TrumpAir

Dream 2018
TrumpAir


I walked alone somewhere strange and cold on what seemed an infinite pier stretching over a gray ocean. I knew I was on a trip away from home, but didn’t know where. Although I was alone, it didn’t bother me. I was comfortable.

Comfortable.

From behind me came a gaggle of voices, laughing and singing, in an Irish accent. They moved ahead of me, a small group of men and one woman. From the similarities of their features, I could see they were siblings.

The sister turned her head to stare at me, grinned. She was tall and strikingly beautiful. Her focused energy made me uncomfortable.

“Which way are you going?” she asked. “Why are you walking by yourself?”

I pointed down the pier. “I don’t know, but there’s only one direction, anyway.”

She fixed her chilling eyes on my face and swung her head left. The wooden path before us split in two, doubled with the movement of her head. The pier now forked in two directions, the original knifing away into the dismal distance, and a new way paved in concrete which descended in hundreds of steps. The level of the ocean dropped uncannily with the steps. Once my eyes froze on this new path, I was afraid to look again at the first pier, afraid I’d be crushed by water.

“Why don’t you walk with us?” the woman asked. I started to say something, but she grabbed the sleeve of my jacket and pulled me close to her. It was a cold day, and she radiated a warmth which was calming. So I followed her down the steps, with her brothers behind us. They spoke Irish now; I had no idea what they were saying, but each sentence was like a burning wick into a bomb of laughter.

At the bottom of the steps, the path broadened into a vast plaza, at the center of which was an airplane surrounded by a small group of people. Emerald Gaelic characters covered the side of the aircraft. The woman’s brothers began to cheer and run, as did their sister.

“Where are we going?”

They ignored me and raced to the aircraft, and I followed. As we got closer to the people there, the woman stopped abruptly and cursed. A tall man in a rumpled suit stood by the staircase. He smiled at her like a ghoul. It was Donald Trump.

Trump reached for her and the green lettering fell from the plane to the tarmac, revealing gold letters: TRUMPAIR. He grasped her elbow while she screamed.

“I am the pilot of this plane,” Trump said. “The best pilot. We’re all going on an amazing trip!”

The woman’s own brothers surrounded her and dragged her up the stairs, while she fought and bit them.

Like a coward, I turned to run, but Trump’s men grabbed me, herding me onto the plane. I struggled to get free, facing Trump as he ascended the stairs, the hollow white skin around his eyes like the prophecy of skeleton death as he smiled and smiled and smiled.

The interior of the plane was much smaller than the exterior suggested, one row of seats behind the cockpit, and one seat high in the rear, accessed by a small stairway. The men shoved me up the stairs to the lone, high seat and strapped me in. The harness was tight and pressed me down, and as I fought against it, a window opened in the aisle floor between the seats below me, revealing the tarmac.

The Irish brothers piled into the seats on the left of the plane and were quiet, staring serenely at the cockpit. Their sister was squished into the window seat at the right by Trump’s men. Her face was pushed against the glass with a man’s elbow jammed into the back of her head. She made keening sounds that scared the fuck out of me.

In the cockpit, Trump settled into the pilot’s chair and an advisor, whose face scrolled through so many different features to make me dizzy, sat in the copilot’s chair.

Trump pursed his lips and squinted at the controls. He reached for a dial.

“You don’t know how to fly, Sir,” said his advisor.

“I am the world’s greatest pilot,” Trump exclaimed and his hand got closer to the dial.

The advisor grabbed Trump’s hands and pushed them to manipulate all the controls in a blur, then the plane rose from the tarmac like a helicopter. Once we were airborne, with the runway not far below, Trump laughed and grabbed his advisor’s head in one hand, then shoved him down onto the floor of the cockpit. He then grasped the yoke with both hands and yanked it back and forth like he was captain of a Tonka Truck.

The Irish woman freed her face from the window and shrieked at him.

Trump’s face got red and the plane dipped fast toward the runway. I could see a man down on the tarmac through the floor window. He was a black man in a work outfit. The plane fell and fell, and I turned my face away in horror as the bottom of the plane hit the tarmac and crushed the man; his remains gored the glass.

Captain Trump’s advisor climbed back into his chair as the plane scraped against the ground. He guided Trump’s hands again on the controls until the plane again ascended and Trump again pushed him away and took charge and the craft plummeted. This cycle occurred over and over, smashing and squishing countless people into the ground under the aisle floor window.

I imagined the trail of crushed people behind us and got sick. We never, ever took off. Just a series of leaps and falls that slaughtered the unwary.

It finally ended when I looked up from the viscera-crusted floor window to see the brothers were standing in the cockpit around Trump, and their sister had her fingers tight in his hair. He was squealing in pain, and his squeals seemed to lower the plane gracefully to the runway to a soft landing. She let go of his hair and the exit door opened and stairs lowered to the ground. My harness vanished.

Trump and his men washed out of the plane like vermin on a tide of lye. The woman and her brothers exited the plane, and I followed.

Trump was surrounded on both sides by his entourage. He looked pleased, proud, vindicated.

I peered over my shoulder and saw that endless trail of death on the runway and shuddered.

One of his men pointed at me, pointed at the Irish woman and her brothers.

While Trump looked at nowhere, a satisfied smile on his face, the man said, “It isn’t his fault. He never claimed to KNOW how to fly. That’s preposterous! Surely it’s your responsibility, and he has nothing to do with it.”

They surrounded Trump in a lighted coil that SQUEEZED and soon pressed out all illumination, and drifted away.

Dream Over

The Wheel of Time Fashion Show.

The Wheel of Fashion Show with No Regard to Time: Robert Jordan and H. sit on opposite sides of the catwalk, which is lit by rows of engraved STAND LAMPS. The engravings are myriad and Jordan describes each. H. has a censor button that she can use on Jordan, but she smiles at him because he is so beautiful and doesn’t push the button. Numerous people from Randland walk up and down the catwalk beneath tapestries so varied and described by Jordan without H. pushing the button. The people are dressed in intricate fashion: sleeves, necks, belts, jewelry, etc., which Jordan describes in a deep, rich, slow voice, and Harriet never pushes the button. Nynaeve is pulled into the chamber by her braid, which is yanked by an unseen force. While the models drift on the catwalk, liveried servants scurry around them carrying towels. They knuckle their foreheads and kneel and appear startled, before running away. Nynaeve steps up behind H. and pulls her hair, but H. still won’t push the button.

This goes on forever and is reborn.