Page 1 of Strings
The first step is the hardest. Move feet, move.
Rolling my Starbuck’s coffee cup in my hands, I realize it no longer warms them. Truth be told, I’m twirling it in my hands because I’m nervous, not because I’m cold. The initial burning heat on my fingers was a nice distraction from my thoughts. I tug at the neck of my shirt, briefly pulling it away from my skin. I’m actually sweating.
This airport feels like it’s kept at a balmy eighty-two degrees on purpose. Probably to let travelers know they’ve entered hell’s gate. Detroit isn’t a vacation destination. It’s where hopes come to die.
As I gaze down at my almost empty cup, I decide to take one last swig before I test out my shooting skills with the trash can three feet from my seat.
“Final call for Flight 1711 to Los Angeles, California. Gate B3.”
Taking a deep breath, I make a deal with myself. If I make the shot, I have to get on the plane. If I miss, I’ll give myself permission to give up this ridiculous dream and go back to the only life I’ve ever known. It’s now or never. I line up my hand with the open trash can and close one eye to aim. I could miss on purpose, but is that what I really want?
Re-coiling my arm, I turn to stare out the window and pick at the paper ridge of my cup. I made up my mind about this move months ago. Why am I second-guessing it at go time?
I cut my hair, changed my name, and took every step necessary to get to this point. Everything I own is either on this plane or on its way via Fed Ex to the apartment my new job arranged for me. I can’t change my mind now, can I?
The January wind whips the flag in the distance. The snow swirls about in the air ferociously, like it’s pissed off and can’t decide which way it wants to blow. I’m that flag. Always being whipped around and never knowing where I’ll end up. Where am I going to let this wind take me?
There’s nothing keeping me here in Detroit except my past, and that is exactly what I need to escape. This is fear talking, and I promised myself this morning that I would never be controlled by fear again. I won’t break my promises anymore. Especially the ones I make to myself.
I realign my hand to the basket and make the shot with ease. It’s time to grow up.
I hand my ticket to the man at the podium. I barely have to stand since I’ve been sitting right in front of him the whole time.
“Cutting it close?” he asks with a smile. It’s not genuine. He’s more annoyed than anything.
“I like to live on the edge,” I reply.
“I guess so.” He huffs lightly.
If he only knew how close to the brink I’ve been. Most of my life has been spent afraid. If situations aged you, then I’d be closer to eighty than twenty-five. I’ve seen and done things most people will never experience in their whole lives. It’s another reminder why I’m walking away. I need calm and quiet in my life. I’ve sworn off drama forever.
Clutching my purse to my hip, I make the long walk down the jet bridge to the plane. With every step I take, I remind myself that it’s a measure closer to a new start.
The attendant smiles as I enter. “We’re almost full. Two middle seats left, row thirteen, E and B.”
She cringes slightly and I wonder if it’s because thirteen is usually an unlucky number for most people. I’m not superstitious, so I couldn’t care less. There could be a ladder over the seat, a broken mirror next to it, and a black cat sitting in it and I wouldn’t bat an eye. I make my own luck.
Twisting and turning my way down the narrow aisle, I’m careful not to knock into elbows hanging off armrests or trip over feet jutting out in awkward places. It’s an impossible obstacle course.
I gaze up at the row headers as I slowly shuffle my way toward the supposed open seats. I can sense the cold gazes of anxious, judging passengers as I travel past them. I’m certain they believe I’m the reason the plane is still grounded. It may well be the truth, so I smile evilly like my goal in life is to make them late for their connecting flights. I walk slower. The ability to piss people off is a gift. I was born with it. I don’t even have to try anymore. It happens naturally.
After advancing a few more rows, the reason the flight attendant cringed becomes apparent. Thirteen-B is the seat between a woman blowing air in and out of a paper bag with one hand while she grips the seat in front of her for dear life with the other, and a sneezing, nose-blowing man-child who taps the empty seat encouragingly with his Kleenex-filled hand, before wiping his nose with his arm.
I stop and stare. No. There’s no fucking way I’m sitting in between Pukey, the nervous flyer, and Sneezy, the sixth dwarf. I don’t need to be barfed on or get sick. I start my new job the day after tomorrow.
I turn my head to my other option. I’m met with the scowling face of Grumpy, the hater of life, and a man whose face seems to be glued to the window. I watch him for a moment. He doesn’t wipe his nose or cough. Grumpy folds her arms over chest and grumbles under her breath. I’ll take attitude over sickness any day of the week. Guess this is my seat.
“Excuse me.”
Grumpy huffs as I attempt to climb over her. God forbid she might stand to let me through more easily. Some people like to watch you struggle. I get it. Usually, that would be me.
I attempt to scoot past her leg and gasp as my foot catches on a strap sticking out from under her seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man at the window turn toward me. I reach out to stabilize myself and grab hold of the nearest thing I can find to keep from falling. Yanking my foot free, I feel relieved I didn’t topple over until I realize the object I’ve braced myself on his forehead.
“Shit! I’m so sorry.”
Grumpy tsks at me when I swear. The man gazes up at me with his hands in mid-air. I don’t think he knows where to put them. I attempt to get into my seat, my hand still braced on his head.
“I’ve secretly always wondered what it would be like to be a railing. Thank you for making my dreams come true.”
