloud of dust up into the sky. They were going fast and with purpose and the pilot knew they were coming for him.

Once again, a decision must be made quickly. The government vehicles and the agents inside were dressed in suits and ball caps, and they soon stood near their cars as the dirt and dust floated away. The pilot waited for them to walk up;