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Dave BradyASH IN THE AIRThe summer I was 13, I started flying paper aeroplanes out off the bedroom window. It was a very transitional time for me. I was changing inside and out. Baby fat was everywhere, my little sister kept calling me Thunder Thighs, all my friends were maturing faster than I was, and I learned the meaning of the words “pimple” and “zit.” I didn’t like it.  I stopped calling my friends. Eventually they stopped calling me, too. I walked the long way to the store just to avoid running into someone. I felt like a shell of my old self. I felt like a fraud. Almost as if I were made of paper mache. At least when I was home alone I could be myself, whatever that was. I could enact an epic play with a deck of cards if I felt like it, or marvel at the alleged wonders of my brother’s Playboy. I could spend hours staring at spoons trying to bend them with my mind, or I could interpret my sleep diary using the illustrated dream dictionary I got from the mall. I could become weirder and weirder behind closed doors without risking exposure. And exposure is what I feared most. That someone would pull away the curtain of my friendly and popular exterior to reveal my shameful and weird insides.So my bedroom became a fort. I stopped hanging out with my friends completely. I told my parents to tell them I wasn’t home if they called or stopped by. I ignored my family as best I could, too. At first I took meals in my room, say I was in the middle of a wicked good TV show or something. If anyone asked me anything a one word answer was all they got. "Fine" and "nothing" became automatic replies. It got so bad that I waited until the house was completely empty before I’d raid the kitchen for food. ...I was in deep trouble. Deep, wrong, inappropriate trouble... My constant, unexplained embarrassment truly boxed me into my own little world. I couldn’t understand what was going on with my own body, my own mind. My voice cracked mid-sentence. One second I’d sound like my big brother, the next, my little sister. It was nuts. Oh, and the random erections, they made me question everything. (Including the popularity of sweatpants.) I had learned in sixth grade, two years earlier, that their appearance signified attraction, but considering their frequency and odd occurrences I prayed that was not the case. If so, I was in deep trouble. Deep, wrong, inappropriate trouble.*** I don’t know what the hell made me think of paper aeroplanes. Since our backyard was a highway, no one really noticed or cared what I was doing. Plus, I could use the skyline of Boston as a backdrop. It was like a cheap movie set. The planes flew high above the sprawling roof. Nestled above Downtown Boston, Charlestown is one square-mile of working-class Irish Catholics. Back then, in the 80s and 90s, an invisible wall surrounded the town. We thought it made a fortress, but really it made a prison. The summer I turned thirteen I had grown enough to see over that wall. ...I'm pretty lucky my neighbours didn't call the cops... At first they were regular old paper airplanes, but then I made them unique. I lit a flame on the little rudder in the back of the plane before I flew them out. I liked watching them glide through the air like that.I would fold my plane, light the tail, give it a careful, quick spray with my mother’s purple Aqua Net, and then launch it out the window. They reminded me of those jets that leave the trail in the sky. A spark, a flame, a burning. The aircraft has been hit. I’m pretty lucky my neighbors didn’t call the cops, actually. I remember using a blank sheet from the back of the family bible. It burned wonderfully. It was so dry and thin that it didn’t take long for the flames to burn through it. That’s when it became addicting. I wanted to make a plane that would burn so fast that it would be ash before it hit the ground. I found even thinner paper: my cousin’s old aviation textbook From the Ground Up. Brigit studied in school to be a pilot and her enthusiasm was contagious. Once she became engaged though she dropped out and became a stewardess. That summer I watched my younger sister play make believe with her friends and my older brother grow aloof with his. When I was younger I climbed trees, taunted store owners, played Alleario and looked forward to ice cream cones. When I was older I would drink beers, smoke grass and discover that what really made the world go round was sex. At thirteen I whiled away my last pre-pubescent summer making planes. *** Looking back, I guess it was sort of appropriate. Flying paper airplanes itself is very innocent, but lighting them lends a dangerous element. Even my delinquent activities were caught in between. As summer gave way to fall, I panicked. I bought a complicated ab machine to try and hide my fat. I bitched and moaned until my mother bought me new clothes. I started calling my friends again, to re-establish our friendships for the coming school year. I couldn’t avoid the uncomfortable situations anymore. My world was closing in on me fast. I could hardly catch my breath. I would be in eighth grade soon and I was still a caterpillar. My godmother told me it wouldn’t last long, but that was just something she said to ease my mind. She was just doing her job. But she knew I was embarking on the most awkward year of my life and I didn’t stand a chance. I would lose focus. I would lose part of myself. I would be miserable. I would incinerate before I would land. I would be a teenager. Dave Brady lives in Boston. The photo is by John Waves.
4:26 PM - 15/5/2006 - post comment
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