It was an early Saturday morning, probably in late July. How do I know this? Well, do you ever have a particular memory of a hot summer day, or a rainy morning in the autumn, and you just come to associate those sorts of settings with the months they occurred in? That was how I figured out that the morning probably occurred in late July. It just looked to be that way. For some particular reason, my family had assigned me to go to the bank. "Why?" I asked them, "I don't even use the bank." But they insisted, "You need to open a checking account." And so off to the bank I went, still confused, but obliged to obey. I decided to walk to the bank, because it was during this time that I did not know how to drive, or even sit behind the wheel. I suppose this was probably a bad idea, considering the fact that I would be walking down Washington Road with my frail and human body. But due to the logic that often comes when someone sleeps, I decided to go along my merry way. Halfway towards the bank I was stopped by my sixth grade science teacher, of all people. "How are you doing, sir?" I humbly asked him, concerned at the look of terror that was on his face. "We need your help, Ernie," he said, gripping my shoulder, "There's trouble down at the bank!" This concerned me greatly, considering my destination, as well as the fact that my teachers would be the last people on the face of the earth to come to me for help. "What's wrong?" I asked, "Is there a robbery? A murder?" "Worse!" My mind reeled with all sorts of possibilities, none of them good. However, what my science teacher next said came as a---bizarre surprise. He drew close, his eyes wide with fear, and said, his voice a steady drawl, "The flamingos." I was taken aback, "Huh?" "The flamingos!" yelled my science teacher, throwing his arms wide, narrowly missing a passing car's side mirror, "They've no way to reach the moon!" Any normal person would have run far, far away by now. But as dream person, one is forced to operate on dream logic. Thus came my immediate concern to the flamingos' welfare. "What do you mean?" asked I, "Can they not just fly there?" My science teacher placed his hands onto his face, crying out in despair, "Their wings have been cut! It's impossible!" It saddened me to know that some poor birds would be unable to fly to the moon. "Well, how can I help?" I inquired. "We need you to help us create a rocket ship!" my science teacher cried, "We need you to help us get to the moon!" Although I had no experience in the field of rocket science, and had little expertise in the field of science in general, I decided to accept the cry for help, if it meant that I would be able to help some poor, flightless birds. So I joined my science teacher on my path to the bank, and when I found the bank in all its glory, my heart couldn't help but ache. In every direction were the flightless pink birds, all of them holding their heads down in despair. When I approached they turned towards me, and I noticed a spark of what looked like hope gleam through their beady eyes. It pained my heart to see them so sad, so I made it my solemn duty, right then and there, to send them to the moon. Clasping my hands together, I turned to my science teacher and asked, "What do you need me to do?" The teacher stroked his imaginary goatee, his expression intense, "We need a rocket ship. A big one." I nodded, and told him that I'd do what I could. At first I just circled the banking, counting all the flamingos I could to see how large a rocket ship I needed. After a while I found that there would be no possible way I could count all of them, but I estimated that the birds numbered around one thousand, two hundred and twenty one. When I reached this number, I hunkered down in the bank's lobby and began to work. Using the back of a brochure I found, I sketched an outline of my rocket ship, making sure to include all the essentials the birds might need to survive in space. These included a large toilet for them to deposit their wastes in, enormous bowls for them to stick their heads in and eat, and all of the space a flamingo would need in order to move around in a comfortable way. In short, it lacked everything a rocket ship needed. However, luck must have been on my side that day, because I looked out the window to find that the construction workers had conveniently finished building a factory nearby, a "Build-Your-Own-Rocket" factory, to be precise. Wasting no more time, a flew from my seat and raced across the parking lot, my plans clutched tightly against my bosom.
I entered the factory with a whoosh and a bang, and commanded the workers to help me with my rocket. As one can imagine, I was slapped across the face for my insolence, but after I asked them nicely, they decided they would help me. Hour after hour we toiled, and I must admit, I don't remember much from this part, except for the face of a rather beautiful man. Although the man, a worker, was beautiful, I found that he was unimportant in light of the events. With everything that happened on my trip to the bank, he was nothing but a passing image. Anyway, after a while all movement stopped, and the rocket was complete. It was a beautiful rocket, it looked just like the drawings I used to do when I was a child. The only problem was its size. Although I was about to shed a tear of joy, I noticed that the rocket....was puny. It was hardly larger than my family coffee table. Talk about rotten luck. However, Lady Luck must have been present that day, for but a moment after I realized what was wrong, my science teacher appeared with a shrink ray on the crook of his arm and a smile on his face. "Ernie, you've done it!" he said. The factory workers cheered. "You've saved the flamingos!" The sound of the said birds' squaws echoed from outside. "We're going to the moon!" Everybody cheered this time, and I relished the praise, pleased that I did well on an assignment. A moment later, when everyone calmed down, we returned to the outdoors, and I watched as my science teacher blasted the flamingos into little versions of themselves, before turning the gun on himself. "You're going with them?" I asked. "Sure am!" said the science teacher, his voice now high pitched, "I ain't bein' a teacher any longer!" The workers cheered again, and I nodded in understanding. We watched as the little birds piled into the little rocket. When the last bird had entered, my science teacher followed, making sure to give me a hearty wave before ducking his head inside. He shut the door, and soon the rocket had lifted off into the air. I watched it grow smaller and smaller, until it appeared no more than a speck, like a balloon that had escaped from a string. I returned home with a big smile on my face, happy that I had done something good today. Then my parents reminded me of the checking account I forgot to open.
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