Preposterous
We reach cruising altitude of 28,000
feet, according to the pilot’s intercom voice which sounds both relaxed and like
it’s being strained through an iron sieve, like he’s speaking from inside a
metal container. Which he is, I guess.
I press my armrest button, lay my
weight into the seatback, hoping the person behind me is not long-legged. I wait for a cry of pain but none comes, so I
relax (fly often enough and you will batter kneecaps, maybe have your own
battered in turn). Occupying my usual
aisle seat, I’m thankful the woman to my left is mercifully slight and there
are no small children nearby. My hope of
tranquility for the nearly six hours that hover between our present position,
just above New York, and touchdown in Los Angeles may not be entirely
preposterous.
I read a paperback while the woman
beside me dozes and the young guy across the aisle constructs a modern city on
his laptop. A flight attendant jars my
concentration now and then with reminders that the captain has turned on, then
off, the fasten seat belt sign. I struggle
to remain absorbed in my book, but finally surrender to drowsiness and
doze. The beverage trolley comes trundling
along to awaken me. I take a Diet Coke,
the woman next to me a cup of ice and water.
She’s quiet and self-contained, gifted at invisibility, which I
appreciate. I reward her by graciously
getting up to let her out to visit the restroom. As opposed to ungraciously, of which I’m
equally capable.
But my graciousness has limits. After eating badly at the airport, I feel
bloated and the waistband of my pants is chafing my blubber. I’m heading to a conference with people I
despise, the ghosts of a recent domestic argument haunt my brain, my teenagers are
doing drugs, failing classes, and all of the above have whipped up a batch of
self-loathing that can all too easily convert into loathing for those who test
my patience. My neighbor hasn’t returned
from the restroom. When she returns,
I’ll have to get up to let her back in.
Thus, I remain in a state of suspense, unable to relax. Her knack for invisibility, so benign until
now, has gone malignant.
Repeatedly, I look down the aisle
toward the rear lavatory, but to no avail.
I know about the watched pot, so I grab my book and try to read, but
it’s no use. It’s like not being able to
relax until your teenager is in bed for the night. So I sit and wait, book in hand, one foot
wagging at my knee like a dog’s tail.
But my mind wanders. I think of
my wife and this morning’s nastiness: “I
wish you could try being me putting up with you for just one day!” So uncalled for. Even one day of living with me, evidently, is
more than anyone should have to bear.
She’s no pleasure cruise herself much of the time, but I don’t tell her
she’s unbearable, I don’t put her down or call names or raise my voice and what
in God’s name is this woman doing in the restroom?
How long has it been? At least fifteen minutes. I try to recall what she looked like. Straight shoulder-length blonde hair, I think. Age is less clear, somewhere in that
increasingly curt and judgmental zone between forty and mid-fifties. A dry, desolate season with frequent cold
spells. I check my watch. Check the aisle. What was she wearing? No idea.
Something blue? A skirt. A blazer on top, beige? Was I as invisible to her? Probably.
But I’ve had it, this is enough.
I get up and head to the rear.
Maybe she decided to change her
seat, found an empty one closer to the restroom. I’m sure that’s it. I scan left to right while moving down the
aisle, but reach the plane’s rear and no sign of her. Every seat is occupied and none of the
occupants resemble her even slightly. Standing
between the two lavatories, I nudge the door of one, which folds in upon a vacant
compartment. I’m tempted to relieve
myself, but don’t want to miss her exit.
Gently, I press the door of the other lavatory and it doesn’t budge. Aha.
I stand and wait. A flight attendant squeezes past to fetch
refreshment items and I feel in the way.
Other passengers come, use the vacant lavatory and return to their seats. I feel like a dope. It’s definitely been thirty minutes, maybe
forty. I decide to return to my
seat. Lifting my foot, something sticky tugs
at my shoe. I look down and see blood
pooling from under the lavatory door, a lot of it. And I’m standing in it.
D.E. Sievers
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