By Adrian R. Magnuson
Jeremy Walsh’s mom and dad think he’s been kidnapped through the aged guy he met on a cross-country flight, yet it’s the wrong way round.
proportion within the trip of 2 not likely partners who meet in midair: 13-year-old Jeremy, despatched opposed to his will by way of his career-absorbed father to spend the summer time along with his bipolar mom in long island, and Harry Herndon, aged, one-legged and stricken with mid-stage Alzheimer’s, who escapes his the confinement of domestic for what might be his final event. Outcasts of types, they start their cross-country getaway, trailed by way of Harry’s spouse and Jeremy’s mom and dad, every one of whom threaten to chop their trip brief. the tale that follows is a race opposed to time and condition because the speedy bond over their mutual love of birding whereas experiencing the fun and growing to be pains of retreating of their personal, very various, methods.
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Extra resources for Taking Flight
75. I found that to be outrageous. 25. The ladies crowded around the table, calling out their orders. Frank, behind the table, couldn’t keep up. His stomach brushed up against the chocolate on the top of the éclairs and stripped some off. No one noticed but me. The edges of the éclairs were now smeared and missing chocolate. I wanted one to top off the hot dog but I saw bits of Frank’s shirt fuzz captured in the remaining chocolate and just couldn’t do it. He smiled at me and winked. He thought I didn’t notice, or maybe did and he wanted me to keep quiet about it.
She had not stopped her winning streak. Ten dollars and a Twizzler. Single stick. Not a pack. She was diabetic. I didn’t understand the Holy Virgin sometimes. All these women were diabetic. Still with the Twizzlers every week. I walked down to the concession table and saw éclairs, hot dogs, and bags of potato chips. The low rent kind. 25. 75. I found that to be outrageous. 25. The ladies crowded around the table, calling out their orders. Frank, behind the table, couldn’t keep up. His stomach brushed up against the chocolate on the top of the éclairs and stripped some off.
Those cars were speeding back and forth trying to escape the ash. I walked down Sunset toward the up-lit billboards advertising booze and women and jeans and dresses and everything I wanted and my unemployment check could not afford me. I walked past the roads leading up into the hills and the houses slanting down the hills. The Chateau – Los Angeles’s own castle, and past the fraying palm trees. They were dropping fruit and fronds all along the boulevard, down on girls holding down their dresses and plastic bags careening through the air.