The Gravity of the Situation

Everyone, this is Lucas. Lucas is in freefall. His hands close and open automatically, searching for something solid to grab hold of. The rush of air is strong, so much so that he cannot open his eyes. If he could, he would see an expanse of clouds, a blanket of soft white wool covering the Pacific Ocean. If Lucas had a altimeter, it would read 27,000....26,570...25,982. Lucas has reached terminal velocity. He holds his breath automatically, because five year olds have not yet forgotten the infant instinct to do so. The instinct for holding your breath when no air is available is a survival mechanism, born of thousands of generations of babies falling into rivers and baths and lakes and oceans. Those who held their breath lived. Sadly, there is no survival mechanism that instructs five-year-olds towheads who are bored on airplanes not to open the emergency doors. Planes haven't been around that long. Lucas doesn’t want to be tumbling through the air, turning over and over, as if unsure of which side is best to present to the rapidly approaching sea.

39,238…

All Lucas ever wanted was to taste the clouds. He is sure, sure, that they taste like marshmallows. It seems perfectly reasonable to him that God created the sky to keep His delectable treats fresh until He needed them. Where does God roast His marshmallows? Probably over the sun. He pictures an old man, wearing a bathrobe, perched on the moon like a stool, with a stick longer than the eye can see, contentedly reaching into earth and pulling out a few clouds, skewering some and taking one and popping it into his galaxy sized mouth, chewing fitfully, bored.

26,786…

This situation might not be so unpleasant for Lucas if not for the lack of breathable air, or at least breathable air that isn't whooshing by him so fast that it would explode his little lungs if he were to open his mouth. Asphyxiation will cause him to pass out before he penetrates the cloud layer. It would be okay if he could hold his Buzz Lightyear toy, or hear his dad snore. Instead, all he hears is the put-put-put of his cheeks, which he cannot feel because of the cold.

38,431…

It was cold in the airplane as well--his mother was ignoring him because he had woken her up by asking about the clouds. She wouldn't tell him whether or not clouds taste like marshmallows, even though he could tell she knew the answer. Lucas wanted to find out. He is a big boy, and big boys don't need help. They are good at sneaking, and Lucas is the sneakiest, he is good at not being noticed by his mother when he slips out of his seat, by the fat man who snores with his stinky mouth open, by the stewardesses who smile fakey mouth-smiles at him, and so, it is with great triumph that he puts his big strong arms on the red lever and pulls.

38,293…

Rarrrrrrrrroooooosh. He gets one second, less than that, maybe, to see how big the clouds are from outside, and how far away the plane is already. Then his eyes cannot open. There is no time to be afraid. Lucas thinks maybe he is flying, wants to breathe, needs to, but he can't force his mouth open. Old instincts are hard to overcome.

23,100…

Everyone, say goodbye to Lucas. He won't find out that he was right--fresh, unpolluted clouds, just on the edge of the atmosphere, whether by divine design or by some strange alchemical coincidence, do taste just like marshmallows.