We Are All Airplanes

The basement floor was as cold and hard as always. Sitting on the cold floor was okay if you were wrapped in a blanket, thought Max, who didn’t mind being called Maximilian by his parents and teachers.

Matt, the older brother– who was never to be called Matthias, only Matt– handed out controllers to his best friend and his brother. His features mirrored his little brothers, the same sharp nose, rosy cheeks, and large green eyes. He was 15 and knew everything.

Sat at Matt’s right hand like a scheming archduke was Leonard –not Lenny, never Leo– he took this game the most seriously and was the worst at it. He was the tallest and skinniest, with lank blonde hair sharp features. Even twelve year old Maximillian frequently beat him.

The race began, with frantic pushing of buttons, toggling their cars around and around the track. They leaned and bounced around in their seats, as if tilting forward could help them accelerate, could help them win. The split screen showed them wheeling about underneath parked airplanes, and Max said that next time he should play as an airplane.

“We are all airplanes,” Matt said, and the others laughed. It didn’t make sense, it didn’t have to.



Max moved away from the suburbs of his birth to seek open flats and towering mountains– Big Sky Country. He flies private planes for millionaires who like to keep their lives private. He married a man named Leonard, who goes by Leo, and who always calls him Maximilian. Leo has a square jaw and a beautiful face, a face far more beautiful than his, Max knows.

This is your Captain speaking, he says, and he calls himself not by the family name he shares with Matt, but by his husband’s name, the one he took as his own six years ago.

The planes wait for their chance on the runway, not wanting to crowd together or get too close. The most they interact is brief radio calls, passengers waving at each other as they pass by hundreds of yards apart. One must be far away before the next can move forward. If they moved too quickly it would be chaos, explosions, fatality and lawsuits.





The balcony was cold against bare skin, just as you’d expect. Lying out in the open wasn’t so bad if you were lying next to someone else, thought Maximilian. Leo passed him the joint, a rare indulgence for a pilot, frequently subject to random drug tests. He blew a small cloud of smoke at the big dark sky.

Leo’s finger traced the path of a blinking red light. Do you think you know him, he asked, is that an airplane you’ve flown?

Maximillian took another hit. “We are all airplanes,” he said. Leo giggled helplessly. It didn’t make sense, it didn’t have to.