April 18, 2013
Today is Thursday and it is a beautiful day, probably one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen in my 28 years of existence. A surge of vitamin D crawls over my skin, massaging my senses back to life from the decay that has become my morning routine of rushing to and from work half asleep behind the wheel of my one eyed Corolla. Eight years I’ve traveled through the empty spaces of the night, becoming just another unnatural beast limping behind the herd, waiting for the sharp teeth of fate to drag me down to the soft earth below where the great eternal will bathe me in a pool of my own warmth.
Tomorrow I will be venturing out from my home in La Habra to the East Coast by means of the great mechanical birds of prey and it pains me to say that I am not entirely looking forward to it. Flying you see, has never really been my thing and I don’t believe that it ever will. I’ve often thought about why I hate it so much but I can never quite put my finger on it. My best conclusion is that I am simply a control freak and there’s nothing more agonizing for a person like me than getting on a plane and putting your life in someone else’s hands. People tell me all the time flying is the safest way to travel and that may very well be true, but when I am behind the wheel of a car, the illusion of my safety is far more palpable than sitting in a cramped seat next to a stranger, sharing the same oxygen and watching him chokes on his own saliva as he attempts to get some shut eye.
Flying hasn’t always been so terrible for me. My earliest memories of flying were good ones, filled with images of my mother and me racing across the New Mexican sky where the warm earth below crawled with centipedes and erect scorpions. I was a rather excitable child growing up (as most kids are) but I found being on the plane to be quite calming. I remember blue skies and white clouds illuminating the brown specks below as they traveled back and forth along the endless grids of our world. My mother explained to (due to my incessant nagging) that the lines were roads and all the little specks were cars filled with people like us. It was a ridiculous thought as my child brain could not understand just how high up we were but what did I know, my mother was my muse I was her vessel.
When we got off the plane I knew the ride was over. My mother said we were going to Chuck E. Cheese for dinner and I got excited for a brief moment. Don’t judge me, it was Chuck E. Cheese for fuck’s sake and somewhere there was a ball pit with my name on it. But we never did go out that night. Instead, we picked up our luggage from the rotating carousel and met my father outside where he was waiting for us, keeping our white Plymouth Horizon warm in its dreary idle state. There was a look of silence exchanged between them and I knew what that meant. I got into the back seat and rested my head down on the center cushion, watching the green trees passing motionless against a gray sky as I was gently rocked into a state of nausea. Motion sickness doesn’t usually affect me but when the dusty back seat of a car reeks of motor oil and gasoline; it's hard to stay in a positive state of mind. I shut my eyes and waited for the engine to stop to signify our arrival at our home in Whittier.
When I came home from work today I decided to skip out on my afternoon nap. There was no longer any time to sleep, every hour was precious. I figured that I would ride my bicycle to the gym in hopes of intensifying the momentum building in my body. A body in motion stays in motion they say, well, I certainly hope that’s the case.
The ride to the gym was unreal. For once everything seemed as it should have been. The universe was working in perfect harmony with our little world and a piece of heaven and fallen on me like an
unexpected morning fog that harbors the fiery summer days. It was difficult to progress as each pedal forward left less of the world to be enjoyed. I stopped in a small clearing which allowed me to see the sky unobstructed and perfectly framed by the rows of two story houses and rolling hills sitting at the horizon. A rare feeling of isolation came over me and I suddenly realized just how vacant the neighborhood was. Everybody was gone and all the houses were empty. The streets were quiet and there wasn’t a single entity disturbing the columns of air that now caressed my easing brow. It was one of those perfect moments that inspires and brings your memory back to full capacity. I remember being a kid, and the slow days of childhood where there wasn’t a thing to do but wait around for something—anything to happen. I wanted to dismount my bike and lay on the grass for the rest of the day and I would’ve if it wasn’t someone else’s property and not booby trapped with dog feces.
My face twitched as the muscles in my cheeks came to life. A motivation was now present to form a complete smile on my face but this sudden contraction came to a halt as a moment of darkness fell upon my surroundings. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and I knew what was causing the shadow. The metal bird flew across the sun, blocking out its wonderful light and suddenly everything was gray and lifeless once more. It was the harbinger, it was the end, and it knew how to steal in the hope in my soul.
April 19th
There’s nothing redeeming about the entire experience of flying. Driving along the 105 headed west is usually the most tolerable portion of the journey. The metro line that slices the freeway in half from Norwalk to PCH is quiet in the early hours of the morning. Only the electrical lines show any signs of life as passing cars race by with glaring head lights forming small radiant orbs along its reflective surface. I watch these orbs every time I make the journey, thinking that they are small balls of energy traveling through the lines, living a secret life of their own, away from the burdens that the light of day brings. Then again, maybe they are, I don’t really know. How can anyone really know a thing like that?
Arriving at LAX we are greeted with the usual nightmare.
If you can make it off the freeway and onto Sepulveda Blvd. in less than thirty minutes consider yourself one of the fortunate ones. I often times pray as I enter the tunnels that the Big One would finally rear its ugly face, trapping both my fellow Angelo’s and I forever. I’d rather die here in this tomb of concrete as opposed to crashing over some other state’s foreign soil, having some goofball in a white lab coat pick my bones from the earth with a pair of pliers.
The tall cylindrical towers that greet you as your vehicle exits the tunnel reminds me of a time when L.A was still peeling off the melted bubble wrap from its hard plastic skin. The invitation letters reading “Come one, come all!” were promptly stamped with the blood of a thousand Mexicans and sent all around the world. And they came, of course, I mean, why wouldn’t they? Now, in the year 2013, you can’t be anywhere in this city without another human being no more than twenty feet away from you. And all of these people, every single one of them, has a name, and they all want a new one. They will do anything to get it. I can’t help but feel a little cross eyed every time I venture outside from my home in La Habra, especially at night. The city lights blind anything with functioning pupils: a model late for an audition, a stray possum looking for grub, and hooded men riding bicycles across busy streets. They all become part of the orange mist that hangs over the city in the day and falls on the streets at night. Looking up at the sky I notice there are no longer any stars. I suppose in a way, we’ve all played a part in their death. We’ve gathered their corpses from the gutter and wrapped ourselves in their incandescent
flesh, carrying on with our lives as if the universe will somehow gravitate towards us without any hesitation.
Driving in the traffic circle at LAX, I try to obey the traffic signs but fail every time. My car swerves across the crowded lanes and into the wrong parking structure where I eventually make my way to the top, staring over the ledge and cursing the burning path below with ash on my lips. Once the parking situation has been sorted out we are beaten with every step forward. We drag our luggage and bags across the black asphalt and make our way to the appropriate terminal as if participating in our own Egyptian burial. We make our way out of some makeshift elevator and there they are, people, all kinds of people screaming and yelling for help. The whole scene makes me feel like we have just arrived by helicopter in some refugee camp on the other side of the world. Some people give me the eye and ask if they can take my bags. It’s better to remain quiet in these situations; keep your eyes to the ground, avoid eye contact, and press on towards your terminal without delay.
We get in line and wait to receive our boarding pass while wondering why everyone is in their god damn pajamas. Some bitch behind a KIOSK barks at us to step forward and swipe our credit card in the electronic reader before inattentively asking us to place our bags on the scale to be weighed. Already feeling embarrassed and humiliated my heart sinks as the scale makes a terrible buzzing sound signaling that our bags are overweight. She tells us to fix it. Fix it? How the fuck should I fix it? And no I am not going to pay some ridiculous fee because my bag had too much to eat for breakfast this morning.
So there I am, unzipping my bag and exposing my precious belongings to the cruel atmosphere of the airport. As I’m pulling my shit out I pray that it will fit in my laptop case or in one of the other bags that we are checking in. It’s not too bad I suppose, I mean, on the bright side, if things were to go terribly wrong, having a stick of deodorant, my toothbrush, and a fresh pair of jeans isn’t such a bad thing to have thirty two thousand feet above the air. On the scale it goes and the green light says “Okay””. A man covered in black latex appears out of nowhere behind the women working the KIOSK and collects our bags. Once in hand, he tosses them onto the conveyor belt where they disappear into a dark gaping hole, where its nylon orifices will be eventually poked and prodded in search of
contraband.
It’s not so bad I suppose, at least that’s what I keep telling myself. There are only a few more lines to get through. I try to remain optimistic but there is no hope. I must’ve accidentally stuffed my heart into one of our bags for I feel like a walking bag of meat ready to be butchered and laid upon a Styrofoam bed to be shipped somewhere far over the horizon.
We get into the security line and before I know it I’m standing there with no shoes on, my pants falling off, cold, and about to walk into a full body scanner. I remember seeing something on television about scanners having the capacity to digitize images of your body through your clothes, giving the bastards on the other side of the screen the pleasure of viewing you in the buff. Well, as long as no one makes it onto the lane with a bomb strapped to their chest; I suppose I can forgive such indecencies. However, I must warn any prospective TSA screeners out there who might be tempted to commit such atrocities that if I ever find a picture of my naked self as I search for images of Native Americans for a research project that I will undoubtedly be inclined to scalping a mother fucker. Mercy is not one of my strong points.
Past the security lines the ambiance of the airport changes. There are diners, stores, public restrooms, and all sorts of other goodies to blow your money on. It could almost certainly pass as a mall if it weren’t for all the people passed out on the multiple rows of chairs in front of glowing monitors. I make my usual trip into the restroom and take sanctuary in one of the stalls. I use the time alone to clear my mind and evil brewing in my belly, which, to my always pleasant surprise, seems to be the norm in all airport restrooms. There is no such thing as shame here, we are all the same.
Despite all these irritations we make it onto the plane. Per the usual, I rest my palm on the side of the plane as I board reciting a quick prayer to baby Jesus to watch over us on our journey, and I’m not
even religious. We take our seats and we’re off. The ride is remarkably uneventful and I like it that way. We reach our destination in no time at all and I even managed to get a good bit of work done.
April 23, 2013
It’s going to be a long journey home today. Three take offs and three landings taunt us as we receive our boarding passes. Six separate chances for something to go wrong—at least that’s what the statistics on the Internet tell me. They say you have a 1 in 10 million chance of be involved in a plane crash and even then you are still more likely to survive the event compared to being in a car accident. Well whoop-de-do, hallelujah, and whatever else I should be saying in light of such statistics, they mean nothing while in the heat of battle. We are to fly from Dulles to Chicago and then from Chicago to St. Louis before the journey back to LAX. The last portion of the journey requires us to stay seated and wait for our fellow fly mates to disembark from this terrible vessel and wait for the new ones to come aboard.
A group of high school students chatter frantically amongst themselves a few rows ahead of us when we departed from Chicago. Their words are full of youth and saturated with the usual bullshit, but its entertaining bullshit nonetheless. From what I could gather from my rather blatant eavesdropping is that they were on some sort of a trip to the west for their business club. They were attending a leadership conference in Los Angeles and it was apparently a very big deal as they had to qualify for the event and Los Angeles was the last stop in the circuit. Between wet spurts of butchered English and flirtatious add libbing, they practiced their little song and dance for the big event by asking each other very professional type questions. I tried to imagine them in their hotel room in front of foggy mirrors getting ready, painting their faces and combing their hair with a glint of the future staring back at them. The mirror was their portal to the other side, where their future selves were indulging in high priced cocktails, fast cars, and back yards with extensive rose bushes and readily available fruit hanging close to the earth. Yes, I know, that’s probably a bit too harsh. I mean, what would the world be like without such motivated youngsters ready and willing with a soft heel as they climb that first rung on the ladder to success? These bastards would probably be my boss someday, ordering me around in my old age as I struggle to play my electricity bill so that I can watch my aging collection of DVDs while crying over my vintage manual type writer in the sad hue of a oscillating night light. Somehow their presence makes me feel more at ease and I would be lying if I said otherwise. I would also be lying if I said the thought of our plane crashing in a fiery death-ball with these mother fuckers going down with me didn’t paint a madman grin on my face. This prospect alone makes it all seem worth it. Jesus, this is really starting to get to me isn’t it. We’re on the last leg home man, keep it together; we can’t afford to ramble just yet.
Once we landed in St. Louis, the passengers who were only along for the hour or so ride got off the plane and the crew members performed a head count of those going to Los Angeles. There were forty of us, lucky number I thought to myself. One of the male flight attendants seemed a bit frivolous and perhaps enjoying himself just a tad too much. From the moment we left Chicago he spent most of his time flirting with the high school girls in front of us, giving them free access to all sorts of cookies and crackers from the kitchen in the back of the plane. This is how it starts I say to myself. First they grow accustomed with free honey roasted peanuts and the next moment they are outsourcing jobs to China where twelve year olds with missing fingers are assembling iPhones and occasionally throwing themselves out of twelve story windows.
There is a teddy bear I want to ask about loaded in one of the compartments across from us with its face hidden away from my vision. If it all does go to shit and this ends up being the end of the line I would wish for it to face me. I want the blackness of its eyes to remind me to repent as we fall from the
heavens. I decide not to bother the flight attendant with any troublesome questions about the teddy and continue on my strenuous eavesdropping.
The new passengers board the plane eagerly, fully aware that our flight to Los Angeles is packed to capacity. They eye each seat with an insatiable lust and are visibly shaken when they prize is taken from them. The frivolous fucker in the back starts playing the Jeopardy theme as they board. This clown knows no end to his little just that he plays. He even cracks a joke about drowning when giving a demonstration on how to use the life vest that is located under our seats.
There is an elderly couple sitting across from us on their way home from vacationing in Florida. They look as if they had been married for a very long time and they appear to still love each other dearly. They remind me to stop being so cynical and to stop accepting death at every opportunity. The man’s hands are covered in loose skin; undoubtedly the result of too many un-shaded labors in the sun. His muscles in his short arms flex every time he waves down the flight attendant to order another Jack and Coke and I can’t help but feel inspired by his presence.
The last person to board the plane is an obvious regular. He comes lumbering on board with various fanny packs and two groceries bags full of snacks and drinks for the ride to LAX. He’s the bastard we all know and hate so well. He was the guy in school who had his homework out before the teacher asked for it and was always ready with a greasy hand whenever the teacher asked for a helper to enable her fat ass sitting tendencies. As the plane took off from St. Louis he was ready with his laptop and submarine sandwich before the Pilot even deemed it acceptable to use approved electronic devices. Jesus Christ, I can see it now, death by tuna salad, at 600 miles per hour. This man flies with the disposition of a drunken man being pulled along in a wooden cart by a lame donkey. Does he not know that he is in danger? Does he not know how close he is to meeting his maker? Oh, there he goes, now he’s offering the girls in front of us the opportunity to watch his copy of Men in Black on his tiny laptop screen. There, you see, my hatred is justified one hundred percent.
The ride out of St. Louis is turbulent and I am barely able to keep my wits about me. The plane sinks in a pool of quick sand on takeoff as the engines struggle to pull our weight through the air. Droplets of water race across the wings as the clouds began to open up for a mid-spring shower. Plastic plastic plastic everywhere! The plane rattles and contorts as we break through the clouds but the clear air above fails to provide any sense of comfort. There is no salvation here, even in the face of God.
I try to work as I did before but I can’t focus. There is violence everywhere. I’ve suddenly become aware to just how claustrophobic the environment has become and I honestly thought writing on an Airplane could be fun. Well I can tell you now with full confidence that it is not. There is no room to breathe here. Our bodies consume each other and I feel as if there are a hundred different souls tearing at my white blood cell count with every passing moment. As much as I love my fiancé, the lack of shoulder room has be contemplating pushing her off into the aisle as a cart of soda pop and cocktails passes by. It’s a terrible thought, but all terrible thoughts have terrible beginnings. This is the torture of the 21st century. We venture high into the sky to escape, but there is nothing to escape from. A voice on the intercom says that the flight is going to take four hours—exactly how much battery life is left on my laptop. Enough time to spit some words on to a screen I can barely see due to the limited angling caused by the seat in front of me. I know they do it on purpose. They always do it on purpose
They say time is relative. Relative to what I wonder? My nausea? My anger? The palm rest of my laptop is covered in sweat marks as I hold it steady on my lap. How much time has passed? I don’t even know what time zone we’re in. I close my eyes and wait for something—anything to happen. It doesn’t matter anymore. I just want off this plane by any means necessary. Somebody open the hatch and I will gladly dive head first through the opening without hesitation. My body spiraling into the Sierra Nevada’s would surely make for some good YouTube footage for some hungry amateur film maker out there looking for subscribers. Somebody follow me to the laboratory and dice me up with a hunting knife and flush me down the toilet, raining my dismembered body over the deserts of California in a flurry of red
ice. I just want it to be over. I want to land and feel the dry coarse air of my homeland coerce me back to sanity. I just want to be back on my street and bask in the in insufficient shade of my dusty old palm trees.
I close my eyes and wait. The plane shakes and makes a familiar noise. I recognize it as the landing gear and as I look out through the window I see it. The grids! The grids! They are everywhere. They are infinite. They welcome us with an unabated grasp. It pulls us down through the air with such violence but I welcome it. I am home. And violence is our way of life. We cut through the orange haze and fly over screaming highways and bustling intersections on our way to the landing field. Our plane lands in a puff of ash and smoke. Breathing deeply I feel it. The air cuts and massages the walls of my healing lungs, reminding me of who is in charge. We pick up our luggage from the metal carousel and make our way out onto the street. In an hour or so we will be home celebrating life with Carne Asada, French fries, and a healthy dose of alcohol.
I call off work the next day and stay in bed from sunrise to sunset, wrapping myself in the soft comforts of familiarity. In this waking dream called life, I scramble to find some sense of order in the universe before committing to any sort of action. I did manage to make myself a cup of ramen noodles around dusk. I fed the dog too, because that’s what decent human beings do.
Next time I will be ready. Next time I will recognize death and shake his hand without regret. I will invite him to lunch at a fancy hotel and while we sit and talk over a couple of Bloody Mary’s I will stamp him out. You see, his end would have already been put into motion.
A man working the concierge becomes startled by a high pitched scream while the windows surrounding him shake and contort. He looks out through the patio window and see us, sitting in complete silence, burning in the morning sun that only summer brings. A shadow passes over head and two men think nothing of it. There is a screech, and swoop, and a rattling of a dining fork on the table. There is now only one, one man sitting alone at a table, sipping on the red viscous drink before him and licking the sweet nectar from his bleeding gums.