Mom and Dad did not approve of comic books. I should be reading books. Comic books were low-class entertainment.
Fortunately, my cousin Alan had a vast collection. Most of them were horror comics that gave me nightmares, but he also had my favorites. And there was one magnificent treasure, Superman in 3-D.
After much begging and promises to be extra careful, he let me read it.
How could any book with only words possibly be better than this?
A few days later, I was just leaving school when I met the Indian.
He had been waiting for me. He showed me an ancient Indian secret, lost to the ages, which he alone knew.
He taught me how to fly! It was amazingly simple, if you knew exactly the right things to do, in precisely the correct order.
At first all I could do was hover a few feet off the ground, but with a little practice, I mastered it. I could FLY!
Nothing I’d ever experienced compared with the thrill of being unbound from the earth. Every part of my being celebrated the joy of soaring high into the sky.
The old Indian had bequeathed to me alone the secret of flight, and I was its sole keeper. This, I now knew, was my destiny.
I woke early the next morning, dressed quietly before anyone else was awake, and ran into the back yard to practice.
Somehow, what had been so simple the day before now seemed impossible. I couldn’t get the hand position quite right, the timing of my leap into the air was all wrong.
The more I tried, the more elusive the memory of what the Indian had taught me became. And a terrible thought began to worm its way into my head.
Had this been just a dream? It couldn’t have been, could it? Nobody could dream anything that vivid. No, this had been REAL!
I just needed a refresher course, that’s all. One more lesson and then I’d always remember how to do it.
That afternoon I stayed at school until long after everyone else had left.
The Indian never came.