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UNDERGROUND VOICES: FICTION
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BRYN TREACY
Plain and Simple
On Tuesday, the day in which shit typically comes to rest upon my head, The email: come by when you have a sec. He's talking, I'm hot, my face is flushed. He wants me to fly. You down? he says. No, no. Not down, I say. Why? Can't fly. Can't fly? It's a thing. An afraid thing? Not fear, exactly. More an aversion to the unreasonable. So you think flying is unreasonable.
Unreasonable and illogical. Five hundred miles per hour, thirty thousand It's rare for a plane to crash. Tell that to those people. More likely to die in a car. Way more. I don't want to go. You want to work here? You serious? Not really. Actually, yes. No one else can go to the conference. I'll drive. Where is it?
No way you're driving. It's in California. Take you a day or more to get This is total bullshit. I don't make the rules. You're making them right now. Maybe you need Jesus in your heart. Don't. I'm not afraid to fly. You would be if something went wrong. Here. Take this. I'll take it. I'll take it right to human resources. I know I shouldn't but you wouldn't. Stop giving out bibles at work. No one wants them. Out of my office, blasphemer! Fine. See you tomorrow.
Hey. Heads are gonna roll. Bad quarter, man. Might be a few from our A threat? Just saying. I am the only person who thinks flying planes are fucking crazy.Plain and simple, they shouldn't be up there.
***
There are several plane crash web sites. Easy to find air disaster videos. Reasons for the crash (crew error), pictures (wreckage in bits and pieces), cockpit voice recorder transcripts (series of impacts), cockpit voice recorder audio (rushing air, final words, screaming). I'm watching, listening, riveted. An hour later I stand from my desk, close my eyes, breathe. Death is here. Not just in a plane. In the car (accident), in the street (hit and run), at home (murder), in my sleep (heart attack). I'm fucked. We're all fucked. So I leave the office quietly, drive carefully, stop at a friend's house to procure something to make me feel un-fucked. I say nothing but he sees it, he smiles. He pats my back as I leave. He says I worry too much. In the car again, careful again, I feel like the only one.
***
The email arrives after nine. I'm high and low, things are in my system, so I'm okay reading the flight information Schmeer sent despite the smiley face and Isaiah 41:10 NIV quote. I hit the "reply" button to tell him that I hate him before reconsidering and calling my mom instead. I wake her up. She wants to know what the emergency is. I'm a little boy at thirty, knocking on her door because I want to sleep in her bed tonight. Just calling to tell you I'm leaving tomorrow, I say. Have fun, she says, and hangs up. I feel like brooding. I sit at the table, drink and brood. Tonight might be the last; so many things I haven't done; this is the tragedy; this is the human condition; everything is meaningless; I should masturbate tonight; the universe is cold; I wish there was a god; no I don't, he's a dick; please let tomorrow not be like PSA flight 182. I keep drinking. I smoke a joint. I get into my CDs, play the old ones. I sit indian-style with the CDs spread around. I really feel it. This could be my last time. Tomorrow I get on the plane.
***
At seven I'm waiting by the window, drinking a beer. I look normal
In two hours I'll be in the sky, I keep thinking. These are the quiet
No one knows I'm severely intoxicated. Not in the shuttle, not at the
Time is warped. I'm boarding the plane now, looking for 42C. I sit Little early, isn't it? he says, gay with an attitude. I'm a nervous flyer, I say. I'd rather not be here.
Oh, he says, smiling naughty. He touches my knee. He whispers: Then
Because I'm fairly fucked I wonder if things are going down the way I
There are times that I like it rough, I say. Weekends and such. But I
Sorry, he says, the Captain doesn't concentrate on Tuesdays. I'll get
In my clouded estimate there are approximately thirty people on board.
My Jack is there in a hurry. I down it. I breathe fire and secure my
While others blather I close my eyes and begin my meditative drug
Long summer drives, touchdowns, a minute of the Pink Floyd concert I
I catch myself falling over. I'm drooling. The window shade is closed. A moment later I'm asleep in an ugly way.
***
I'm saying something. There's a turtle stuck inside a blanket and his shell is missing. A turtle, huh? It's the flight attendant. He's smiling. I wipe my mouth, sit up, look around. Others are smiling too. Some look away. Put their hands to their mouths. The rest stay on me, waiting. My head is exploding. I ask for some water. Darn, says the attendant. No more turtle. A woman behind me laughs. The attendant leaves. Hell of a dream, a man says one row up. He's fat and ugly. I want to punch him. I was dreaming? I ask. Oh yeah, he says. More laughter, and not just from him. I rub my eyes, hold my head. I'm feeling too sober. Hey buddy, a man I can't see whispers. You know we're in the air? I don't move. There is a tick, then the nasal voice. Ladies and Gentlemen, we're about to descend. There's some slight turbulence ahead so we ask that you stay in your seats and buckle in. There is a pause. Little chuckles in the background. The voice continues. For those of you who can appreciate a view from the aircraft, I'll be making a few turns that will give you an excellent view of the beautiful California valley below. Might want to take a look out your windows. Flight attendants prepare for landing. I hear the bell. I tighten the belt. Fuck. I'm in the air. I'm breathing too fast. Where is my goddamn water? Keep your eyes on the floor. Don't look out the windows. Imagine this plane is glass-bottomed. My little shoes hanging over six miles of space. Don't throw up. Clench the stomach. Clench and hold. Here's your water, says the attendant. I finish the little bottle in three seconds. It doesn't help. Wow, little mister. That was quick. Now hold on because I think we're going to TUUURRRRNNN. As he says it the plane is turning to the left. I'm clenching, scrunching myself into a ball. Don't feel it. It'll be over soon. I peek at the attendant. He's holding on to the overhead storage compartment, looking out a window, smiling. Everyone is crazy except me. Finally the plane is righted. I breathe a lot, keep my eyes closed. I ask how long it will take to land. As long as it takes, honey. Please, I say. Please. Thirty minutes or so. If we don't crash. If we crash I'm afraid it'll be much sooner. Female guffaws. Sharp male nasal exhalations. Someone says, Oh! There is dread, nausea. Between them I attempt to understand my societal status when there is a bump, a loud bump from the bottom of the plane. We descend. The nose goes down; the walkway is the bottom of a hill. We lean to the left. The sides of the plane rattle. It seems too fast, too fast to survive. Sharply we pull up. I see the attendant holding on, both hands, looking down upon me. He mouths something and I think it's, You're so silly! We're back and forth for a few seconds. We straighten. The voice comes on again. Ladies and Gentlemen, it looks like we'll be up and down for a few minutes. We'd ask you to make sure you've reviewed the safety guidelines located in your front seat pocket and do ask the flight attendants if you have any questions. I'm wet with sweat. I'm cold. I'm having trouble breathing. Are you okay, mister man? says the attendant. I don't answer. Instead I raise my head, check the other passengers. They're all looking at me. Old bald man in a suit. A guy my age in a t-shirt. Three middle-aged women sitting in the same row. More and more of the same. They look. Waiting for me to say something. Hands to mouths, wide-open grins, stupid expressions. Like I've done something wrong. As if I'm being irrational. What are you looking at? I say. Aren't any of you frightened? Why are you laughing at me? What kind of a fucking plane is this? Easy now, says the attendant. Maybe you need another drink? It isn't right! says an old voice suddenly. A thin woman with white hair comes behind the attendant. She's in a navy pantsuit. Everything is wrinkled. Get the hell out of my way, she says to the attendant. He moves and she hands me a large round pill. She pats my leg. I smell grandmother perfume. These work quick, honey, she says. She walks past the attendant. It isn't right! she whispers to him. He looks around the cabin.
I, for one, don't know what you're talking about, he says. And, Ma'am, She says something else but it's inaudible. The attendant sits down in a chair in the aisle across from me. He displays thetwo parts of the seatbelt in the air, puts them together, tightens it across his waist. Meanwhile I chew her pill, swallow what I can. The drop comes again. Then the turbulent booms, two of them. I'm clenching, leaning forward, holding my breath. Yeee-hoooo! someone screams. Alllll riighht! Women laugh. I start talking to myself. Please, fuck, I don't want to die. I don't want to die, please straighten. Please straighten, plane. The plane pulls up. Pressure pushes me down. We're turning to the left again. Tick. One more view of that valley, the captain says, his voice rattling. One more view. Sure is pretty. I look at the attendant who, due to the turn, is above me. He's looking at me. His hands are raised like he's on a ride. We're all going to die! he mimes. I look at the window shade to my left. I see the sun behind it, adjusting as the plane moves. This is how they all died. Those in the air. Please don't let me die. The engines whine. They seem to stop as the plane levels, then descends. Like we're off a cliff. Then they engage. We're moving forward. The plane is straight, the momentum of the cliff fall pushed forward, further. We're fine, I tell myself. I'm clenching my teeth. I think I'm smiling. I must look like a madman. We continue the descent. Each little fall is a thousand feet. Somebody looks as green as a little turtle. I'd like to hurt this attendant but I'm dizzy. I'm breathing ragged. Trying to keep it together. Turtle! someone says. I hear it again, from others. Little giggles. My field of vision changes, closes in. I wonder what the old lady gave me. I think I might throw up. I reach for the vomit bag when the captain comes on. Yeah, yeah I know. How's our little guy doing back there? Oop! Tick. He wasn't supposed to be on. I hear voices. Don't fall asleep, dude, we might crash. You'd think a man could handle a plane ride. I can no longer tell who is speaking. I try to focus on my shoes. Fuck you, I try to say. All of you. You're all against me. It doesn't come out that way. Instead it sounds like fflllck uw, vwoo. Leave him alone! It isn't right! In the seconds before unconsciousness I feel drool falling from my mouth. I hear boos, animated attendant laughter, turtle epithets. Then I see the turtle on Schmeer's shoulder wearing an airline captain's hat eating a peanut.
***
Get them! I wake up, limbs splayed, the end of my scream still in the air. A guy sitting across from me lowers his paper. The little girl next to him starts laughing. I'm no longer on the plane. I'm in a deathport. Sorry, I whisper. My carry-on is at my feet. I look through it and see everything is there. For a moment I collect myself. I was on a plane but now I'm not. Now I'm in a large terminal. I ask the man with the paper which airport this is. SFO - San Francisco Airport, says the little girl. I look at my watch. I look at my ticket. The plane landed over an hour ago. Excuse me, I say to the man. Have I just been lying here? He shrugs and goes back to his paper. Standing, I feel the fine residuals of whatever the old lady gave me. It keeps me from throttling the guy with the paper. I head to an empty bar and order a beer. I'm disoriented, suspicious. I don't remember getting off the plane and I don't like it. I pay the bartender. What the hell is this? he says. He's holding a folded up piece of white paper. I apologize, give him money, take the piece of paper. I unfold it, look at the crude pen drawing of a turtle and the text within the talk bubble. I swear I hear the bartender whisper something negative. In the talk bubble it says: I'm a little turtle afraid of planes. Please don't put me in one - I might lose my shell! I look up at the bartender. He's smiling down at the paper. Did you see them carry me to those seats over there? I say. People scared of flying shouldn't be in the airport, he says. Deathport, I say. Airport. Deathport. Did you see them or not? He laughs. I didn't see anything, Mr. Turtle, he says. You're in on this, aren't you? I say. He shakes his head, turns away from me. Enjoy your beer, he says. I move to one of the tables. I drink frantically. I imagine them carrying me off the plane. Smiling, placing the drawing into my pocket. They knew what they were doing. Just like on the plane. All of them against me. Laughing. Toying. Sons of bitches. Baggage handlers walk by. Worn flight attendants. People with luggage. Secure in their delusion of flight. It is their job. It gets them to New York in eight hours. It's just something they have to live with because what are they going to do - drive for five days instead? The beer isn't helping. I'm burning up. Everyone walks around like it's nothing. Like thirty thousand feet is nothing. They don't think death. They don't think crazy. They don't think the airplanes and those who build them, sell them, fly them and serve on them are wrong. I'm the only one who thinks this is crazy. I am the turtle. I leave my beer, start walking. Anywhere to get out of here. The hallways are long. They echo human sounds. I just need to find an exit. I need to get outside and breathe so that I can stop thinking of each person in this building as the enemy. Calm down. You're not on the plane anymore. You're safe on the ground. But that doesn't change what they did. All the courage I had to go through with it and look what they did. They were against me. Everyone here is against me. The entire airline industry is against me. I hold my scream in. My mind rebels by flashing words on people's faces as I pass. Fuckers. Death Fuckers. My stomach moves. I have to find a bathroom. No, I see doors. Cars and taxis, people waiting outside. I run and trip. I slide on my face. People laugh, I keep going, they get out of my way. Outside I'm greeted with cigarette smoke, loud cars, cell phone conversations. I catch my breath leaning on a concrete pillar. I remember that I'm supposed to be here for a conference when I recognize a voice saying, thank you! I look over and see my flight attendant entering a taxi. My stomach sends a sharp warning. I clench, hold. In matters of defecation and revenge, the latter takes precedent despite the inherent dangers. I knock on the window of a cab in front of me. I tell the driver to follow that car. Like in a movie, ah? he says. Yes, yes, I say. Follow. Why are we following? he asks. He was on my flight and I need to tell him something, I say, trembling. Wind rushes from the open windows. Chills run through me. I must purge. I watch the other cab two cars in front of us. And how will we communicate with him? I'll get out when he does, I say. I need to stop talking now. The next two minutes are hell. Mind over body, body taking mind.
I clench, squeak along the seat, keep my ass closed. I hope it will go Your friend goes to the 405, yells the driver. Follow, I say. He goes on about jurisdiction; how he can only go so far. I ignore him and consider my options. I come up with a very bad plan. Get into the other lane, I say. Go alongside him.
As he does I take the toiletries out of the large plastic bag from my
Please just watch the road, I say, shivering. I put the bag beneath me, Oh, says the driver. Oh, my God.
I do what I can. I wipe with the bag, move to the opposite side of the Shit? he says. You have shit? You have shit in my car?
The seat is a mess. So are my hands. But we're right beside the other Hey! I yell. Heyyyyyyyy!
My driver points at me. He turns around when he can. He curses my Hey! I repeat. This time the attendant sees me next to him. He scrunches up his face. Turtle? he says. Turtle shit! I say and toss the unstable bag through his open window.
The bag turns slightly in the air. The top becomes the bottom. The
We slow down. His car moves forward. I strain to see him. He's a My car pulls behind his car, then off to the shoulder.
I watch his car move away. I see him waving both arms wildly through
The smell, and my cabbie's shrieking voice, overtake my brief and utterly
***
Two hours later Ahmet and I are in a hotel bar near the deathport. I'm
I do not understand the irrationality, he says. Do you know, less than
Your statistics are meaningless, I say. The point is, it happens. I'll Nor my cab, says Ahmet. You admit, though, my actions against the attendant were justified. Throwing shit cannot be justified. I concur and apologize again.
We drink in silence for a moment. I order another round. Ahmet asks
Ahmet, my reluctant friend, I say, thank you for reminding me. I have a I dial John Schmeer's number. Ahmet staggers to the bathroom. On the end of the line I hear the radio voice impersonation: John Schmeer. I'm not at the fucking conference, I say. Why not? I'm in a bar, drinking. Excuse me? Yes. With bells on. Bells? You were supposed to be at the conference hours ago.
I might've been had the passengers and entire flight crew not been
Silence. Then: You're fired, you little atheist. Don't bother coming
I hang up. I take a drink. Ahmet returns from the crowd of tattered When is your last day? he asks. I tell him. We raise our glasses. And what will you do now, my loose-boweled aviaphobic friend?
Tonight I will get drunker, I say. Tomorrow I will rent a car and drive You will need an army. There is an army. An untapped army. It will never make it off the ground. I'm serious. Your untapped army is crazies. Crazies with a voice. My voice. The voice of millions.
And what about me? My work, my livelihood depends on airplanes. Your job against my fear. What if I have a fear of people who fear airplanes? I stare at him and drink my drink. He stands and pats me on the shoulder. Face your fear, he says. Ask yourself, why do I really do this? He leaves and the bartender puts two drinks down.
For a long time I sit and sip, watching everyone at the bar, relaxing in I press my feet to the floor. This is where I belong. On the surface.
I hear a frightening rumble behind me. A growing bellow. A fiery
I finish my drink as the flying earthquake passes over me, shaking the This, I say. This is why. Bryn Treacy writes in Bellevue, Washington. He can be reached atbryntreacy@comcast.net |
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