A Bucharest Impalers Saga in Several Parts
Written by Drew Visscher
[This Short Story is best enjoyed while playing the Sontata of Romanian composer Valentin M. Bogdan, “Etudes for Solo Piano IV. Sets”]
It began with the crackling intercom from the Flight Attendant; the unceremonious tone of the ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ indicator on the faded console over my head; the lurch earthward as the sky-stained Boeing 747 groaned indignantly toward Henri Coandă International Airport.
Coandă—A Romanian aerodynamicist and both Wright Brothers of Romania. A mathematics professor who developed propulsion engines for the Nazis and, much later, the inventor of a charming desalination process that made sea water drinkable with solar power. The full human bracket of death and life. Now, all that remained of this lifelong seeker of clouds was an ugly airport and the chittering 747 that bore me toward the planet’s surface at a southward velocity of 172 miles per hour.
Wearily, as the old plane lurched reluctantly against the asphalt to mark our return to the crust, I rubbed my eyes and attempted to recount the few details of the phone interview three days ago that resulted in my ascent to the General Manager of the Bucharest Impalers.
“Hello?”
"Hello.”
“I’m sorry—this is Andrew Visscher. I’m the—”
“I know who you are.”
“Ah, right. Sorry—this is regarding the Bucharest Impalers position, right?”
“You must never apologize when confused, Andrew. It shuns greatness.”
“I’m sorry?”
(Audible sigh).
“I think you may have the wrong number.”
“I am never wrong, Andrew Visscher.”
“Okay then.”
“At the front desk of your motel, in a polypropylene envelope, you will find three one-way tickets to the city of Bucharest. You will select two of your brightest protégés and depart in two days.”
There was no real recourse—no explanation, for abandoning my home and retrieving those plane tickets. Sure, I’d applied to manage the Impalers franchise—and three dozen other franchises across the continents. Likewise, I’d received one rejection after the other; thank you for your consideration. Best of luck. Respectfully. When I sat down on the scratchy, starched blankets of that Motel 8, I couldn’t help but feel that he knew where I was. What I felt. I didn’t even know hotel phones worked anymore. But they did, and his voice cracked across the continents as sure as a rainy day.
I was desperate. Perhaps I was a little drunk. In any case, my shame lay open before the world, and I was desperate to escape.
Whatever the purpose, there I was, with slightly less than seventy-two hours to assemble my team and head east. Way east.
And so, at the bottom of my life, the climb to altitude began.
