// July 6th, 2007 at 5:43 AM EST, or something likely
“I know the pieces fit, because I watched them fall away.”
Sometimes, we’re not sure what messages mean to us, if they really are messages or signals to the brain that we’d like to constitute meaning. Isn’t that unnecessarily anthropic? Each state of mind starts off a little different from the last and serves as a precursor to the following. Maybe I drank a cup of coffee, so now I’m a bit livelier than this morning when I drove to the airport. If I had my coffee sometime before the cab driver edged into my lane, I might have instead flipped him the bird and sped off. Then I’d feel a bit more like a jackass instead of a doormat, and I’d probably have bought The Economist instead of Wired.
It’s raining in Philadelphia. Outside these rows and columns of windows, it is precipitating, and I’m snug safely inside terminal A. But would this be a looking in view from the outside? I am “outside” of the rain, after all.
I desire nothing more than to write. To breathe, to dream, to escape, to be confluent with nature and all its leaves and moss and creepy crawlers. I would rather
She just called me. To wish me a safe flight “home”. I kind of wish she didn’t do that. Kind of wish she was someone else. Wandering minds tend to wander where we wouldn’t want them to go.
My flight is boarding. Here I come, Seattle, for the last time.
John Hughes //
“Solvent”
I put the notebook down, shoved it into my backpack, and stood up straight so I could see the plane that would carry me to my layover in Chicago. It looked like an Airbus, probably the A320 series. I’m not an expert on airplanes, I just fly on them too often. It’s a foolishly expensive habit.
My ticket led me to a window seat. I sat and promptly opened a book on some hundred scientific theories that everyone should have a clue about. Stuff like dark matter and global warming, all described in terse, 2 page briefs that would make Isaac Asimov blush. Especially this entry about the Gaia theory. Supposedly, the Earth is a being all its own. There’s even some claptrap about a life force. What the hell? Isn’t this pseudoscience?
The plane lifted and transcended air. I chewed gum. The woman to my right wore African garb, and I have no idea what it’s called. She was whiter than an albino, though. I resumed my book.
Some time passed, and the woman to my right turned to me as I closed my book for a break. She started to talk to me. Her name’s Janelle, or so she tells me. She looked like a Virginia or a Mary. She’s in love with a man named Mutombo. But Mutombo lives in Botswana. She’s moving to Botswana. Huh.
“I spent the last two years providing aid for the impoverished along the Namibian border with the Red Cross. It has transformed my life. I like to talk to hear myself talk.” She didn’t say that last thing, but she might as well have.
“Have you ever listened to traditional African music?” No, I haven’t. “It is very simple, very percussion oriented. It is performed from the soul and everyone participates, like a community event. Polyrhythms – do you know what that is?” I can guess. Many different beats? “Kind of, except it’s more specific than that. You have a heavy, steady beat and introduce superimposed, contrasting beats from cajón drums or agogô bells on top of this lead produced on the batá drum. These rhythms produce the mood and the flow of feeling through the music, yet the batá’s steady beat keeps you grounded with the Earth, so that you may continue to experience the music of the djembe without losing your reality.” It sounds like a euphoric experience, ma’am. Have you ever tried LSD? I’m sure the blood rushing through your ears would have a similar effect. Can’t promise you’ll stay grounded to the Earth, though.
// Same day at 7:22 AM CST, or about that
Surrounding me. Everything. Everyone. It’s strange. Like no one knows I exist, but they all take turns to observe me. Don’t look at me.
My flight will probably be delayed. I have a text message from her, and it says she can’t wait to see me. Don’t think I’ll call her. Wouldn’t want to wake her.
Don’t call me. Don’t call me. Just leave me be. I would like to be.
And it’s delayed. I need to find out how long this is going to take.
J.H. //
I closed the notebook and sat still. Outside, the sky is dark. It appears cloudy, but there’s no distinction in the sky. It’s just dark. Beside me, an Asian woman frittered over the cheese on her hoagie. I got up and walked to a Delta correspondent.
How long will the delay be? You’re delayed. I know. How long is the delay? You’re suffering from technical issues. How long will it take? You don’t know.
I sat back down. Another hour passed, nothing’s changed. The weather’s still fine, just dark. The Asian woman next to me still nibbled away at the same hoagie. I pulled out my book and resumed at a piece about chaos theory. She interrupted me and asked how long the delay would be. I told her I didn’t know.
My pocket buzzed, stopped, buzzed again. I pulled the phone out and glanced at the caller ID. It’s her. I just want peace, I just want silence, I only want solitude. I flipped open the phone.
Fifteen minutes passed, I stared into the sky and put my phone away. She probably doesn’t sense anything. She’s too excited. I motioned to take out my notebook and paused. I looked back out the window. But my flight’s canceled. They didn’t announce anything. I know. I sat for another five minutes and saw my plane back out and disappear behind the terminal. No one notices. I take up my backpack and walk out.
No more flights to Seattle today, but there’s a layover in Atlanta. I now have a ticket to Atlanta. It’s all out of my hands. Lead me to your grace, Seattle, however way you wish. Oh fate.
Another three hours passed, I was led through two terminals, a tram, another terminal, a subway, another tram, and another goddamned terminal, finally onto a plane. The plane wheeled out to the runway, and we sat there for another hour. By now, I’m through a pack and a half of Trident.
The Asian woman sat to my right and some tanned Italian to my left. I’m crammed in the middle, and it felt oddly claustrophobic. Neither of them looked at me. The Italian plugged into his earbuds. The woman fell asleep while we sat on the runway. No lights inside the plane, the window shade was down. It’s loud, and I can’t make out any voices. The humming of the plane drones on and keeps me awake and still. All I can think of is nothingness. But I’m trying to think of something nice. I don’t remember much. It must have been an early onset of jet lag. I turned on the overhead light and took out my book.
The Italian fell asleep at some point. My throat is dry, and I felt an insatiable thirst. No flight attendants walked down the aisles for two hours, on the runway or after we take off. I tried to see if anyone else is awake. No one in my view. Where is the godforsaken flight attendant? I looked up, the call button was missing, and on cue, the light fizzled out. All the lights did. It’s too dark.
Bump. Rattle. Another bump. The seatbelt warning signal blinked on. Another bump. I’m sick of these bumps. I lean over the Italian and open the window shade slightly to break this darkness. Lightning. Another bump. I shut the shade. How can these people sleep through this? Another bump. I shut my eyes.
// 7:50 PM EST, I think. Could be CST. Not sure where Atlanta lies.
“On behalf of humanity, I will fight for your sanity. How profound such profanity can be.”
I’m in Atlanta. And it’s snowing. In Atlanta. In the Summer. What the hell?
Sometimes I dream. Not often. I would like to dream. But I don’t. I dreamt of my friends. Alex, John, Amy, Carrie. Lighting my driveway on fire. Shooting bottle rockets at each other. Nice dreams. Why am I leaving?
I shouldn’t be sitting here writing. Yet, I don’t want to find out how I’m going to get to Seattle. I don’t think I care.
So, I write. I think I’ll drift off and attempt another dream. Night night, kiddo.
J.H. //
I couldn’t fall sleep. I sat there, staring out at the drizzle of white, dissipating on the tarmac. It left a glisten, but there was nothing special about it, except that it’s snow in July. Across from me, a haggard woman stared at me, petting her little dog that looks like Toto. Physically, she’s probably 35. Mentally, she must be 90. Christ, I hope I never end up like that.
A family of five sit to my right. They had maybe eight to ten carry-ons that looked to be exactly fifty pounds each, the weight limit for carry-ons. On my left, a soldier sat cross-legged, and he shifts around often. I felt sorry for him as I made up a story about where he must be going.
Four hours passed, the Boeing 737 sat still at the gate. No man enters. No man leaves. Every other plane departed, but we just sat there, watching the rain drop. Don’t make me wait longer, God. I’m done with this. Just put me on the plane, and lug me off to the evergreen state. Shit, it’s canceled.
Half an hour later, I was in first class on a plane to Salt Lake City because there were no more seats in coach. I guess the extra layover’s worth it. Seat 3B, you are sweet beans. Recline. A’ight.
Nevermind. The haggard lady with the dog has 3A. Where’s her dog? Her name’s Merle. Unlike Josephine or whoever, she actually looked like a Merle. She sat with a hunch. Sit up straight, woman, you’re making me anxious. Put the tray up and lock it when we take off. Ugh.
I opened my book again. Almost finished, then I could start reading The Fountainhead. However, I couldn’t stop looking back at her. She had some strange look in her eyes. Almost guilty. No, not guilt. Mischief? And she pulled her dog out of her carry-on. She’s certifiably insane. I buried myself in the book.
“What’s your name?” I decided to be honest. Ben, I told her. “That’s a cute name. Sophie’s friends with a Ben. He doesn’t treat her as well as I do.” Apparently, Sophie’s her dog. “Don’t be shy, smile, c’mon. Okay, back in the bag you go. (See how it has air holes?)” Yeah, I see how your bag has air holes. The flight attendant brought her a plastic cup of ginger ale and bottled water for me. After the attendant left, she pulled Sophie back out of the bag. “I don’t like to read on planes. It makes me sick to my stomach. Sofie doesn’t mind, though.” Hmm. Is it spelled Sofie? She wrapped the dog in a blanket and pet her for the remainder of the two-hour flight.
This is what I get for sitting in first class.
“Where are you off to?” Seattle, I tell her. She’s off to Alaska. “There’s no place for me in America any longer. We’re fleeing to Saskatchewan. Then Russia after we’ve saved up enough. Have you ever thought of learning Cyrillic? It’s the only beautiful language.” She then said something in what might have been Russian, might have been complete gibberish. I don’t say anything more. She stared out the window. I wondered where her head is if it’s not there. Undoubtedly frozen.
// 1:30 AM MST
Come and wake me.
No one speaks here. No one thinks here. No one’s interesting. No one is original. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
No single person has anything other than terrible secrets that they all keep to their little selves. Enjoy that.
Nothing. No one. No where to be. No where to go. I don’t know why. I just don’t.
I’m sorry.
J.H. //
I arrived here a few hours ago, and I missed my flight by 5 minutes. Five. Minutes. Next plane leaves at 6:10 tomorrow morning. Bloody hell. There’s no place to sleep. There’s no one nearby. This entire terminal is lit only for me.
I’ve had enough. I need to find someone to pull me out of here. Just give me some relief, or put me out of misery, whatever must be done, just do something. She’s calling again. As I pull the phone out of my pocket, I watch it slip and fall to the carpet with a soft thud. It squirms on the ground, like a dying messenger with something unconditionally important to tell me. I leave it and wander off.
There is a janitor somewhere, since the cleaning cart is parked outside the men’s restroom. A bearded man in a brown sweatshirt sleeps across several chairs, and I now feel dirty for observing someone sleep peacefully, far from such a public place. I wander throughout the terminal, and no one is awake. The terminal sleeps. Perhaps I should, too.
Another hour passes. I start to feel drowsy. Beside me, my book is closed, and the bookmark sticks out of the top of The Fountainhead.
The phone rings. I glance down at it and grimace.
I pick it up.
“Hello? Hey.. I just wanted to know how you’re doing. Were you able to find a room to stay at for the night? That’s awful.. But you’re right, I guess it makes sense, especially if your flight is early tomorrow. Yet, it’s perfect; I don’t work at all tomorrow, so we can spend your first day here with my family. My mother keeps asking me, ‘when is Ben getting here?’ She seems to really have taken a liking to you, you know. She’s glad that you’re going to help her redo the kitchen, especially because she asked me to help all last week, and I just kept telling her no. Are you able to lie down at least? Oh, don’t sleep on the floor. You’re clever, put some chairs together, get a bit of shut eye. And keep the phone near you, I’ll call you thirty minutes before your flight, okay? No, it’s no big deal. I promise I won’t forget. Of course. Sleep well. I love you.”
