Dear The Rich People
The rich man stood on the edge of the deepest hole in history. His sneakers gleamed. The toes of his sneakers, an inch over the edge and angling down, caused onlookers to moan with dread and excitement.
The round hole, a quarter mile in diameter, had been cut so perfectly, airline pilots were forbidden from rolling their planes onto their sides for a look down the hole, because one look caused flight education and even sanity to seem wrongheaded by comparison.
The hole had crashed whole planes. The hole had driven satellites mad, turning them into falling stars.
The rich man stood alone.
On the other side of the hole and curving around the edges, forming a crescent, stood many thousands of non-rich people with their commonplace phones and cameras flashing and recording, collecting the rich man’s majestic stillness, and sending it to the watching, waiting world.
A world holding its breath.
Going blue for the first ever athlete in a brand-new sport: “The Unassisted Flight Of Man,” which in time became known as, simply, “Flight.”
Flight was born.
Unassisted. In other words, no jets or engines. No wings. No fuselages, fins, or pilots. No tiny sky-toilets, seatbelts, tedium, none of it.
Flight meant one man soaring. Solitary. So rich.
The rich man.
He leaned forward and looked down. He had done much leaning forward and looking down over the years, waiting for his hole to be completed.