Oh Bugger (3): Paper Airplane Addition

[Rue Wydown 0]

Oh Bugger 3: Paper Airplane Addition

Cdr Ruth Wydown's Experience

 

 

“Don Giovanni?”

 

I heard Clayton’s voice behind me as I sketch on my pad of paper. I am, by no stretch of the imagination, an accomplished artist. But I can draw a mean stick figure character. Cute ones too. At the time he’s interrupted my train of thought, I’d been drawing dark stormy clouds over a jagged mountain peak that fill the page with angry slashes. “It seemed to appropriate.” I offer without turning around.

 

“Something you want to tell me? Have the garden statues been coming to life again? Dragging you down to Hell?” He teased, commenting on the operatic arias playing from the sound system. While the music isn’t exactly loud, it isn’t in the background either. Clayton leaned a hip against the desk I’m working at, tapped commands into the control panel to bring lead soprano’s voice down to less glass shattering level.

 

“I’m all ready there, luv. Got the t-shirt. Wanna see?” I throw my pencil down and lean back in my chair so I can look at him without craning my neck. I flash one of my self-depreciating smiles and try to relax as he examines my work.

 

“The Marriage of Figaro would have been more cheering.” He picks up a few of the pages I’ve left scattered across the desk. He scrutinizes each work, his eyes sweeping across the page as he comments again. “Bad day?” I glance down to his hands, then back up to his face. There’s an implied “Duh” in my facial expression. He soldiers on. “Where did you find the paper?”

 

“In the desk. I forgot I left it.” I sighed. I was feeling deeply restless and been trying some of my old tried and true methods of stress relief without much in the way of results. So I was looking for alternative methods when I came across the pad of artist paper. I was badly abusing my resources with my poor excuse for artwork, but I felt calmer for it.

 

Clayton tested the weight of the paper in his hands, mulling over some sort of plan. I wasn’t sure if I should worry it meant blackmailing me about my current mental state or getting me to do something totally inappropriate. I didn’t have to wait long to find out. “Oh I think I can find a better use for these.”

 

“What do you have in mind?” I asked, steepling my fingers together evil doctor style.

 

“Meet me upstairs in my bedroom--” he quickly amended his thought before I could interrupt. “On the balcony, love. Fifteen minutes. Bring scissors.”

 

I grinned, wondering exactly what the imp had in mind.

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Windward direction was from the west, could be described as ‘gentle’ by the romantic sort. The arc - perfect curving slope from a height of twenty two feet. Distance to target fifty feet. Speed and trajectory are right on target. For a few blessed peaceful seconds, we watch as my glider gracefully floats through the air into the center of the fire pit before promptly bursting into flames.

 

“Booya!” I shout, clap my hands together then point to my ex-husband. “And that’s how it’s done!”

 

For the past half hour we’ve be launching paper airplanes off the back balcony into the fire pit in the middle of the backyard. While the time spent doodling until Clay returned this evening resulted in some ugly yet oddly therapeutic drawings, sending them to their doom in a flaming fire pit had bolstered my mood. I think Clay was right - keeping the drawings around seemed like bad ju-ju, so why not literally torch my frustrations.

 

Clayton laughs, getting ready to launch his glider. “Nice. Now watch the Master in action.”

 

“You haven’t hit the target once.” I laugh, leaning against the railing, watching him attempt to tweak his airplane with a pinch here, a fold there and a touch of spit.

 

“Just trying to lull you into a false sense of security.” He rolled his shoulders and positioned himself in launching stance. “Now get ready to be dazzled.” He closed one eye, stuck out his tongue and flicked his wrist to launch his masterpiece.

 

We then watched Clayton’s airplane, apparently piloted by a minuscule drunken kamikaze pilot, dive and weave through the air until it haphazardly nicked the edge of the fire pit causing one wing to catch fire. It crashed landed into the wet lawn, the wing burning itself out within seconds, leaving a sorry smoldering ashy pastey mess next to the fire pit.

 

I winced, staring at the soggy mess from above, “Oh, I am so glad you watered the lawn. We might have caught the garden on fire with that one.”

 

“Lass, I might act like a big kid. But I am a responsible big kid.” Clay flashed one of those charming grins of his. “By the way, that counts.”

 

“That in no way counts.”

 

“It caught fire, it counts.”

 

“Okay, score is still four against.........1/2.”

 

“It counts as a full point.”

 

“It counts as ½ as only ½ of it caught fire.” I stuck my tongue out at him and turned to leave the balcony so to clean up the mess below.

 

“Yes, well it was the best half that caught fire anyway.” Clay pouted as he followed me down the steps.

 

The lawn is littered with failed flight attempts, both his and mine. We silently pick each one of them up, circling around the fire pit. Once the wreckage is gathered (even the half burnt one), we stand in front of the pit poised to dump the lot in.

 

“On three?”

 

“On three.” I nodded. Clay counted down slowly, then we both dump the paper and watch the ensuing fireball and ash cloud rise up. Gray black smoke curls up through the air and drifts off with the breeze, probably giving the neighbors the impression we are BBQing.

 

“Not exactly Dante’s Inferno, is it?”

 

“No,” I answer in a whisper, feeling morose again as I back up and sit on the outdoor settee. I feel the seat cushions next to me compress, know that Clayton has joined me, but my eyes are on the fire. The flames lick the air and the gray ashy smoke fades into soft white tendrils swirling upwards. At that moment, I feel like it’s not just my frustrations I’m watching go up in flames, but just maybe my career as well. And oh how deeply this hurts.I’m not sure I have the vocabulary to describe it if asked. All I know is that I haven’t felt this sort of pain since...well...since my husband became my ex-husband.

 

“You know, you could quit.” While his voice isn’t much above a whisper, Clay’s voice cuts through the fog in my brain. I shook my head slowly. “Is this really worth what you’re putting yourself through?”

 

“Aye. Aye, I think it is. I think some things are worth fighting for. If you love them.” I turned to glance at him. Clay rears back, just a little bit, as if I’ve slapped him. Just a little, not enough for him to notice that I’ve noticed the hurt. And the sense of lose feels deeper now. I know what I want to fight for. I fought hard for long eight years for something I believed in. For someone I believed in. And would still be fighting if my partner had seen the value in it. But just as I feel that some things are worth fighting for, I also know when it’s time to cut my losses so I can survive to fight another day. While I had to give up my marriage, I’m just not ready to give up on my career just yet.

 

Again, there’s an awkward silence between the two of us. Clay looks as if he’s trying to find the right words to say, coming up empty every time he dips into that well. And I’m too afraid to open my mouth in case I wreck this new friendship I’ve developed with him over the past few days. I mean we’ve always been best friends as well as partners. But this feels like something new. Comfortable, like a well worn t-shirt after sitting in the warm sun. And it feels good to me. I don’t...I can’t....lose it now. Not when I’m in the deepest trouble I’ve ever been. I don’t need him to fix this for me...I just need his friendship. I’ve come to depend on him. His ability to make me laugh almost instantly, to pick me up when I’m down or be a shoulder to cry on when I need it. But at the same time, I feel terrible about this. I feel like I’m using him. I shouldn’t be using him like this, but I can’t help it. I know I need all the friends I can get, but I don’t just want anyone...I want him. I feel selfish here. This isn’t fair to him at all.

 

In the end, after too long of a silence, I slip my hand out from under his (again, when did we start holding hands again? I mean I felt him holding my hand, but don’t remember when that started.) and I sighed. The ache is too great and I need a break. I stood, kissing him on the top of his head as I pass by. “I’m sorry.” And I mean this for the hurt I’ve caused him tonight as much as I mean it for the mood that has dampened our fun tonight. “I’m going to go to bed. Got a long day ahead of me. G’night.”

 

I pad off towards the patio door, leaving Clayton sitting like a statue staring into the fire. As the door opens, I heard him call after me.

 

“Hey Rue?”

 

“Aye?”

 

“I’m sorry too.”

 

Oh bugger, what more can I say?