"Ms. Marcia, are we there yet?" George whines.
"Almost, sweetie, almost. You have to be patient, though, or else we won't be able to go in the museum to see all of the paintings," Marcia Thompson says to her student. Marcia Thompson is a very nice first grade teacher. At least that's what George Bixby, her favorite first grader, thinks. He is extremely excited to see the giant sculpture of Superman, and he can't wait to arrive.
You are about to meet George Bixby, a shallow first grade boy who doesn't seem to notice anybody but himself. He thinks that he is just like his idol, Superman, helping save the world and everybody in it, simply by existing. Therefore, George believes, everybody in the world should be thankful for him, and look up to him because of it. George annoys everybody, from his classmates, to his teacher, but he remains oblivious to it all. But there is a point where, in the grand scheme of things, everybody sees what they really are. For George Bixby, this is the Twilight Zone.
There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.
"Class! We're here!" George is the first person off of the bus. He taps his feet impatiently as he waits for the rest of his class to get into an orderly line so Ms. Marcia can count all of them. Soon enough, they have entered the museum and recieved their very own stickers that say their names. George notices that their bus driver is coming inside as well. "Ms. Marcia? Ms. Marcia?" George pokes her arm rapidly. "Is Mr. Bus Driver coming to see Superman too?" She shakes her head, pursing her lips.
"No, sweetie, he's probably just getting a sandwich for lunch."
"Awwwwww... but I guess that's okay. We can just tell him all about it when we leave. Can we go see the Superman statue now? Pleeeeeeeease?" George smiles widely and nods his head vigorously.
She waves a hand at him absentmindedly. "Okay, George. Just settle down now and get in line. We will get there at the end of the tour."
"Okaaaaaay..." George decides that Ms. Marcia is a nice teacher, so he will just have to wait to see the Superman statue. They are walking for what seems like forever, when the line stops in the center of a large, circular room. The meanest girl in school, Madison, bumps into him from behind.
"HEY! Ms. Marcia! Ms. MARCIA! MADISON BUMPED INTO ME!" George whines loudly, and many stiff looking old people turn to glare at him. Ms. Marcia just puts a finger to her lips and shakes her head. George thinks that she should say something to Madison and the mean old lady with the cane, but notices that she is now pointing to something. It's the bus driver, leaning over a sketch book and drawing something with a pencil.
"Ms. Marcia? Ms. Marcia? What is Mr. Bus Driver doing here? Why doesn't he have a sandwich? Is he coming to see Superman with us? Can we see Superman now?" George is out of breath, but Ms. Marcia ignores him. She whispers to the class, "Come look at this! Our bus driver is quite the artist!"
The old bus driver looks up, and says with a smile, "This? Oh, this is nothing." He shows a portait of a beautiful woman. George thinks that she is the most beautiful thing in the world, other than Superman. Madison shoves George to the side and walks straight up to the bus driver. She puts her hands on her hips, and orders, "Draw me! And make me look pretty too."
The old man says nothing, and just starts to draw, and Madison wanders to the back of the line to talk with her friends as she waits for him to finish. George thinks that this was selfish. Only Superman can do that!
The bus driver is done in about a second. He holds the portrait up silently, and everyone oohs and aahs over it. "It's beautiful! It looks just like her!" Ms. Marcia exclaims. George thinks that it looks too much like Madison to be pretty. But soon enough, the whole class has stormed around the old bus driver, clamoring for their own portraits. Even Ms. Marcia is asking for one. George notices that he can't find Madison in the crowd. He secretly hopes that her drawing ripped in half and made her sad. George likes to think that his courageous thoughts bring evil villains like Madison to justice- because that's something Superman might do. But George is not looking for Madison and her drawing anymore. He isn't looking at their bus driver either. He has just caught sight of the statue of the being he is so enamored with. He tries to shout above the clamoring herd of students, "MS. MARCIA? MS. MARCIA? CAN I GO SEE SUPERMAN NOW? I THINK I SEE IT! PLEEEEEASE?" He doesn't hear any response over the noise, so he interprets this as a yes. George begins to wander down a hall towards the object of his affections, leaving Ms. Marcia and the rest of the class behind with the bus driver. George wonders why everyone thinks that a drawing of themselves is so amazing. Nothing could possibly be more awesome than Superman!
At the end of the hall is a glorious sight: a ten foot tall, full color statue of Superman striking a superhero-worthy pose. The magnificent work of art is standing on a huge silver pedestal under a golden spotlight, in the center of another circular room. George comes to a complete stop, awestruck by the majestic statue of his preeminent hero. "Ohhhhhhhhhhh..." is all George manages to whisper. After a few seconds of staring at his idol, he realizes that he has to share this glorious monument with his class, even though he hates most of them. But even Superman has to be loyal to his followers. And even though George is still annoyed that Ms. Marcia did not yell at Madison or the little old lady, she is still his favorite teacher. Plus, George thinks that she listens when he talks about Superman, so he decides to forgive her, just for that. He sprints down the hall, heedless of Ms. Marcia's warning on the bus that he was to "Mr. Bixby. May I remind you to never. Ever. Run. In. The. Museum. Or anywhere, for that matter. OR ELSE."
George is so excited, he starts frantically yelling, "MS. MARCIA, MS. MARCIA, MS. MARCIA! I FOUND SUPERMAN!" He does not notice the silence in the large rotunda until he screeches to a halt in front of the old bus driver, who is busy painting something in his sketchbook. "Mr. Bus Driver?" George starts tentatively, and out of breath. "Where's Ms. Marcia?" George looks around the room, and doesn't see anybody, not even the mean old lady. "Mr. Bus Driver?!" George pulls on the man's sleeve and stands on the tips of his toes to try and catch the driver's eyes. "MR. BUS DRIVER!?" he yells in the man's face.
The old man finally looks up, and says gently, "What is it child?"
"Where's Ms. Marcia? Where's Madison? Where's the rest of my class? I want to show them Superman! Do you want to come, after I find Ms. Marcia? Do you like Superman? I do, and so does Ms. Marcia. And my class loves me, so they love Superman too. Wait... where are they?" George pants, looking around the room. The old bus driver lets out a light chortle, and smiles down at George. Even though he is only smiling and laughing, George feels like something is wrong with how the bus driver is acting. "Mr. Bus Driver? Where is Ms. Marcia?" he asks with increasing urgency, his eyebrows furrowing together. The old man laughs once more, a deep, foreboding sound, and turns his sketchpad around. George sees a painting of everybody in his class, even Ms. Marcia. He notices one child at the corner of the painting that does not have a completed face. It sort of looks like him, but less heroic. "Mr. Bus Driver, I don't understand!" George cries. The bus driver, laughing eerily, takes his paintbrush and moves to finish the last face. He softly whispers, "Your class is right here. And so are you." With a final flourish of his brush, he steps back to examine his work. The painting now holds a boy who looks strikingly like George Bixby, standing at the side of his class, painted with a countenance of finality; horror and chillingly clear understanding captured and painted on his face for all eternity. The old artist closes his sketchpad, and tucks it under his arm with all of his other paintings of people at the museum, and lets out a slight chuckle as he turns to walk home.
They say a dream takes only a second or so, and yet in that second a man can live a lifetime. He can suffer and die, and who's to say which is the greater reality: the one we know or the one in dreams, between heaven, the sky, the earth, and paintings in the Twilight Zone.