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So the sky's the limit. Insurance companies will not let him risk his million-dollar neck by piloting his DC-3. Travolta, grounded for the foreseeable future, consoles himself with fantasies of flight. "Gee," he remarked in the Los Angeles County Museum as he surveyed a vault among the treasures of King Tut, "wouldn't it be great if they opened up one of those tombs and found an airplane inside?" From the time he was small and watched commercials for Mars candy ("They were the best—they'd fly you right through the Milky Way"); from the times he got Sam Travolta to spin him around the living room ("Fly me, Daddy!"); from the spring he persuaded his father to help him build a "real" plane in the backyard (the wings and fuselage were made of wooden planks and car batteries powered the propellers)—Travolta has dreamed of soaring, of escaping.
So another dream's been granted. Forget about that walk. This man's fixing to fly.