The Wright brothers? Jury’s still out on them. They should receive applause for their great invention–Orville whittled something and flew it, they say–and yet I’m not entirely opposed to the idea of ramming their exhumed remains through five goddamn propellers. Flying has never sent me into throes of wonder, convulsions of quiet suffering are far more accurate, and walking really quickly seems like a reasonable substitute for air travel.
It all begins in the airport, which combines the best parts of the DMV with the grim sensibilities of a bus stop. Never mind the security checks or the long lines or the affordable food–the gate is where the magic happens. I once met a woman who insisted on cutting in front of me against all odds. Ticket counter, terminal, layover, it didn’t matter. Wherever I found myself in line, I needed only to look forward and there was the back of her head. I suspect I could’ve gone to the bathroom and found her standing in front of my urinal, flushing it with a determination befitting Mr. Clean’s distant cousin.
There’s the toddler whose parents subscribe to benign neglect, and accordingly he stumbles around and terrorizes everyone to adorable effect. Equally adorable, or so I’ve read, is checking in your spawn along with the rest of your luggage. The baggage claim is like a carousel, after all. But this time, this time I speak with a man who instills in me colossal despair for the human condition.
Southwest Airlines boards its customers in three different groups: A, B, and C. I imagine you know who goes first and who goes last. Unfortunately, this fellow doesn’t, and the fact that he is given to ample vulgarity doesn’t help matters. The arcane truths of the alphabet confound him to the dirtiest language, and he needs help. To whom does he turn? Guess.
“What line is this?” he asks.
“B,” I reply.
“What about that line?” he pursues.
“That one’s ‘A,'” I subtly point to the well-lit letter.
“So which one goes first?” he inquires, instantly damning our species to eternal shame.
“Hmmm, I think ‘A’ goes first,” I offer with my best contemplative look.
“I’ve got a ‘C’ pass, so…”
“Right after ‘B.'”
Certainly I don’t expect a symposium, but there must be at least one Marshall scholar in the building, right? I guess she got stuck in an X-ray machine.
An hour delay, then a rustle of totes, and the plane finally begins moving. The safety presentation starts and ends quickly, delivered in rote solemnity. I’m told I can use my seat cushion as a flotation device, except I’m flying to Chicago. We could land in Lake Michigan, I suppose, though an indoor pool is much more feasible. The plane is equipped with six exits, two in the front, two to the side, two in the back. Simply pull the mask down and over my face and take big, ragged gasps of I’M SO FUCKING DEAD.
“I’m not meant to see the horizon at a 45-degree angle,” I tell myself, “whether from here or from a festive limbo line 1,576 feet below.”
Another feature is the fat woman in the back who snores for most of the trip, not to mention the neighbor blithely given to the most redolent flatulence.
But now I’m here with you, back on the firmament, and I can tell you one thing: you beat honey-roasted peanuts at any time of the day.
Secondhand Rants will return on Monday, June 06.
One decibel, 80, then 90, then 110, this was it. I could ignore the ringing in my ears no longer, and in the tumult my foolishness melted when I realized the high-pitched noise was my conscience. It had fancied itself a musician, a tolling maestro intent on guiding me toward a better direction.
This time I listened. When it advised, I heard. Where it pointed, I followed, and it beckoned to the chair. What previously was the only decoration in the bare room became a perfect tool for bashing down doors, particularly stubborn blue doors. Each purposeful swing, each stray splinter, affirmed me in ways you cannot possibly imagine. The chair was made for this, it seemed, as it chewed swiftly through the door to find there, laying in the middle of the room, Muse in a senseless heap.
“Why did you do this?” I cried, rushing over to her. “There must have been another way.”
Muse didn’t stir. She was breathing, yet she wasn’t really alive. I looked around for answers.
The Auditor’s chamber was a cozy office, lined with dark and expensive wood paneling from corner to corner. Books lay scattered everywhere. An enormous safe jutted from the east wall. If you were to join the Blotted, last looks could be far worse. In the room sat a desk covered in fresh blood and, with the exception of a ledger and a pair of spectacles, this was all that was left of the Auditor.
“I understand now,” I whispered to Muse. “I just wish I could do something.”
“You can,” she said hoarsely. “I’m– Help me up?”
“Of course.”
While I was lifting Muse to her feet, I noticed she clutched painfully at her side.
“What on earth–” I started and gently pushed away her hand.
A severe gash stretched languidly across Muse’s body like a devilish smile. Even though the wound had begun to close, she was far from well.
“We’ve got to leave this place. There are too many–” she gasped excruciatingly. “I’m not–”
“We’re going. Now. Should I take the ledger? The glasses?”
“Leave them.”
If the right circumstances surround you and you possess the resolve to match, everything is different. We opened the steel door and beheld an angry Minder, but it wasn’t so difficult to dash her against the corridor. The hall itself, though, boring and white as it appeared before, transformed into a punishing 100 yards. The dark sky, so often the inviting backdrop against our evening strolls, delighted in tripping us. The three blocks to the train station became three grueling miles. And the rain, try as Muse did to cover herself, rushed eagerly into her wound.
We boarded the final train leaving Antiquity City for the night. The Blotted had sought shelter from the downpour, and for that we were thankful. I gingerly wrapped Muse in my coat, set her down on a seat, and took my own before we started moving. She coughed and propped up herself feebly.
“If you leave now,” I pleaded, “no one will ever find me. So don’t, please don’t. I need you to make it. We need to make it.”
“Read me some poetry?” Muse asked weakly. “Tell me a story.”
And that I did. Words I remembered, words I fabricated, all of them I shared with Muse. She looked exhausted but content.
“What about the Auditor?” I asked. “Is he done?”
She winced at his name and gave me a piercing, questioning look.
“There is so much you should know about me,” she said softly.
“Will we ever need to come here again?”
“Not a he.”
She pulled the coat tighter around herself and turned away to watch the motionless moon.