The Secret to Flight

3 blocks straight ahead to the bridge.

Bogdan walked out of the hospital and down the street just before the morning sun was due to break over the horizon and come streaming through the cracks in the city skyline. The air felt cool and wet, and Bogdan realized that the three days he had spent indoors felt like an eternity. It seemed so long ago since he had seen the streets of Bucharest like this, so empty. But it really was only just those three days.

It looked to him like pictures of New York that he had seen in books, and without the distinct looking people to betray the identity of the place, it could almost pass. Without the smells of local flavors lingering in the air, without the countless fruit, sundry and candy stands and perhaps with a little visible distance from any identifiable writing on signs and buildings, Bogdan thought he could be anywhere other than Romania this morning. He could be on the streets of any city in the world.

He smirked at the irony of having such a wonderful experience on the last day of his life, at how funny it was to feel so good today of all days. He didn't understand it, then again, he didn't feel like he needed to, having let go of every question and every frustration.

He walked alone, except for the dogs that he knew were there in greater numbers than were visible. There were always dogs around, sleeping in packs under parked cars, with oil-stained feet and flea-infested fur, trotting around in pairs, hiding their puppies in the park. He could see one now, far up ahead on the sidewalk sniffing around a gutter. Even from this far away, he could see that its ribs were showing by the angular shape of its silhouette.

Bogdan lightly placed his hands on his own ribs without even thinking, and he could feel them easily. They were sharp to the touch, even underneath his thin jacket, with no fat to soften their edges, bones were sharper than most people would imagine. With nothing to feed the hungry dog, Bogdan felt guilty as he approached.

He didn't usually feel bad about the dogs. He was typically too busy keeping an eye out for police or angry shop keepers or groups of other boys who might be feeling territorial to have any time to feel sorry for the dogs. Sure, they had a terrible life, but so did he. If it was anything he felt toward all the wandering canines, it was a strange kind of kinship...though he had never really thought of it that way before. Not until today. There was that odd feeling again, that strange clarity. There had never been time for it before.

Things became so clear to him knowing that he was looking back now, that there wouldn't be any more life. Knowing he wouldn't have to do those day to day things that he hated to do. The decision to kill himself by jumping off the downtown bridge to the street below came so easy, so surprisingly easy. Maybe it was the three days in a warm bed that made going back to the streets seem so much worse than it ever had before in the long term. Maybe it was the news that he had AIDS from the distant and cold doctor at his bedside.

Probably, the doctor said, from intravenous drug use. Which he had briefly experimented with when he was new to the streets, before he discovered the medicinal side effects of inhaling glue, which was far cheaper and far less painful than needles. You could beg for glue and get it. But getting drugs took you down a much darker road, full of memories he tried to block out every day.

A gang had taken him in his very first night, spotting him alone in the park, looking so fresh to the outdoor life. They gave him drugs, told him it was the thing to do, the way to live. But it was a few days before he realized that the drugs weren't free, that even on the streets, there was a type of rent to pay. Especially to those who gave you drugs to dull the hunger and the sadness. He left as soon as he realized the way that they worked, striking out on his own.

He had spent some time after his diagnosis wandering about whether or not jumping was the best way to die. He wanted it to be over quick. He worried, would it work? Would he be worse off if it didn't? Would he be scared on the way down? But nothing was scarier to him than the idea of a disease rendering him helpless on the streets, vulnerable to other boys with a violent streak, or worse. Going home was not an option. Nothing was scarier than that.

He left home four years ago after one brutal beating too many from his father. After never having any food to eat at home anyway, he decided that life on the streets couldn't be any worse. So many others had done it; it was just another choice for him. Just another way of life in Bucharest. And he was right. It wasn't worse, just different. He tried not to think of the father who had never shown him any affection whatsoever or the mother he had never known. He was never sorry for leaving his father, and he didn't want the last minutes of his life to be any different. So far, in fact, they had been pretty nice.

Since he was put in the hospital, three days ago, he was forced to take a break from life as usual. Bogdan was hit by a car, and taken to the hospital with only minor injuries. He had a sprained ankle, some scrapes and bruises, and deep gashes across both knees that had required stitches. In Romania, if you're hurt, you go to the hospital and you stay until you're well enough to walk out of the hospital, whether there is a guardian waiting outside the doors for you is of no concern. So whenever any of the boys from the street ended up injured, everyone was jealous. In fact, occasionally in the coldest months of the year, the boys would take turns wounding each other to get in out of the cold. Minor injuries like shallow knife gashes, sometimes burns from lighters or cigarettes, or in the case of a legitimate street fight, a stab wound.

Bogdan had been in the hospital before, once when he had been stabbed while sleeping. He had no idea who stabbed him; he simply woke up to the pain and saw someone about his size running away. He guessed that he had chosen someone else's favorite spot to sleep in and instead of waking him for a fight, they had simply stabbed him. That time, he stayed in the hospital for an entire week.

It was wonderful, he was younger at the time, and he had been put in a room with a painted Mickey Mouse on the concrete wall. It didn't look anything like the real Mickey Mouse. It was all out of proportion. But he liked it just the same. It was winter when he was there, and one night when he couldn't sleep, he had woken up, walked over to the window, and scrawled, "Heri Puter" on the window in the condensation just for fun. The name of his favorite movie character. He had never seen a Harry Potter movie, but he knew what the film was about and it appealed to him greatly. Imagine, someone just showing up and telling you that you're part of some magical world. Being in the hospital was the best place to be. No matter what got you in there.

The idea to kill himself came from a story told to him during this most recent hospital stay by a visiting Priest. The story was about a saint named St. Joseph who lived in Italy long ago and had the power to fly, just like Harry, but without the broom. As the old man told the story, Bogdan pictured himself flying. He listened to the kindly white-haired man talk and thought that he liked the man very much. He was the only person Bogdan could ever remember who smiled at him.

Father Julian was his name, and he was from one of the churches that Bogdan used to pass by as he wandered the city on his constant walks, always moving with nothing to do. He liked to look at the candles that were sometimes lit in what looked like a small little house in the church yard, especially at night when they were the brightest lights on the street. He didn't know what they were, but there was something fun about them. Something that made him feel like it was a holiday. The Father had been there by his bedside as he awoke from a medicated sleep. As Bogdan's eyes adjusted to the bright morning light, the first sight he saw was of the Father. When the Father had introduced himself, Bogdan was nervous that he might recognize him as a street boy, one who had been looking at the candles, and then maybe not be so nice to him anymore. But it never seemed to come up.

Father Julian was funnier than any other grown-up he'd ever met. The Father didn't look away from Bogdan, and Bogdan didn't seem to make him angry at all. Actually, Father Julian was the exact opposite of most people he encountered on the streets. He seemed to want to know all about him. He smiled a lot and he seemed warm and he told Bogdan that if he was still there when he came back next week, he would tell him more stories. If he wasn't there, Father Julian said that he could visit the church anytime and he made Bogdan say the name of the church out loud three times just so he would remember it. "The Chapel Csango," Bogdan said while rolling his eyes a little and pretending to be annoyed.

"That's very good," said the Father. He reached out to tough Bogdan's head and Bogdan found himself startled by this action. The Father noticed and stopped his hand, looking surprised but understanding. "You are a good boy Bogdan. I hope to see you again," he said as he started to walk away. "Also, we have a dinner every Wednesday and Sunday night, you can come and eat and look at the candles if you wish. I'll walk with you and tell you all about them." The Father walked away smiling kindly and for some reason that he didn't understand, Bogdan began to cry big fat tears, without sobbing. The first time he cried in years.

Bogdan's thoughts went exactly like this while the Priest was telling the story of St. Joseph...wow, a man that can fly in real life, I'd like to fly, if I had to die, falling wouldn't be so bad, it would be over quick...and that is exactly how the idea came to him and he remembered it immediately when the doctor told him he had AIDS later that day.

Bogdan thought that he would die from the fall and not have to get sick with AIDS or that maybe he was a saint and didn't know it and would fly as soon as he jumped off. If he could fly, he could certainly be healed and wouldn't have to worry anymore about things like eating out of the trash or sleeping with his arms tucked inside his jacket or hiding from the other boys or smelling like glue. Either way, it would be a pleasant change of pace. He thought about whether or not to talk to Father Julian about this next week when he returned if he was still there. But as nice as the old man was, there was nothing he could do to stop the spread of the disease, the disease he had injected himself with by accident. Maybe it was punishment for running away...

2 blocks straight to the bridge.

Bogdan could see a bit of newspaper here, an empty melon rind there, strewn about the streets before him. He paid more attention to these sights today. Suddenly, he wanted to take them all in, look at every last detail. Except for the dog. As he drew closer, he looked everywhere but at the dog. He didn't want to know what variations of color were in its fur, whether its ears stood up or down. He'd rather look at the cracks in the sidewalk. He wanted to look ahead to the bridge to decide where the best place to jump from would be. He was excited about it. But to see the bridge, he would have to see the dog. So he looked at whatever he was passing on the street instead.

All the shops and stands still had closed windows, almost like they were still sleeping along with the rest of the world. Just now he was passing his most frequented stand. The only one he ever visited really. It was painted a thick glossy red. He looked at the candy and the little plastic toys and the small bottles of shampoo behind the cloudy plastic walls...none of which he could have. All of which he had always wanted.

The first twinge of nervousness hit him since he decided to take his own life just a few hours before, and they fluttered in his stomach against his own will at the sight of a candy wrapper. He had never tasted a Snickers bar. He always wanted one, but had never been able to buy one. The other boys on the street stole them all the time, among other items. But he couldn't steal. It's why he couldn't be in a gang; he could never bring anything back to earn his stay in whatever abandoned subway station or unfinished building site they were stashed away in. He also couldn't perform in the other ways that got you a free pass to belong to a gang. He just didn't want to steal and he just couldn't even think about the other option. And so he never tasted a Snickers bar. He found other ways to survive. Alone. He figured he was probably the only boy making it out there alone, and he was proud of this.

He would ask the owner behind this glossy red stand, Magda, for money, knowing she would give him none. Bogdan thought that Magda looked like a cartoon witch. She was missing a front tooth, and had grey and black kinky hair that stuck out in every direction. She also never wore makeup and had sunken eyes with thin purple skin on her eyelids, and Bogdan caught himself accidentally staring at her before they would even speak every time he came to her stand. She probably thought he did it on purpose, but he didn't. She was very warm to him sometimes, and as he did with every woman that he saw of a certain age, he wondered if maybe she was his mother. Even though he knew that this probably wasn't true, sometimes he hoped it was.

This would begin the routine. Bogdan would become increasingly rude, either to Magda or the customers that came walking up to buy something from her, though secretly, it embarrassed him to behave this way. Though he never knew his mother, he was sure she would be disappointed in him for his behavior. He would crack jokes to the customers, asking them personal questions at the top of his voice. Not because he wanted to bother them, but because he had to prove to Magda that he was not going to go away. That he would stand here and drive customers away until he got what he wanted.

Eventually, she would say, "I know what you want. If I give it to you, will you go away?" Bogdan would stand silent, looking down at his shoes and she knew that meant, "yes". She would reach under her counter for a thin plastic bag and a dirty plastic bottle. She would set them on her counter, as though she was about to make a meal or a drink, and with great exaggerated sighs and heaves of effort and a furrowed brow, she would uncap the bottle, full of glue, and open the delicate little bag. She would squeeze the glue into the bag and hand it over to him, looking at his face over the glasses she sometimes wore. "Now, go!" Magda would say, holding the bag out and down, as though she was telling him to go play.

Just once, he asked Magda for a Snickers instead of the glue as she held it out for him. Her face grew red with rage and she threw the bag on the ground and screamed at him like he had never heard before, "Don't you ever come back!" Afraid of this new reaction, he ran away immediately. He looked back just once, and thought he saw tears in Magda's eyes. He realized immediately, he had made her feel bad. Guilty. Maybe she was poor too, and this stand was all she had. Maybe she couldn't give him anything else but what she already gave and he should be grateful. In a strange way, Magda was the most generous woman he had ever known.

It took him two weeks to find the bravery to return to her stand. When he did, he didn't have to beg for his glue. She handed it over with a smile, and he took it without asking for anything else. The truth was, he needed the glue far more than he wanted the Snickers. He hated the smell, but he needed to inhale the fumes to feel warm and to stave off the boredom of having to spend endless days and nights on the streets with nothing to do. He was sure she was happy to see him by the look on her face and he made a mental note that day that he wouldn't ever do anything to make her angry again; he needed her in his life. Needed the thick concoction that numbed his existence.

He walked past the red stand and was glad to be past it, though he did wonder if Magda would notice he was gone, perhaps she would find another little boy to give to. He cracked a smile suddenly glad to be free of the glue at last and strangely comforted by the fact that someone else might inherit Magda's numbing generosity. "Goodbye stand!" and he turned around and waved at it. He laughed a long loud laugh, the closer he got to the bridge, the more he realized he was really going to do it. If he could say goodbye to the stand, to Magda, there was nothing else to say goodbye to. That was it. This was really going to be it. "Death," he said it out loud with a smile on his face. Death to this awful life, he thought.

At this point, even if someone did notice that he was missing from his hospital bed, by the time they came looking for him (which they wouldn't), he would be gone, as gone as you can get. He did manage to startle the dog, still up ahead sniffing around, with his laugh. (It jumped and sunk low to the ground, ready to dart off in any direction.) But nobody had leaned out of their window to shush him; there were no people out walking on the streets to give him a dirty look, so he felt fine about his little outburst. No more hiding. Bogdan was almost giddy. The city was his this morning. All this time, he had never been able to walk down the street feeling like he deserved to be there, never feeling like he could blend in with the rest of the world. His clothes or his smell would always give him away, and he typically stayed as hidden in plain sight as possible. Under bridges, in parks, in abandoned buildings. But not today, today he walked proudly down the sidewalk in the now golden glow of the brisk morning.

One block straight to the bridge.

His mind was full of thoughts now. He kept his eyes focused only on his feet. The dog was still there, he still didn't look. Bogdan kept his hands in his pockets. His enthusiasm was waning. He thought of how he wanted a Snickers bar, how he wanted to see other places, how he had never stolen anything before in his life.

Bogdan reminded himself that in this case, the pros outweighed the cons. The sky was a little lighter now, and even from a block away, he could hear the occasional car passing by underneath the bridge. He felt a twinge of real regret for whoever would have to find him, whoever would have to see. They would care today, but they wouldn't have cared as he wasted away in the streets, nobody had so far, why would they now if the process was sped up by disease? So he pushed the sympathetic thought from his mind. But the sheer relief at the idea of never having to spend another cold night in the park, never having to be kicked for panhandling, screamed at, or pushed around by police...the thought was, well...it was heaven.

At the bridge.

Here he was. Right where he wanted to be. The dog was still there, but mercifully it had crossed the street to the other side of the bridge, which was made of stone. The dogs were always smart enough not to go anywhere near people. While it's true they had to share the crowded space and smog filled streets of Bucharest, they had all learned by experience that getting close to a human almost always meant danger. Meant a kick to the snout. So much like the street kids, they had found a spot all their own in the public domain. Hidden in plain sight.

His mind was swimming. He craved the release, but he was still afraid. More afraid than he thought he would be, even three blocks ago. Maybe it would end up that he would be just like St. Joseph. Maybe he would step up onto the railing and simply fly away.

Years ago when he left his father's apartment to run away, he thought to himself that life on the streets couldn't be any worse than life at home. He thought about that now. Death can't be any worse than life. He was right in the middle of this comforting thought when he heard a sound behind him.

The yelp of a dog.

He didn't want to look. He closed his eyes. There was another yelp. He squeezed his eyes as tight as he could and put one hand on the stone railing. He could hear a vague scuffling noise and the breathless sounds of agitated dogs. He had to turn around.

Instead of just the one dog that he knew was there, Bogdan could now see two. They were a similar orange color, and there was so much motion that it was difficult to tell what exactly was happening. Bogdan leaned over the bridge and glanced down at the road below. He then looked at the dogs baring their teeth. Only one was yelping backed into the stone wall of the bridge, the other was readying for attack.

There was no harm in delaying his release for just a few more moments. So Bogdan bent down to pick up a small rock lying near his feet. He aimed at the wall of the bridge on the other side, confident that a rock hitting the wall would be enough to scatter the fight. He lobbed the rock at the wall, it hit, making a satisfyingly loud crack noise that sent the attacking dog running off, while the dog being attacked simply cowered by the bridge wall. Its eyes opened so wide and its ears folded backward.

"There's your chance dog. Get going before they come back," but the dog didn't move. Bogdan turned back around and placed his hand on the bridge again. This time he placed his second hand on the railing as well and stared out at the street below, the way a captain surveys the ocean from the bow of a ship. Bogdan stood for a whole minute, fighting the curiosity to turn around, wanting to make sure the dog ran away. Needing to know that it was safe now and overtaken with the sudden concern that it would freeze in place and then dart into the street when the first passing car came.

He stood as still as he could, waiting to hear a sound, the skittering sound of claws on the pavement maybe. But he heard nothing. Bogdan inhaled deeply, beginning to put the dog out of his mind and focused on what was next. He pictured this going differently, going beautifully and serious. This was his chance to do something with dignity. The interruption threw him off, he wasn't thinking of Harry Potter or St. Joseph anymore, all of the sudden Bogdan was completely preoccupied with what would happen to the dog. Then he felt it.

The dog at his side. Bogdan let himself look. A medium-sized mutt, dirty from head to toe, looked up at him without making a sound. The dog didn't whimper or bark, it just looked at him. Right at his face. He studied the dog more closely and was surprised to see that it only had three legs; he hadn't let himself really take the dog in before. Without even thinking about it, Bogdan reached out a hand to pet the dog, but it winced and ducked. He left his hand out for a moment, and the dog smelled it after a long pause. He was able to rub the dog's face and finally began to stroke the dog lovingly. He got down to his knees and continued to pet the dog. It didn't seem hurt at all. No fresh wounds. "You may be worse for the wear, but you're not dying yet," he said as he pet the hair on top of the dog's head. It's skin moved in such a way as he pet it, that it's eyebrows appeared to raise and then lower again with each pet, and it blinked every time. It was funny and Bogdan laughed. The dog breathed in a long breath and huffed out once, blinking twice and then sitting down to take in all of Bogdan's affections.

"You have bad timing dog," said Bogdan. He smiled as he continued to pet the dog, whose tail had begun to wag gently back and forth, scraping the concrete like a broom. He began to talk to the dog like it was another person, the way he talked to himself. "I know a very nice priest who might like to have you. Would you like to be a Catholic?" Bogdan laughed at his own joke, amazed that he had already made himself laugh twice, no, three times today. What would another couple of hours hurt if he could manage to find this dog a home? Maybe one last good deed would increase his chance of becoming a saint; maybe God would definitely let him fly if he saved a dog.

One block from the bridge.

Bogdan had scooped the dog up in his arms so that the dog could keep up with him as he walked. When he scooped it up, he noticed that "it" was a "she". "You're just a little girl," he said through the heavy breaths of the effort of carrying the dog as he walked up a hill. But he didn't mind at all, in fact, he found that the fact that she was hampered in this way made her even more sweet to him. She was an easy burden, despite his sore body. "When I drop you off at The Chapel Csango, and remember to say it more than once so you remember it, I will tell Father Julian that your name is Little Girl. He's funny, you'll like him." Bogdan patted her side gently.

As they crested over the top of the hill walking away from the bridge, Bogdan kept talking to her, "You know what the secret to flight is, don't you? The secret is, you can't jump. That's the difference between flying and falling."

The dog looked at Bogdan quizzically, licked his arm once, and laid her head down on his shoulder. Bogdan thought to himself, realized in a moment of surprise, that he had never told Father Julian about how much he loved to watch the candles flickering in the breeze at night.