This man has debts and dreams. Specifically, he gathers fourty-five helium weather balloons, a red and green lawnchair, flares, CB radio, a BB gun, an oxygen mask, a life preserver, a couple of turkey sandwiches, and a six-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper. He is unemployed and refreshed. He smiles, donning opaque sunglasses.  His friends are watching with a VHS camcorder in his backyard. By the time they unloosen one rope the remaining three snap and he is gone.

There's no time to wave or even look down at suburban San Pedro, streets of rooftops and swimming pools, because with the lawnchair soaring, tilting backwards at an unearthly angle, him thinking I need to balance, rapidly up it soars up. And up. Horizontality loses its infinite. Before now the Guinness record for this thing was 3,299 feet. At 5,000 feet it’s getting real cold, real fast. At 11,000 feet he uses the oxygen tank. At 15,418 feet airborn by lawnchair he aims the BB gun at his own balloons. This is where he peaks.

After Letterman, he is a normal guy again quick when who calls but the FAA. The landing, he is reminded eternally, was sloppy and reckless and most importantly invaded the sacristy of federal airspace. The man is to be fined for his trespassings. His debts accrue mercilessly. One day he walks into the forest with his pistol. He is still there now, in the record book.

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