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1336 Words
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That was merely an hour ago. Now, the plane is taxing on the runway, the captain having just announced they are first in line for takeoff.
“Flight attendants, please prepare for takeoff,” the captain announces over the aircraft PA system. Something that both excites Mary and frightens her at the same time. While takeoff is the most exciting, adrenalin-filled moment of the flight, it’s also the time when she opens her bag, pulls out her bottle of valium, pops one in her mouth. She washes it down with water from the plastic bottle she brought onto the plane. Almost immediately, she feels the calming effects of the drug swimming through her veins making her very, very happy.
Soon, the Airbus A300 makes a hard right turn. It comes to a stop. The engines roar and the plane bucks. It moves forward, slowly at first, but then quickly gains speed, and more speed, the power beneath her feeling unstoppable. The vibrations tremble in her backside, running all the way up her spine and into her brain. The plane is alive. The nose tips upward while the belly suddenly dips until the craft seems to catch up with itself, and she is airborne—the airport and the city shrinking rapidly beneath her as they swiftly take on elevation.
Mary finds herself staring out the window onto a landscape that is a combination of lush greenery and suburban sprawl. The land quickly comes to an end by a sandy shoreline that extends as far as the eye can see. After that, nothing but wide-open ocean. The plane is still low enough that she can make out the fishing boats, trawlers, and cargo vessels that dot the placid-looking surface of the Atlantic Ocean, but soon she finds herself blinded by a layer of clouds. The plane dips and bucks once more, sending jolts of electric shocks up and down her spine. Her stomach goes tight, and a small layer of cold sweat erupts in her palms and on her forehead.
Mary hates turbulence.
But, she knows turbulence is a natural part of flying and that it’s as safe as milk. But if it’s all that safe, she whispers to herself, why does it bother me so much?
The plane breaks through the clouds, and the smooth ride resumes. Suddenly, all is well with the world again. Several chimes sound and the handsome flight crew (half men, half women) immediately go to work. They head to the back—or aft—of the aircraft where they will retrieve drink carts. Truth be told, Mary can’t wait to get a drink in her. A nice Jameson, minus the rocks. Something she only allows herself one of occasionally while on the safety of solid ground. While flying a long-haul flight, however, she might allow herself two. Perhaps even three, if the valium isn’t doing its job and she can’t get to sleep.
The overhead illuminated ‘Please Fast Your Seat Belt’ sign is turned off. Something that always sends a wave of relief into Mary’s system. If we don’t need seatbelts, she thinks, then all must be going well with the flight. All systems go, as they say. Knowing the sign can come back on at any time, she recognizes the opportunity to use the lavatory. Since there’s still no one occupying the seat beside her, she unbuckles her seatbelt, gets up, and heads toward the center of the economy class plane where the lavatories are located.
Already, a short queue has formed at the lavatories. Mary finds herself waiting behind an older gentleman. It allows her to get a good look at the passengers who occupy the cheap seats at the back of the plane. She sees all varieties of men, women, and children. Entire families, one couple holding an infant, another accompanied by an old man. Black people, white people, brown people, and Asians.
Two men seated only a couple rows in capture her attention. Their skin is the color of coffee with milk. Both sport black beards and they’re dressed in cheap, drab-colored suits. She can see that they have laptops set out on their collapsible seatback trays. Their eyes are dark, and they seem nervous while they silently peer not at their computer screens, but instead, out the porthole-like window.
She doesn’t like the look of them. But then, Mary doesn’t want to fall into that category of people who are not tolerant of others. She’s seen what’s happened to her country over the past few years. How people no longer trust one another. How everyone seems to be hateful of one group of people or another. What do they call it? Identity politics. She hates identity politics. She just wishes everyone could get along. Play nice—like her mother used to tell her whenever she’d head outside to hang out with her friends. If she had to create a hashtag for her the world, it would simply say #Benice.
She feels like she’s staring, so she peels her eyes away from the two men as the older gentleman takes his turn in the lavatory. That’s when she sees him. He’s seated on the opposite side of the plane. The starboard side, she believes it’s called. He’s tucked against the window, seated beside a portly older woman. Sam, from the airport bar. Her entire body tingles warmly as if the very sight of him is the spark that lights her fire. Her first impulse is to go to him, offer up an enthusiastic hello. But then she feels a cold wave of anxiety douse the fire. She hides behind the lavatory partition, presses her back against it.
“Did he see me?” she asks herself. “Does he actually want to see me?”
Maybe she’s got this all wrong. Maybe she just thinks she sees Sam. Slowly turning, she peeks around the lavatory corner. It’s most definitely him. Same closely cropped salt and pepper hair. Same khaki work shirt over the same black t-shirt, same worn leather coat. Same scruffy, but handsome, face.
She hides once more. The toilet flushes. The old man emerges from the lavatory. Mary steps inside, closes the door behind her, locks it. She looks at her face in the mirror. Her blue eyes are wide, her complexion somewhat pasty, her expression anxious.
“Why wouldn’t he tell me he was flying to Rome also?” she asks herself aloud. “Why not tell the truth? Isn’t not being entirely truthful with me the same as lying?”
She uses the toilet, then washes her hands and face, dries them both with paper towels from the wall-mounted dispenser. She runs her hands through her hair and makes herself look prettier than she already is. When she exits the lavatory, she has every intention of making her presence known to Sam. Anxiety or no anxiety, she’s got to do it. It’s crazy that he never told her he was on the same flight. Or maybe he simply didn’t put two and two together. Men can be like that. They’re not good listeners. They can be . . . what’s the word? Daft. That’s what they are. Daft.
She makes her way not to her own seat on the aircraft’s port side, but to the aisle that accesses Sam’s economy seat. But she’s forced to stop in midstride. The flight attendants are wheeling the big aluminum drink carts and, in the process, taking up every bit of available space. The plane drops a bit, then bucks, and rises sharply again. Turbulence. It scares the crap out of her. The ‘Please Fasten Your Seat Belt’ signs flash on. A voice comes over the plane’s PA system.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seat belt sign due to a patch of rough air we’re currently experiencing. We ask that you take your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”
One of the flight attendants, an attractive Asian woman smiles at Mary.
“Please take your seat, ma’am,” she says.
“Yes, of course,” Mary says agreeably.
She heads back to her seat. The plane rocks, rolls, and bounces.
Mary’s heart beats in her throat.
Where the hell is that Jameson? she thinks.
- Writer
