Some days, the city throws a minor traffic jam your way. Other days, it flings a light aircraft into an oak tree just to keep you on your toes. One moment, you're dodging delivery vans and errant cyclists, the next, you're staring at a scene that looks like the result of a flight simulator glitch. It’s not every day you expect to see a plane tangled up in the branches on your usual route, but then again, nothing should surprise me anymore. This job has taught me that if something can happen, it probably will, though even I wasn't prepared for a mid-air parking mishap right in the middle of my shift.
When a Light Aircraft Decides to Park in a Tree: A Surreal Sight on My Route
It was just past midday, and I was weaving my way through the outer suburbs when it happened. I had been cruising along, minding my own business, when I noticed something red and out of place in my peripheral vision. At first, I thought someone had got creative with their Christmas decorations, despite it being March. But no, there it was: a small red aircraft, dangling from the branches like an oversized bauble, its wings shredded by the collision.
But before I could process this bizarre sight, Bill shuffled onto the bus. Oh, Bill. I’d seen him before, of course, but today was different. The moment he entered, the air in the bus grew heavier, thicker, like someone had swapped out the oxygen for pure, uncut THC. Bill, with his perpetually unkempt hair and oversized hoodie, reeked of weed in a way that wasn’t just pungent; it was overpowering. It was as if he carried the entire contents of a dispensary with him, and with every step, the haze of marijuana clung to the air, wrapping around me like a thick blanket.
I tried to ignore it, but it was like my brain started to process everything through a fog. My head began to spin in slow motion, my thoughts getting lost in the swirl of his presence. Bill sat down with a sigh, his long, hazy exhale filling the bus with a cloud that could have come straight out of a dream sequence. I gripped the wheel, trying to focus, but it was as if the bus itself had transformed into a floating ship on the foggy seas of an alternate reality.
As I navigated the streets, my thoughts began to unravel. Was it the altitude of the plane I saw earlier, or had Bill’s cloud of smoke latched onto me like some psychedelic parasite? I looked out the window, trying to focus on the scene, but everything outside was warped. The plane in the tree, the onlookers, the distant fire engine, all of it seemed to blur and stretch like a bad acid trip.
I pulled over to a stop, trying to shake off the buzz, but it was no use. Bill was back at it now, muttering about something incoherent as he scratched his head. I turned to glance at him, and there it was: his voice was a low, gravelly hum in my ears, making my skull vibrate. “Man, this is wild,” he said, taking in the world like he was on another plane of existence.
My mind was no longer my own. It was as if every molecule in the bus was vibrating with the effects of Bill’s energy. I looked out at the crowd on the pavement, trying to focus on anything other than the overwhelming pressure building in my head. It was then that I saw it: the plane, caught in the branches of the oak tree like a bizarre ornament in an invisible windstorm.
I wasn’t sure if I was hallucinating or if the world had just become this much weirder. A man in a flat cap was standing nearby, clearly taking in the scene like a seasoned pro. I leaned out the window, trying to gather my bearings and make sense of this surreal interruption. But Bill’s presence… It was overwhelming, like the smoky tendrils of his weed cloud had attached themselves to my thoughts and were now slowly suffocating every ounce of rationality I had left.
“What happened?” I asked the man in the flat cap, but my words felt disconnected, floating in the air before they even reached him.
“Pilot’s fine, they say,” he replied with a casual shrug, his voice too calm for the circumstances. “Mistook the field behind for a runway and came in a bit too low. Bam! Lodged like a squirrel’s winter stash.”
I nodded slowly, my brain barely processing the words. Lodged like a squirrel’s winter stash? Was this real life? Was I hearing this correctly? I glanced over at Bill, whose half-closed eyes were focused on a spot in the distance, his head nodding rhythmically, lost in his own haze. I could feel my pulse slowing, like I was stuck in a thick syrup of confusion, barely holding onto reality.
“The pilot?” I asked, my voice sounding far away.
“He’s fine,” the flat cap man said again, waving it off. “Climbed down himself. Cool as you like. Reckon he’ll be at the pub by now.”
I was starting to think I might actually be at the pub right now, or maybe the world outside was just a figment of my mind. I was slipping deeper into the fog, like a bad trip that kept getting weirder. Bill, of course, was grinning, lost in his own weed-soaked world. “Dude, this is so next-level,” he said, turning to me with a look of complete wonder.
I forced myself to focus on the scene outside again. The fire crew was arguing about how to retrieve the plane from the tree, but it looked more like a comedy sketch than an emergency operation. Meanwhile, the passengers on my bus were having a full-blown conspiracy theory session. One was convinced it was a secret government project. Another was sure it was a billionaire's botched attempt at a personal air taxi. And Bill? He was nodding along, as if he had all the answers.
By the time I pulled away from the stop, I was certain I had been transported to another dimension, a strange, weed-infused alternate reality where planes landed in trees and the bus was more like a slow-moving circus ride than anything remotely resembling normal life.
As I drove off, I glanced back at the scene one last time. Bill was still there, in his own little world, and the plane in the tree was just another absurd detail in a day that would live forever in my foggy, high-adrenaline memory. Another story for the books.
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