When the alarm went off, it was still dark. A series of red numbers glared at me from the shadows.
Four o' clock.
My house is as close at the airport as it can possibly get, but it still takes an hour to drive up to the employee entrance, get coffee, and settle in the pilot's chair.
My wife, being used to it, does not wake, drooling with her mouth hanging open, limbs in a haphazard sprawl, one grasping the smooth corner post of the bed frame like she were trying to club someone.
She reminded me of a blonde version of the witch from Robin Hood. I swear she looked better when I married her.
Our bedroom is dominated by her things. There's a crucifix over the bed, and a scary framed picture of the crucified Jesus that opens and shuts his eyes when you walk back and forth in front of it. Another wall holds that mass produced garage sale painting of Jesus kneeling in front of a rock. I've seen that thing everywhere.
Who'd want to have sex with those things staring at you?
Then we have the framed family photographs.
Sigh.
After two kids, Irene basically became a celibate nun. She said we were nearing the End Times, and the bible said "woe to those who nursed a child during those days."
That was during the Iran Contra affair. The dates and methods of the apocalypse changed several times in her mind since that date (first The Beast was going to be Communist Russia, then it was the Arabs, and finally North Korea), but the cold fish remained a cold fish. I think she just didn't want more kids. Not that I blame her.
When we first married, I suggested contraceptives, but she refused, saying we should not stand in the way of God's will. "Children are a gift from God," she said. "You shouldn't do something unless you really mean it."
After we had Chloe, she temporarily changed her mind, but I guess we got defective birth control products, because along came Raymie shortly afterwards.
That's when the pilot light to our bed went out.
Four o' clock. It was early. I didn't bother waking Irene. She'd know I was gone when my things were gone. She'd understand.
Anyways, she hated to be woken up.
I grabbed my things from the dressers, my pilot's hat, then slid open the closet to select one of several uniforms, hand pressed by my wife.
We weren't lovers, we were roommates. A second mom.
I showered, dressed, ate breakfast while alone, staring across the table at a cheese-tastic painting of a fifty foot tall Jesus knocking on the side of a skyscraper. To one side, the window box was lined with a row of wrinkled browning flowers, a symbol of my emaciated marital relationship.
I scowled at a framed picture of kittens, crunching my Honey Bunches of Oats. I resolved to never eat that shit again. That, and that bland Sunbelt granola she's always getting. I could swear they made it from recycled cardboard.
We live in a split level. We have a garage, but it's full of recyclables, exercise equipment, unfinished building projects, and Daisy, our loudmouthed beagle. My shiny black BMW, therefore, is parked out front. It's just as well, since the noise of the door opener would wake the whole house and set Daisy off baying.
The moment I have the door open and climb in, I feel a book poking me in the ass. I pick it up, something by Joel Osteen. Ten Prayers for Material Wealth. In the seat opposite, I find Woman, Get Back in the Kitchen by T.D. Jakes. On the dash, a book called A Thief in the Night: God's Plan for the Coming Apocalypse. The tagline on the bottom said, "The Lord is coming in 2017. Will you be ready?"
I picked up the book and laughed.
God.
I threw it in the back.
I clicked on the radio, and (surprise!) a preacher named Woodrow started rambling about King David and Mephibosheth, whoever that was. I quickly turned it to the rock station.
At the airport, I parked in the employee lot, and stared at my wedding ring, thinking about Hattie the stewardess
I saw the woman every day.
Young, blonde, long shapely legs.
Recently they seem to have gotten longer every day. Her uniforms did appear to be shrinking, or maybe the skirts were getting shorter.
When she first started getting assigned to my flights, I rolled her eyes at her name. Why would you torture a kid with a name like that? It was a grandmother's name, and I was mystified about why even a grandmother would want to be named after headwear.
But when I saw those lean muscular thighs brushing by my pilot's chair, and looked up at those perky breasts, I decided she could call herself anything she wanted and I wouldn't care.
At first, it was innocent. We were just coworkers.
We tolerated each other.
I pretended not to be looking at her like a piece of meat, and she, well, randomly rubbed my back, from time to time put on strange leggings, black leather with holes running down the back, or leopard print...like she were trying to get my attention.
Then came winter. Our plane had been grounded for repairs in Denver, and we suddenly had a lot of free time. Together.
We ate, on discount, at one of those fancy airport bar and grills.
We had a snowball fight in the parking lot.
Drank hot chocolate in the pilot's lounge.
It was kind of a date.
We found out we had more in common than we thought. We both loved sports, both went to the same community college without realizing it. Both love pets.
"So," she had said. "You're married."
"What?" I blurted in dismay.
It was at this point that I decided I really didn't want her to know that particular bit of information.
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
"Your ring," she said, pointing to my hand.
With a nervous laugh, I answered, "That's just a class ring."
She gave me a funny look, then said, "Can I see it?"
Swallowing, I stuck my hand under the table, taking my class ring off my left hand, and the one off my right, handing her the class ring. I did this so subtly and fast that Houdini would have been impressed.
"Oh," she said, almost with a note of disappointment.
When I slipped the wedding ring in the pocket of my coat, I suddenly noticed I still had, within my possession, the silver ring I'd received from the airline for my many years of service. It had been there for months.
Too small. I had intended to get it resized, but kept forgetting.
I slipped it on my left to preserve the deception.
"So you're still..."
I nodded. "Single."
We had hotel rooms, but, you know, we just met, so nothing happened. The plane got fixed and we took off.
I finally got that pilot's ring resized.
I took her to a Cubs game once. Lied and told Irene I was `out with the guys' when I was really going out with Hattie.
We did an international flight, we visited the Louvre.
I never took Irene to the Louvre, but then again, she didn't have the same airline privileges.
I shoved the wedding ring inside the glove compartment beneath the insurance paperwork where no one would see it.
I walked into the employee entrance, passing through security. Thanks to the Arabs, even staff guys have to be checked for illegal weapons.
"Did you lose the other ring?" one of the smart assed TSA's asked me as I picked up my tray of valuables.
"Yeah," I said. "I've looked everywhere, too."
"Don't tell the wife," the man laughed.
As usual, I got ripped off by Starbucks, glancing at the airport televisions as I took the first couple swigs of overpriced, overglorified sugar.
Above the computer displaying flight listings, CNN was showing some wacked out author and his book about ancient Aztec technology, The Engines of the Gods, it was called. Something like that.
I sipped my coffee, reading his drivel on the closed captioning.
Apparently the man wrote several books. A Pyramid of Time, Blood Sports of the Ancients and The Gate of Quetzalcoatl. He theorized that the Olmecs were actually pioneers of bioterrorism.
I rolled my eyes and looked away.
Even at the ass crack of dawn, the airport was a mob. My uniform got me some space, between pedestrians, but I still had to watch my feet to avoid stepping on shoes.
A few yards down, a middle aged Korean woman with glasses and a frizzy perm dragged her five year old son up the corridor.
"Hello!" she called as she approached me. "My name is Sweetie Rhee. What is your name?"
I was immediately suspicious. All I did was make eye contact and we were already making introductions? What was this? An attempt to garner favors from the pilot?
"Rayford Steele," I said hesitantly. It was pointless because I was already wearing a name pin.
"I see you are watching news," she said.
And you have a fine command of the English language, I thought. "Oh? I think that guy's a nut. Probably going after that 2012 angle again."
Seeing a blank look, I added, "Mayan prophecy. Used those Mexican solar calendars you see everywhere to predict the end of the world." I gestured to the airport. Completely intact. "It's 2017! Tadaah!"
I could see the spark plugs in her brain weren't making a connection. She changed the subject. "What think you? What if world end today? What then? And what after?"
She said this like she already knew the answer to the question before I spoke.
"Uh...I'd be dead?"
"You...do not think there will be life after this one?"
"Well," I said. "The thought has occurred to me that there should be one."
"Do you go to church?"
I nodded.
Great, I thought. It's one of those again.
"What church do you go to?"
"Saint Paul's Christian."
To be honest, I went there only infrequently. I enjoyed my sleep, and sleep ends around eleven A.M. on Sundays. I was what you called a `stay home Baptist.' Of course I wasn't about to tell this woman any of that.
"Are you Christian?" she said.
"I thought that was implied by the name of my church."
"Sure," she said with a fake smile. "How do you show your love of Jesus?"
I glanced at my watch. I could either spend the next twenty minutes with this nut, or twenty minutes with Hattie.
"By flying the plane," I blurted. "Excuse me..."
I guzzled the rest of my cappuccino and pushed through the mob, hurrying down the boarding ramp to my 747.
We had two stewardesses for this flight. Hattie and Sheryl.
Sheryl, a bleached blonde, was a master of plastic smiles and Facebook. Being friendly to coworkers? Not so much. She often gave me the cold shoulder.
She was still with U.S. Air because she did a passable job with customers.
Every other sentence out of her mouth was "Oh my God." I found it cute at first, but now it just annoyed me. Maybe it's my wife rubbing off.
When I came onboard the plane, Sheryl was playing with her phone, as usual.
I found Hattie breaking open boxes, stuffing snacks and drinks into carts.
She closed the cart she'd been filling and stood up, smiling at me as she half straightened her skirt. "Ray!"
"Good morning Hattie," I said. "Looking stunning as usual."
She giggled. "You're looking a bit stunning yourself, Captain Steele."
"I think I'm going to be sick," Sheryl muttered.
Hattie offered me coffee, but I showed her my Starbucks cup.
"We still up for that Lakers game?" she asked.
I shrugged. "I...uh...have to check with the...pet sitter, and make sure it's okay with her." I prayed she didn't understand that I spoke of my wife.
Hattie nodded. "Gotcha. Well, let me know if it's clear with her. If not, I'll check to see if I can find someone else to sit for you."
Ironic.
"Thanks," I said with a sheepish grin. I seriously doubted she could just make a call and bring me a replacement wife.
We chatted about sports a bit, about the ridiculously bad bonus structure they set up for airline employees, then, as people began filling the seats, I decided to hurry to the cockpit.
I glanced at the rows of partly occupied seats with anxiety. Even with the tiny bottles of airline liquor, someone was bound to make an ass of themselves. I just didn't know who yet. The fat black behemoth in floral print, and her kids, were just as likely to bang on the cockpit door as the seedy looking white cowboy reading the Wall Street Journal on the row opposite. Delusions of entitlement know no color.
Ever since September 11th, I've been nervous around Arabs, and I already noticed three of them on this flight. The one I found near the aisle was turbaned and bearded. Already my mind whirled with theories about what he was typing on his phone.
Then there was the midget with the goatee, piercings and prison tattoos.
I moved onward, entering the narrow passageway that led into first class.
Immediately I found myself being pushed against a simulation wood wall, the lovely face of my favorite stewardess pressing against mine.
I was so shocked that I dropped my coffee, spilling the leftovers on the carpet.
We kissed with enough passion to make me feel both wild and incredibly guilty. I was glad my wife wasn't there to see it.
A finger tapped Hattie's shoulder.
"Excuse me," I heard a strangely familiar southern voice saying.
We broke apart and turned to face this disturbance.
Large head, big chin, greasy black curly hair exploding from the top.
Five hundred dollar suit.
Just like the photographs on the covers of my wife's books.
"Pardon me, ma'am," said Mr. Osteen. "I've got a friend in the other row, and he's wanting one of those little bottles of Jack Daniels."
"It's only six A.M.," Hattie complained.
"Well maybe he gets nervous on flights. He is in first class."
"Why don't you just pray with him about his alcohol dependence?" I offered.
Osteen sighed. "Smartass," he muttered under his breath. "Look, dammit. It's for me, all right? I get nervous before flights. Now I paid for first class service, so am I going to get my Jack or not?"
Hattie rolled her eyes. "Right away, sir."
She marched up into the little cubbyhole behind the cockpit.
As I watched her swinging her hips on the way back there, I noticed Osteen doing the same.
"In the parlance of today's poor urban black," he said. "I would definitely `hit that.'"
