Читать книгу A Thin Place - Jack Peterson - Страница 8

Thursday, May 19, 1927

Long Island, New York

It was 7:52 AM, Eastern Standard Time. Still immersed in the giddy whirl of the 1920’s, the nation’s stock market remained strong but for Charles Lindbergh the status of the stock market meant nothing. He knew the United States was on the brink of an aviation revolution and he was determined to be part of it.

Paying no mind to the fact that six people died in three previous attempts to be the first to fly non-stop across the Atlantic, Lindbergh also ignored to the media’s claim that what he was about to do was suicidal. He sat calmly in the cockpit of his Ryan monoplane preparing to take off. To allow for more fuel, he had lightened his plane’s weight by opting to have no parachute, radio, brakes, or forward window. Pessimistic prognosticators, convinced he was sure to fail, claimed he was attempting to fly an oversized gas tank with wings into history. Lindbergh disagreed. He trusted his nine-cylinder Wright Whirlwind radial engine, and he trusted himself. He turned his ride upwind. The only certainty was that he was just seconds away from takeoff. Where or when his journey would end was anybody’s guess.

Named the Spirit of St. Louis in honor of his hometown, Lindbergh’s plane bounced awkwardly down the runway of Long Island’s Roosevelt Field. Slowly accelerating, he could see the telephone lines precariously positioned just yards from the runway’s end. Hundreds of nervous onlookers watched as his plane took the full length of the field before finally becoming airborne. Barely missing the wired obstructions, Lindbergh disappeared into the fog. For the citizens of the world, time would stand still until Lindbergh reappeared. Thirty-three hours and 3500 miles later, a live radio broadcast announced that a commercial fishing boat radioed in that they had spotted Lindbergh’s plane above the southern tip of Ireland. Sighting was the easy part. Lindbergh still had to reach Paris and the experts knew that fuel remained a major problem. Those ready to embrace a new hero could only wait and hope. It was high drama.

The next day, as Lindbergh closed in on his destination, Jeremiah Trent walked briskly down a freezing and wind-blown sidewalk on Chicago’s north shore. An hour earlier, he too had been caught up in Lindbergh’s odyssey, gathering around a crowd listening to the radio in a coffee shop at Chicago’s Union Station. While he had marveled at Lindbergh’s effort, neither Lindbergh nor his own freezing nose could deter him from the business at hand. He angled his wiry six foot two inch frame a few degrees forward, maximizing his leverage against Lake Michigan’s chilling winds. He was focused, on a mission of his own, and had less than an hour to complete it. Minutes later, he turned the final corner. Like Lindbergh, his goal was in sight. His paced quickened.

John D. Rockefeller’s dream when he founded the University of Chicago in 1892 was to for the curriculum to eventually include a medical school. In the fall, Rockefeller’s vision would become reality when the maiden medical school classes would commence. Trent was minutes away from finding out if he would be included. Trent had two plans. The first was acceptance to medical school, his Plan A, but it did not come without complications. It would automatically trigger a far more difficult and personally unpleasant hill for him to climb than the application process. Plan B was paying for medical school. He had saved enough to pay for his first year of medical school, but the next three years remained a work in progress, but there was a problem. Plan B was not only uncertain and personally distasteful, it was dangerously flawed.

Trent mentally cursed his delayed train from Minneapolis. He knew acceptance and rejection notices were officially mailed the day before, but he was a man long on intellect and short on patience. Waiting until Monday for a letter to arrive was not going to happen. It was Saturday and the admissions office closed early. He had less than thirty minutes.

As Trent pushed on, nearly four thousand miles away, it was early evening in Paris. Dark, a blanketing fog began to creep in. The few that began gathering in the morning to witness Lindbergh’s descent to Le Bourget Aerodrome had swelled into a massive crowd. Each participant hoping to witness aviation history, they pushed and shoved, trying to secure a piece of soggy turf to call their own. As stars finally began to penetrate the diminishing cloud cover, a moist wind grew stronger. The crowd bunched even closer, seeking protection. Without warning, rows of runway landing lights glowed as huge searchlights flooded the sky when the roar of an airplane’s motor grew louder. The crowd stilled, listening. Slowly, rippling anticipatory cheers began to replace the silence. Then, without warning, the landing lights went dim and the searchlights were turned off as a plane passed overhead. It was not Captain Lindbergh. The crowd quieted, clearly content to wait through the night if necessary.

When Trent arrived, he hesitated at the base of the stairs and looked up. The sign above the door said it all, Admissions Office. He sucked in another breath of air and ran up. He placed his hand on the door but stopped in his tracks before pushing it open. A bolt of fear suddenly slammed through his body. The moment of truth, he said to himself.

Within seconds, he found himself standing at the threshold of a large counter. He knew that because of his thick moustache, faded jeans, and scuffed cowboy boots he could easily be mistaken for a hired cowhand rather than a prospective medical student, but he paid it no mind. A cold sweat broke across his forehead as a slim, middle-aged woman sitting at a desk behind the counter suddenly stood and walked forward. Flashing a comforting, soft smile, her voice was mellow, but firm. “May I help you?” she asked, peering over the top of her glasses.

Trent nodded. “My name is Jeremiah Trent. I was told there would be an envelope here for me.”

The woman nodded back. “We were expecting you.” Without a word, she turned around, and disappeared through a door a few feet behind her desk.

Trent was mildly impressed. His call to the admissions office the day before requesting they not mail his notice had obviously worked. In his business, customer service was a nonentity. Trying to mask his anxiety, he turned away, fidgeting with his moustache while looking aimlessly around the office. His mind was blank. Nothing was registering. He was scared. He had no other word to describe it.

Seconds passed. For Trent, it was an eternity. A voice came from behind. “Doctor Trent?”

Trent turned back. “Pardon me?”

The woman was nearly nose-to-nose, clutching a large white envelope, peering ominously over the top of her glasses. “This envelope says ‘Doctor Jeremiah Trent’. Are you Doctor Trent?” she demanded.

Trent nodded, meekly. The woman reminded him of his mother who had always been brutal when it came to details. Never impressed with his Ph.D., people frequently mistook the Dr. in front of his name to mean he was a medical doctor. Correcting the misinterpretations became annoying. He found it simpler just to eliminate the credential whenever possible. “Most people just call me Trent,” he answered.

The woman ignored his explanation. “Well then, Doctor Trent, good luck!” she said, placing the envelope on the counter with one hand while silently offering a mock salute with the other. In an instant, she was gone.

Trent froze, staring at the counter. A neatly sealed white envelope, possibly outlining his entire future, was within reach, and all he could do was look at it. A minute passed before he gathered the courage to pick it up and walk outside. He stood on the landing, his back to the gusting winds, the envelope clutched to his chest. His bare hands trembled, but not from the cold. Tearing open the envelope, the sick feeling he had in his stomach suddenly went away. We are pleased to inform you….

Trent yelled to the sky. “I’m in!”

Twenty minutes after the false alarm in Paris, a gray-white airplane finally slipped gradually out of the darkness at Le Bourget field. An estimated 50,000 pairs of eyes strained upwards. At 10:22 P.M. Paris time, the Spirit of St. Louis finally touched down completing the first ever-Atlantic crossing by an aircraft. Lines of soldiers, ranks of police officers, and stout steel fences were no match for the gang-like assemblage of people as all fell before the crowd’s frenzied rush that was a force equal to the ocean at high tide. His aircraft engulfed by a sea of humanity, Lindbergh had won. What began as a humble quest to win a $25,000 prize for the first crossing of the Atlantic, had instantly blossomed far beyond anyone’s most optimistic expectations. Like a match to a bonfire, the voyage had lit up the world. Tonight, the world was temporarily Lindbergh’s kingdom.

As Lindbergh sought temporary refuge from the frenzied crowd in a nearby hangar, Trent’s euphoria had already succumbed to reality. Frantically, he made his way back to Union Station to catch the last train to Minneapolis with just minutes to spare. Four hours out, resting his legs on the empty seat in front of him, his relaxed outward appearance defied the turmoil he felt burning inside. His mind was still racing, listening to his heart. While his brief career as a chemist had paid the bills and helped supplement his aging parent’s finances, he never considered his employment permanent. His fascination with medical school always lingered like an open wound, unreachable, and financially impossible. It was on New Year’s Day that his years of unhappiness finally escalated from mildly unacceptable to unbearable. Time was not on his side. He had to move on. Now, he had a letter in his pocket that confirming his chance for a new beginning. His agonizing uncertainties about medical school were finally over but there was one more on the horizon.

It was already Sunday morning in Paris when Trent finally disembarked in Minneapolis and Lindbergh was already on his way to yet another celebratory event to honor his amazing feat. While Lindbergh’s odyssey was over, Trent knew his was just beginning. Plan B was suddenly staring him in the face, but it was not without risks. Like Lindbergh, he too had to take a chance, but there was a difference. Lindbergh didn’t have to fly across the Atlantic. It was his choice. Trent knew he had no such option. He had to pay for medical school.