Back to You, Houston (3b)

      Back to you again, Houston.
      Roger that, Roger.
      Marge here, over.
      Where is Roger, over.
      Never heard of him. Good night.
      I could have sworn, over.
      Don’t, over.
      < cluck >

My Handsome Cossack

Praskovya Fëderovna feverishly fastens a leather belt around her canvas jacket, "Forty one years." She wraps her goat down shawl over her head and around her neck with dignity, as to assert her emotional restraint, "Too much time has gone by," she tells her pale reflection in the mirror. Outside her modest tenement, though, she speeds her steps in the gloomy half light of the evening fog, "But he has returned," ignoring the cold numbing her to the marrow, "to see me."

She has forgotten the years weighing on her back, she is fueled with hope, hope reborn from the coat of arms she had recognized at once on the letter hand-delivered hours ago, "Crazy muzjik." She doesn't doubt him, only her agitation while she was getting ready, "I must be beautiful for him," changing clothes again, "Red is for young people," reading his letter for the nth time, "He said six o'clock," pacing her apartment until the time had come, but she couldn't wait anymore, she had left way too early for the short walking distance to the park.

Forty one years ago she had stood in a similar square, back then devastated by the war. A revolution, to be exact, the Great October Revolution, but they called it a war because of the pogroms, because of the famine.

The discomfort in her left side grows as she approaches the town square. "I behave like a teenager." The beating of her heart quickens. Forty one years ago she was snatched from the ground by a horseman and carried off. The Red invaded the town soon after. Owing her life to the Cossack, she became his woman. When the Red Army won the Bolshevik Revolution, Misha Melvinski vanished with his regiment; she returned to the service of the more fortunate, she was expecting.

She has to stop at the gate and steady herself against a skeletal lilac bush. "This is silly. I shouldn't be here." The last sounds of the day die in the distance at the church bell ringing half past the hour. Sadly, it reminds her of the toll of the bell when, months later, the news of the civil war had reached her remote countryside where harvests, newborns and burials punctuate life. Like many women of poor constitution in those hard times, she lost her baby before the term. Hardened too young, she didn't shed a tear. "C'est la vie," they also say in Russian.

She swallows hard, "Those were terrible days." She awaits without waiting, trembling, searching the public park for a known figure. Only the tall silhouette of a statue peers at her in the pea soup; a water nymph shouldering an urn pouring water down the basin. The streaming of the fountain fills Praskovya Fëderovna with nostalgia. The war had brought more soldiers and, one day, Misha Melvinski galloping a plough horse. The steed was a perfect match in size and strength for its rider of poor manners whom she saw as a charger-riding god come to save her again. Didn't he lift her up from the ground to his lap with one hand? Didn't they dash through town and enemy lines like a cannon ball? They weren't invisible, they were invincible.

Her shoulders stop shaking, "Misha!" She closes her eyes and immediately returns to her kidnapper, her heart swells as it did in the midst of the battle after she had recognized his laugh, his smell, his lips, his eyes. How secure she had felt bouncing on the soft-rounded pommel of the Cossack saddle and against his chest.

Praskovya Fëderovna shivers, rubs her arms and stamps on her feet to shake the ankylosis gaining on her. Her legs stiffen under the long shapeless jumper. "I have warmer safarans. How foolish of me to wear this dress to please him." She shrugs, "at my age."

And then, she chuckles remembering how carefree she had been at the abandoned farm where he and his cavalrymen had set up camp. All they had was a roof and themselves. "I didn't have to wear anything to please him."

They had rolled on bear hides and a straw mattress to ignore the dust, the smoke, the rubbles, the fires, the gun shots and the shouts of the wounded, but nothing could erase the smell of blood, the sight of death. She had told him about their lost baby. He had nodded and said, "We'll make another one."

How could she forget, four decades later, the resounding laugh at the height of his excitement, how he exploded in her with a strung out growl dying into a plaintive series of hiccups as if his pleasure had opened a wound deep inside his body? Between the scars, there were deep lines on his face, "He was so handsome!"

The memories warm up her body ever so slightly, but she wonders, "Will I recognize him? What if he doesn't recognize me?" She covers her face with both hands. The furrows of time past flatten under her fingertips. Back then she too had hid behind her hands because she was afraid of him. He had kissed her fingers until she opened them, telling her with the rich musical tongue of the steppe that, yes, he was a bird of prey, a bird of prey searching for her.

A rustling startles her. Pigeons come to drink and wash at the fountain. The church bell rings three quarters of the hour. She reasons herself, "Praskovya Fëderovna, you are making a fool of yourself." But the film continues in her head. His eyes were crying, "And I found you." The sound of his voice was promising, but he was a blind warrior, not a man of letters nor of the robe. She kept her love and tears deep inside with the map of his body. She had drank his vitality and sucked his energy, screaming silently at her own tear she let bleed and pour on his last day. No need of words for him to understand. Too soon for her, the war ended, battalions were disbanded. She thought she'd keep him this time but life decided otherwise. His seed was already growing inside of her when he was wounded and sent away.

She presses her hands on her belly. "Misha!" Her Misha was gone, another Misha was born. Every Christmas, someone had delivered burning wood, coal, blankets, food and candies, until the year little Misha turned seven. She recalls vividly finding a little pyramid of oranges at the door of her attic room. "That was him, I'm sure of it."

An image persists with her son staring at the fruits shining in the candlelight under the Christmas tree, a picture of the post-office calendar nailed on the wall above the table set for two. She remembers staring as well and forgetting the meal in the oven, oblivious to the smoke invading the room, how she had rushed to save the food. She had cried, she had cursed, she had bit her lips at the look of her child, their son, who, a man already, had said, "At least we have each other." They had moved from place to place, "The mail didn't follow," she had explained to little Misha. One day she had resigned herself to the idea that her savior had died gloriously at war. She showed her son a picture of him, "You look just like him." Little Misha grew up to become a soldier in a distant land they call the New World.

Praskovya Fëderovna lets out a long sigh, and an other one before wiping her tears with a trembling hand. Who knows how long she has been hiding in the dark. "Oh God, I missed him!" She crosses herself and steps in the clearing. "Misha?"

The church bell rings the hour. She laughs, "How unbecoming," admonishing herself. Patience is an extremely important virtue among Russians; punctuality is not. "Where are you, Misha?"

"I am here, Praskovya Fëderovna." The quivering bass voice comes from a bench shrouded in the fog only a few feet from her.

She spins on her heels, "Misha Melvinski, have you been spying on me?"

In the moving shadows of the bushes stands out a man who had been tall and strong, he's slightly stooped in his long traveling-cloak reminiscent of an officer's great-coat; his Astrakhan fur cap completes the slender stature which doesn't hide its left arm leaning on a cane.

She covers her mouth with one hand as if to mute a shout, the words she had forbidden herself back then to even whisper to him in his sleep.

"I thought I'd sweep you off your feet as I did from my battle horse," he stumbles towards her and laughs, "but I couldn't find a horse."

She reaches out and cuddles inside his open coat, "You are going to catch your death of cold, running around with your buttons undone." She buries her face against his chest to hide her sobs and inhales deep. Same smell. "I've been waiting for you." Then she slips under his right arm, "Take me away, crazy muzjik."

Back to You, Houston (3a)

      Back to you again, Houston.
      Roger and over.
      Over.
      Over.
      Over.
      Quit it, OK?
      OK, over.
      Are you coming with us?
      Yeah, yeah, yeah. Scoot over.
      < cluck >
      Who’s Roger?
      Good night, Gracie.
      Who’s Gracie?

The Hour of the Firefighter

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Back to you, Houston (2)

    Back to you, Houston.”
    . . . .
    Houston?
    Roger that, Roger, but you know what? Over.
    No, I don’t. Over.
    That coroner is a morbid methodist who mostly masturbates his meager mind over moronic mundane morphological metaphors about his own private and personal male member manipulated by meretricious muslim matrons every morning, that’s what. Over.
    Roger that, Marge. Over.
    Luis here. Over.
    Sorry, but Marge told me you were dead. Over.
    There is no Marge working here. Over.
    Cracks me up. Back to you, Luis. Over.
    Over, Roger.
    . . . .
    . . . .
    Who’s Roger?
    < click >

Airport Cellphonists

     “No, I’m not doing anything right now I’m at the gate, yes, my plane has not been announced yet. What? I can’t hear you. Can you hear me?”
     “I just left the bathroom. This place is a zoo. What are you doing? No, I’m not in a tunnel. I’m at the airport, you know that. Yes, I’m alone. Whom should I be with? C’mon, honey, let’s not go through this again. What?... Hey?... Uh!...”
     “I’m trying, mother, I’m trying to tell you all before my battery dies out. No, I’m not pregnant. Luis is just a liar and I’m fucking sick and tired of him. No, no, I’m not upset, I’m just saying... Yes, I know you can hear me well, oh... the other people too. Sorry,Mom. No, I didn’t mean to yell at you. Yes, Mom. Yes, yes... Mother! How can you say that to me?”
     “Hi, good afternoon, Marge, yes, it’s me, have you received my fax proposal, of course I can hold, my plane’s not ready yet.”
     “Mother, I’ve told you a thousand... yes...”
     “Honey, I’m not going to meet someone in Chicago. it’s a business trip... How do you know my secretary is in vacation? Honey...”
     “Let me give you a little background here, Marge...”
     “Mother? I can’t hear you. Mother?”
     “Is this me or they dropped my call again?”
     “Mine went out too.”

Back to you, Houston (I)

     Back to you, Houston. Over.
     Roger that, Roger. Over.
     10/4, Marge. Over.
     Luis, here. Over.
     Right, Luis. Over.
     Over, Roger.

The Then-and-Now Controversy

     Now, with the beep-beep of the alarm-clock. And then, silence. Beep beep beep. Silence. And then, a machine-gun shouting lots of beeps in the air. They bounce on the walls. They jump in the ears where they die. Silently. Like ants or snowflakes. That was then, this is now.
     Now again: now is always there or here, now is also now, it exists in space and time at the same moment as if it were the link between geography and history. A little bit like then, but now.
     When was then? When is now?
     I assume then was before now, hence the use of the proper tense for to be – this does not apply to chronology, only to time, no question about it: then was and now is. But then, they change continuously: what is now will become then. And then, what happens to the previous then?
     My guess is that then grows whilst now stays the same size, compared to their respective predecessors and successors. In time, then becomes larger and longer, so big it needs a qualifier to help itself as in back then, sometimes it morphs into an expression like in the good old days, or blends in a cliché as in my days, when I was your age. These modifiers are vague, I know, it’s because most of the time we don’t bother asking about the age or size of the then in question; only police officers and historians are picky enough to want to know everything about it. So, who’s that then, then?
     Realistically speaking, then is an it. Not a she nor a he, an it. And an it that was, an it which existed a while ago, an it in dire need of life too. Then is dead. Then is a dead it buried in the layers of time past. Nothing to it, you’d say, since it’s only time – or, rather, a period of time. But we may have missed it or we simply miss it, otherwise why would we even think about that then – the dead it, that is – are we moored, tethered, anchored to it for some obscure reason?
     I wonder if it is not more so, and only, a grammatical consideration, for we know a lot of people living in the past, like way back when, and yet, they’re still kicking, aren’t they? Poor then, though: sometimes it reminds us how vain and mortal we are. Can we, the then and us, can we be saved from oblivion? Yes, of course! With and then or but then, another life begins. This then, then, is not a dead it from the past, this then is the key of a very much alive future which flows endlessly into the present now.

A Book Bought Before Boarding

     You are crossing the ocean. Easier by plane than by swimming, but you have to suffer proximity, farts, snores, the sight of a blurred movie far away from your hard flotation device seat cushion by the rear galley, near the tail engines and the toilets.
     “Coffee?”
     “As long as it’s as black as my soul.”
     Side-look and raised eyebrows from your quiet neighbor who didn’t utter a word since take-off, not even bon appétit in front of the TV-dinner tray. The Beaujolais helped to bring color on your tray, taste in your mouth.
     “Do you have any cognac? Make it two, if you please.”
     “You’ll be quiet!”
     “Don’t you worry. As a clam can be.”
     “You mean, quiet as a lamb? ‘cause we say happy as a clam. So what will it be?”
     “Quiet as a lamb and happy as a clam.”
     “Good!”
     White teeth in the middle of a black face surrounded with black hair on top of a navy blue uniform moving to the next row, offering the same “Coffee, tea?”
     Engines roaring. Are we there yet?
     You look for your book bought before boarding, Grimm’s fairy tales. Maybe you are falling asleep and you are dreaming but you bite your lips, not because of the bitter coffee but because of the bitter sorrow in your heart. Hours from departure, you remember her silhouette going toward the exit of the concourse, leaving you to be screened at the gate. Her face was crying, “Go only if you must,” she had said over and over. “Don’t change your plans because of me. I’ll be fine.”
     You imagine she might be having lunch, ready to submerge herself into working, working and working. She’ll be fine, you think that you are lying to yourself, the cognac makes you squint your eyes really hard. What the hell is that? You forget your lie. Other images pop in your head, slide on the screen of your eyelids. I’m on an adventure! These words echo what people have told you when you announced your travel plans. “I envy you” was often used, but mostly the word “adventure.”
     You try to comfort yourself that indeed it is an adventure, but deep inside you know that what you’re doing is more of an escape. You are running away from boredom, routine, complacency. From a good workplace where you acquired seniority and pride, from the remnants of your family, from her also. She who opened your eyes. She who cracked open the shell imprisoning you. She who derailed the train of your predictable life. She who made you cry like a baby and get off like an animal. She who gave you her tiny breast to suckle and her big heart to cuddle. She who helped you pack, drove you to the airport and said, “I’ll be fine.”
     The night before, you couldn’t sleep, you made love restlessly, unable to find peace. Words were of no use, they all had been said. At the high-ceiling, they would have flown over the bed, half-smiling half-sorry. You remember that hot summer day spent in bed, one of you had mentioned that, maybe it was you, you cannot tell for sure, it could have been she who said it. It doesn’t matter on the plane going to your destiny. Yes, this could be an adventure, you’ll have to be patient, it’s a very long journey, it will be another day when you’ll reach your destination.
     “No, you can’t smoke on this flight.”
     You go to the bathroom. Then you pass through the galley, walk down the other aisle, notice there are more free seats, maybe…
     “Hi!”
     You bump into someone, your rounded eyes are mistaken for bewilderment.
     “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
     No, you don’t. Your brain went apparently blank in the boarding area.
     “The bookstore!”
     And suddenly, “Oh yes, the bookstore. I stepped on your toes.”
     There she is, a smiling skinny six-foot-tall and long curly red head.
     “Jessica's the name.”
     You mumble yours.
     “What did you say?”
     You repeat and shake the hand waiting in mid-air, a cold hand.
     “Man, you’re hot! I’m freezing in this plane. Need to go to the loo. Do you want to chat a little bit? Be right back. This is boring in here. You’re not boring, are you?”
     You don’t think so, who would? She is gone, her seat and the one next to it are invaded with her blanket, book, papers, purse, jacket, her travel bag is wide open. She must be an air-head. And you smile. You feel like her protector because you are watching over her stuff. But then, who would steal anything in a plane? There is nowhere to go.
     You have to scoot over for the stewardess passing by with her cart, same smiling black woman, quite strongly built, the type you don’t want to mess with, but maybe in other circumstances, elsewhere for sure, horizontally perhaps. What are you thinking? This is silly! No, it’s not. Listen, she asked you a question.
     “I’m not tired. No Ma’am, your coffee wasn’t too strong. I’d like another one.”
     “And a double shot of cognac, I suppose? Be right back.” Her voice goes away, clearing the passage ahead of her, “Excuse me! Excuse me!”
     Loud laughs are coming from the galley, Jessica’s and the stewardess’s. You wonder what’s the matter but shrug the question away and sit in the row behind the red-hair air-head’s seat. And you burp. And then you think that maybe…
     “I’m back. Oh, sorry. I’m a mess, aren’t I? Let me put this away. It’s better to talk side by side, don’t you think? Normally I take more space but there are only two seats here. Anyway, can you help me put my bag up there? I would do it myself, but… Am I talking too much? I’m so excited. Aren’t you? I was thinking of you in the bathroom. Are you a Saniassen to wear red coveralls like these? You know, the Bagwan followers. I know a lot of Saniassen in Amsterdam. That’s where I’m from. Where are you from? No, let me guess… your accent, you must be French. My father was French, my mother's from Germany. Here, I’m done. Can you help me? I’ve cleared the seats. Just for you. Do you prefer the window or the aisle?”
     “I’m back with your coffee and cognac!”
     You get up awkwardly, undecided at first. The stewardess awaits with her smile and your drinks. You take Jessica’s bag, open the compartment above, lift the mushy thing, roll it into the space as quickly as possible and then in a split second you see the zip wide opened in front of your face. It’s too late, its contents pour on your head, shoulders and arms. In another split second you resemble a laundry line filled with shirts, shorts, socks and underwear. Definitely an air-head. But you are in control, stoic and poised.
     Jessica picks up her stuff, “How can I apologize to you?” Punctuating her motions to recover this, “I’m so sorry,” or that, “I’m so sorry.” In the end, all is well, the bag is filled, zipped and put safely away.
     The black stewardess controls her laughing; her raised eyebrows wrinkle her forehead, her eyes like dotted big white marbles. “Remember me?” She comes back from her retreat position, “Your beverages.”
     Jessica crawls to the window, sighing: “I’m so sorry!”
     “Don’t you worry, honey, I’ve seen worse on these planes. Would a nightcap make you feel any better?”
     “I’ll have the same.”
     “You’re sure? This one’s drinking a double.”
     “Sure, why not? The night is still young.”
     These simple words awake you for no reason. Or is there any? Maybe some sort of challenge to know, the daring to pick up on the innuendo? French are known to play with words, among other things. Awake, not sad to have left country and friends, not a zombie traveler wondering what the future might be. You are interested, still holding coffee and cognac in mid-air, staring at the green eyes on your right. Bright eyes lowering on you as if they were…
     “Let me help you with your tray.” She bends in front of you, her hair tickles your nose, you smell the flowery shampoo, you forget what you were thinking about. “Here you are.” Her left arm brushes you, her hand near your belt. “Be careful now, I’m not moving, I don’t want to cause any more problems.”
     You lower your arms slowly, hers follow suit. Your coffee and cognac are safe, her hand touches your thigh, the left one. “I’m sorry,” she quickly removes it, pinching her lips. Or is she biting them?
     “Et voilà, Madame!” whispers the black body cambering over you. “See, I speak French. I know merci and voulez-vous coucher avec moi. But that’s it!”
     Jessica, in the corner of your eyes, winks at her. You hold your coffee cup steady on the tray. Just in case.
     Jessica smiles, “You’re traveling for pleasure or for business?” She then struggles with the cap of the miniature cognac bottle. You help her, nonchalant as you were when under the shower of her clothes. You both laugh nervously about it.
     Jessica sips on her coffee, “You haven’t answered me yet.”
     In fast motion you review the previous months at work, you tell Jessica you are a nurse in ICU, she says it must be hard, you say not really. Then you feel the pang in your heart, the same stabbing deep inside as when you realized your life was unfulfilling, boring even, you had helped others all the time, never took care of yourself, you tell Jessica this is personal, that you needed a break, you are on a sabbatical, she says that you did the right thing, life’s too short anyway. Then, you see your most trusted friend going with you to the travel agency to buy your one-year ticket around the world, just one ticket, she was not to travel with you, you tell Jessica about your friend, she asks you what is her name, you say Chantal and swallow your saliva, she says that you must love her very much because it shows, you nod and drink your cognac, in one go. Then you remember the farewell party, the packing, last night love-sharing, the silences floating at the ceiling, and then your tears block your view.
     “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. If you want, I can cuddle with you. Aren’t you tired with all these emotions? Come here, I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”
     You don’t need a bedtime story, you can’t count the number of times she said ‘I’m sorry’ anymore, and you tell her. She blinks several times. You continue:
     “Can I ask you a personal question?”
     “Try me.”
     “Are you a virgin? I mean, a Virgo?”
     “No, I’m a Pisces, born February 29.”
     “You are shitting me?”
     You check each other’s ID and laugh because you are both seven years old. Well, times four, but nonetheless, what a coincidence, you could be twins it wouldn’t be any more surprising.
     “No wonder I felt attracted to you.”
     “Or is it because I stepped on your toes and you’re a masochist?”
     “No, I really did. I thought you were kind of cute.”
     “Sorry, but I can’t lie.”
     “You don’t find me cute?”
     “No, I mean that I didn’t think of anything then. I was lost in my memories, not quite there.”
     “Well, now that you’re here, what do you think?”
     “I think I’d rather cuddle first. I really need it.”
     “Lift the armrest and turn around.”
     You do so, and lay your back on her chest, your head against her jaw. She wraps you with her arms, hands crossed over your chest. The roar of the engines turns into a distant purr. You close your eyes.
     “Once upon a time…”
     Back home as a child, your mother told you bedtime stories, always the same, “Once Upon a Time, your Uncle Joe went to America. We didn’t think he’d ever come back for good…” Her voice rings again in the convolutions of your brain, singing a duet with Jessica’s voice telling you her bedtime story.
     You don’t like the words Fairy Tales because they remind you of Uncle Joe, everyone called him Aunty behind his back (in a manner of speaking), he was indeed different and his mannerism was the laughing stock of the family. But he made it all right in the world, didn’t he? And better than his laughing family. “Do you remember when Aunty won the lottery? He passed out, that poor thing!” your mother – his sister – said one day. Now, Uncle Joe lives in Miami or Mexico or both, who knows? And you wonder why he left his home. Well, for sure the weather is nicer in the tropics than in the Midwest, and they don’t mind his demeanor as much as the local cowboys might have. At least, that’s what you think, because Uncle Joe left his country so long ago and you never visited him. Twenty years ago, he went to the El Dorado. Came back once or twice, you were so little you remember only what was said about him, and about the trip your parents took one year, bringing him the luck to win the lottery. That’s what he said when he recovered from the shock two days later. Your mother attended to him, worrying sick that he wouldn’t survive. But your father was right – he was always right – he said something really to the point that made your mother uneasy, and he was sworn to never repeat it again. She said it had something to do with Greeks, a magic word that made Uncle Joe wake up and ask “Where?” The fever of his body had moved to his head, he made quick plans, your parents helped him to pack, “but not before we went to celebrate in Las Vegas,” your mother added with round eyes. They had returned home with tons of stories, and a slightly envious feeling at Aunty’s luck and sudden rejuvenation. “He was another man! But still my brother.” The next year, your Dad got a new car for Christmas and a thank-you note for everything. The laughing stock had turned into a mysterious rich powerful image for the family. Some wondered, though, why they didn’t get a new car too. Years passed, you grew up listening to the same bedtime story, not a fairy tale. You tried to imagine what it was like over there. And today you bought a book before boarding for the same destination. You’re not gonna turn out like your Uncle Joe, are you?
     Once upon a time… Chantal’s voice takes the relay. You’ll go to America like many, in search of the El Dorado where so many are said to have made a fortune and a better life for themselves. But you are not a political escapist, you are not a religious persecuted minority, you are not a run-away convict, you are not a greedy adventurer, you are not a disillusioned poet, you are not on bad terms with anyone, you are not that short of money or hope. Oh, I know, the grass looks always greener, but it is such a pitiful cliché and you are not that dull of a decision-maker.
     Once upon a time… you think for yourself that at home things were pretty much laid out for you. Like in a cocoon, in a womb, everything tailored for you, the tracks of your life drawn in advance. And so, after a while, you felt directed, or stuck. Boredom came to your mind, routine coated your days, complacency was your diagnosis. You had to do something before suffocating, but what? how? where? when? You already knew the why. Did you, really? Thinking of it in Jessica’s arms on that plane going west, you are not quite sure. But there is no possible escape right now, you have to stay put, at least till landing. And then what?
     Oh, you have been around the block before, it’s not your first journey to foreign lands. You lived in Africa, you stayed in Asia… yes but. I know, you had a return ticket in your pocket, a job to go back to the very next day, gifts for friends, stories to tell. You didn’t get rid of your apartment, your dog, and your car. You did not have a farewell party. In those occasions, you took a vacation. This is not a vacation, you’re not even sure that you are going to use your return ticket, you wonder only about what’s next. No, about why you left behind your family possessions, seniority, social security and retirement benefits.
     “You are mad!” had said your always-right father when you went to Africa. Back then his argument was “you don’t even know what they eat there!” To which you replied “I’ll tell you when I’ll come back.”
     This time, he might think about you turning out like your Uncle Joe, not about you winning the lottery. Or necessarily, not even about you becoming like Uncle Joe. No, he’d fear he wouldn’t see you again, you’d never return and he’d die without seeing you. Yes, you already said not see you again twice, is it that important to you? Obviously not, you are simply fighting that chimerical excuse to cover up the insidious why still echoing on the quiet. You muted your little inner voice in the airport parking lot, you shut down your grieving feelings at the boarding gate, you’ve turned into a catatonic passenger at the mercy of yet another confined area, and a watchful crew dedicated to make you enjoy what’s paid for.
     Once upon a time… you remember Chantal, your best girlfriend. You wonder why the English must specify the gender of a friend. The grammarian in you says it’s because there is no gender to words in English. The sophist in you laughs at the male and female qualifiers used for even humans, in your tongue and many others they refer to animals. The dreamer in you fantasizes about all sorts of things you experienced with your friend. Grammarian, sophist and dreamer voices meddling in all sorts of chit-chat to keep you busy and from hearing that persistent inner little voice of yours asking the same question over and over again. And you agree that you have it all, you shouldn’t burn bridges.
     But your ego is not that strong, you can still go back without shame. “I missed you so much” is the password that opens all doors, “I love you” also is very powerful. When true, otherwise it is only a set of predictable words put in the mouth to make it sound as if the feelings of the speaker were more important than the risk of losing face because of a failure. You know all of that. You also remember your cognac. You drink it in one go.
     Maybe you are dreaming in your original and dedicated seat, maybe you’re indeed in Jessica’s arms. Maybe you are not even in that plane, you are still in Chantal’s bedroom staring at the silence floating above you, still sweating after the long embrace of gender-specific body parts. Chantal’s hair tickling your ear – or is it Jessica’s? Chantal’s hand caressing your nipples – or is it Jessica’s? Chantal’s breast pressing on you – or is it Jessica’s? Chantal or Jessica, her bedroom or the plane, you do not hear the engine, your heart beats very loud, chanting every so often why-why, why-why. You know you will have to get up and face the situation, not sure which, where, when, how or even why, you are drifting away.
     Once upon a time… you turn around in a reptilian motion, you caress the hand, the wrist, the elbow, the arm, the shoulder, the neck, the earlobe, the cheek, the lips. Those lips are so responsive, so hungry. You don’t care about anything else but for that kiss to never finish. Your throat is moaning, your eyes are crying, your heart is pounding, your breath heaving, your belly aching, your groins swelling, your legs stiffening. If you are not in Chantal’s bedroom, you must be in Jessica’s arms. Or having a wet dream. You can’t think straight, your neck is crooked, your body twisted in this famous embrace immortalized by Rodin in 1886. You have begun to die again, about to be reborn anew, willing to give up, although you know very well it’s impossible because you are not the kind to give up. But you did. Haven't you already given up your stuff, your future and maybe your soul? Aren’t you giving up your body right now? Oh yes, you are giving in, you are at the mercy of its sensations, jolting at every single touch on it; those fingertips are like bees on your skin, prickling bees everywhere, you have given up everything, one more time, in a woman’s arms, legs and lips; in your Bermuda triangle pours the Sea of Sargasso, you are trapped in treacherous tentacles, twirling around in mid-air, you exude kelp from every pore, you don’t cry for help, you purr and dive deeper in a tropical ocean of sensations, breathless, amorphous like a pebble at the end of its bouncing course on the water, deeper in the womb, closer to birth, you feel squeezed out, juices flow around you, you want to stay inside looking for the source of the spring.
     Once upon a time…

Mayday in November

     < click > “Houston Approach Control, this is Alpha Charlie Delta Charlie two five eight. Three minutes to re-entry. ETA in sixteen. Please confirm clearance, over.”

     < click > “This is Houston, AC-DC 258. Re-entry access granted on Mooney Niner One Seven Victor. You’re cleared to land runway two five left and taxi to stand 69.”

     < click > “Roger that, Houston, Nose in or nose out?”

     < click > “Just roll over, hot shot.”

     < click > “Affirmative, Houston, over.”

     The second officer glanced to his left, “Captain, did you reset your watch this morning?”

     “Back in time,” nodded the Captain.

     The digital clock on the flight panel flipped back one hour according to the old Daylight Saving Time which never saved any energy but helped to gain once a year one more hour of sleep, and as everyone knows you had to give it back six months or so later.

     The Captain smiled to himself at some odd personal memories flashing past and fast, lost in his world of memento and memento mori, he didn’t feel his copilot tugging at his elbow:

     “Ca..ain..tain..ve..gon..bac..in..our..fli..s..gon..ba..ime!”

     “What?”

     The..boar..con..was..goric..s..owin..a..sit..if..ward..shit..outed.


Note from the Writing Department: Oops, we went too fast in time. This is what you should have read:


     “Captain! Captain! We’ve gone back in time, our flight has gone back in time!”
     
     “What?”
     
     The on-board computer was categorically showing a position drift backward, “Oh shit,” the Captain shouted.
 
     All vectors fit the flight manifest, there was no irregularity, no discrepancy, only an hour flight drift in the past as if the plane had physically returned in space to where it was sixty minutes ago.

     The Captain thought perhaps some wiz kid hacker had hard-coded the flight coordinates with its schedule as it were every time for that very same transport, but that was impossible because the computer system was, like on other aircrafts, updating itself according to flight events.

     The Captain’s rational judgment had always been praised by his superiors, his mental faculties never questioned, his vision was not impaired, his motions not hindered, only his bladder was signaling him it was time to go to the lavatory; he knew this situation was not a virtual reality training flight, nor a risk assessment test; his guts (or instinct, like old sea-wolves) could have told him not to worry; everything was normal, flight pattern unchanged, weather conditions unaltered, no weird smells of burn or fumes, nothing abnormal in the stable impeccable trajectory of the supersonic horizontal aircraft perfectly flight-worthy but... but his ship was undeniably all of a sudden several thousand miles behind schedule.

     The human-failure computer-recovery system kicked in from the entrails of the beast lost amidst the outer space and time warp continuum. Automatic pilot override took over to cope with the situation, namely the sixty minutes tardiness on schedule; meaning that the plane had to make up in speed increment for this unexpected delay, no matter what.

     Now, it shouldn’t normally matter, unless that ‘what’ was the ETA before human failure and that this ETA was sixteen minutes. 

     Well, not anymore. 

     Mathematically, the solution was a simple operation: distance divided by time left to travel. 

     Realistically, more intangibles were to be taken into consideration by the Russian-designed artificial intelligence decision-making application; some of the less esoteric elements not lost in translation were: the response time during acceleration from and deceleration back to regular speed, the triple side-effects of re-entry (euphoria, enuresis, thirst and claustrophobia), the risk factor associated with computer failure, software glitches, unexpected adverse mechanical impact to emergency bailout, and the relative incertitude of being at the right time at the right place. 

     On paper, figuratively, the computer computed the celerity of the aircraft to be, literally, 3.14159 times its current velocity. 

     Technically, the wings of the space plane went delta and the engines went to work like parturients, rat racers, antibodies and other speed freaks, “Be done with it,” they said; the nose of the cockpit turned red and then yellow; the German Schallmauer boomed twice because of the echo of the French mur du son, the English sound barrier and the Spanish barera del sonido were indeed doubled up, one per ear but nobody heard anything, for in outer space there is no air to carry sound waves. 

     “Thirty minutes to landing,” sounded by and for itself: most eardrums had popped in the cabins. 

     Practically, it was of no surprise that the cargo, aka the passengers, should feel the face-lift and belly liposuction effect, aka G-force which everybody knows is a measurement of acceleration and not of forces; and so, skinny or not, bodies were thrown, smashed and sucked into the nearest object, mostly their seats, save for those spacemen and spacewomen in the aisles, galleys and lavatories – one can’t make omelets without breaking the eggs. 

     “Fifteen minutes” was lost in the void of the blasted electroacoustical transducers, woofers and twitters alike. Top security officials at the UFO intergalactic space center were dragged out of their bunk beds to make decisions about that unbelievably fast oddity but it was already too late: AC-DC 258 had made re-entry into earth atmosphere, shining like a comet, melting like a marshmallow. 

     It was that fast: the computer-aided navigational system announced “Five m...” to the recording black box and began approach maneuvers, shutting off the thrusters to cut air speed, raising the nose to cut ground speed, lowering the gears to...

     “Captain! What are you doing? Are you crazy? We’re in the middle of the ocean. Captain! < click > Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is AC-DC 258, over. < click > Captain! < click > Mayday, mayday, mayday, we...”

     < click > “This is Houston, AC-DC 258. Why are you dropping speed and altitude?”

     < click > “We have a problem, Houston. The Captain’s gone berserk. Yes, you are mad. You can’t do that...”
 
      < click > “Is that you, hot shot? What seems to be the problem?”
 
      < click > “The Captain wants to land at 60.000 feet.”
 
      < click > “Good luck. I mean, that’s funny. Oh, wait... let me get rid of that call. Stand by.”
 
      < click > “Houston?”
 
      “...”
 
      < click > “Houston...”
 
      “...”
 
      < click > “HOUSTON!”
 
      “...”
 
      < click – click – click >
 
      < click > “Uh... this is Houston, AC-DC 258. Why are you dropping speed 
and altitude?”
 
      < click > “I told you, he wants to land over the ocean and we’re now at 38.000 feet.”
 
      < click > “Oh yes, right. Stand by. ... ... ... ... ... ... AC-DC 258, disable Captain and take over.”
 
      < click > “Roger that, Houston. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... BANG ... ... ... I’m in charge, now.”
 
      < click > “AC-DC 258, that was a joke. My name’s Luis, what’s yours, over.”
 
      < click > “My name’s Roger, over.”
 
      < click > “Roger that, Roger. We have confirmed murder, hijacking of government property. Proceed to jail. I repeat: go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Game over.”
 
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .

     “Billy Bob Jr! Turn your light off and go to sleep. You’re gonna miss your bus again.”