3. Alan Bradley - October 11, 1994
Author's Note: This is best read while listening to an Airport Ambience video on YouTube by a user named Ambiance Hub.
It took a special dedication to get the screws of a metal chair, wound tight, to squeak and strain. It was a testament to Jet's restlessness that Alan could hear the screws whining against the metal chair over the sound of a busy airport.
Closing the wrinkled issue of Entertainment Weekly, Alan reached over and tugged the felt collar of his old bomber jacket, which dwarfed his son. Jet stopped bouncing in the seat long enough to twist around to catch his father's hand in mid-retreat. Or at least tried to. His hand barely sticking out of the sleeve of his father's jacket, his fingers were only able to grab the edge of Alan's palm.
His balance lost, Jet fell sideways across the connected chairs, the hoodie of his sweatshirt falling back to reveal a considerably sour expression. "Sit still," Alan scolded. There was an undignified huff from his son.
"I'm bored, can't we go home?"
"Jet, by the time we get home, we could've picked your mother up three times."
"Can we get something to eat?"
"In a little bit."
"You said that two hours ago."
"Jet, we've only been here an hour."
"Doesn't feel like it."
Jet righted himself in the chair, sitting with his legs under him and arm draped over the back of the chair. They'd been sitting in the wings for eternity. Dad woke him up early, practically carried him out of the bed, and told him to get ready to pick up Mom. Mom, who was coming back from Washington so she could finish settling in a new house in Pasadena, not Los Angeles. Jet didn't want to be up right now, he stayed up later than usual – just to prove he could – and barely felt he closed his eyes before Dad came walking in to tell him to get up.
He argued that Mom would be fine if he didn't come to the airport to see her, but Dad simply reminded him of the pinky swear made to Lora before she left late last year. "You promised you would be there with me, Jethro," He said.
"It's Jet," The reminder came out angrier than usual, but did little to sway Dad from his position. Jet slept in the car, but again, it was like time was working against him. One moment he was staring at the sun creeping across the buildings, the next he was listening to his father shaking him awake. "Next time, you'll go to bed when I tell you," Dad scolded him.
He tried to keep up with Dad as he hurried through the busy airport. People, lights, and sounds blurred together until he couldn't tell his up from his down. Jet was doing more leaning than walking before long. He didn't remember much between his father stopping and winding up above the ground. Just the weird dream about coffee and soft pretzels arguing about Pepsi vs. Coke, only somewhat interrupted by the sudden decent from the mountain.
When he opened his eyes, he was lying on his side across the empty chairs, his father's jacket draped over him. The noise of the airport wasn't as jarring, but he had a crick in his neck and eyes felt like raisins.
For Alan, it was hard keeping his temper in check with Jet when he started lagging behind. He'd been ridiculously difficult the night before Lora's arrival, mostly because he'd been denied arcade and Nintendo privileges after getting another C-minus on his math test.
He wasn't looking forward to telling Lora that Jet was slacking off again, but he didn't exactly want to explain his son's absence either. There was no babysitter willing (or allowed) to stay over or up beyond school curfew. They certainly couldn't afford a nanny, and Lora had been clear about his not leaving Jet alone for extended periods of time. Since he "stepped down" from the position of Chairman of ENCOM in 1990, that request was easier to achieve more often than not.
Jet had been ecstatic to see Lora again, but as usual he let his poor attitude get the better of him and now he was walking zombie Alan had to carry to the terminal. He wasn't as small as he used to be. At eleven years old, Jet was still fairly kid-sized, but the difference in weight from seven to eleven was pretty plain the moment Jethro went lax against him. The choice to carry him to the terminal had been a necessity, but one his back was beginning to regret.
In the corner of his eye he saw Jet pull his arm from over the chair. Alan watched as his son turned toward him and leaned forward. He raised his arms slightly above his head. Jet laid across his father's lap in such way that his left side dangled without security and his head rest on the empty seat on Alan's left.
The only way Alan knew Jet was secured where was he was the arm around his waist, and the hand clutching his shirt. Alan lowered his arms, and continued to read the same paragraph over and over again. God, where was Lora? "Have you talked to Sam, lately?"
"No," Jet said, "I've been hanging out with Annie."
Alan raised an eyebrow. The image of two girls appeared in his mind's eye. Brunette and preppy, redheaded and down-to-earth. "Which Annie?" He asked. "Next door Annie, or Annie at school?"
"Stetson, Annie Stetson," Jet answered after a moment. "You guys really call her "next door Annie"?"
"Well, you know so many Annie's, it's hard to keep track of them," Alan joked, earning him a half-hearted punch in the stomach. "Ouch."
"That didn't hurt. And, I only know two Annie's," Jet mumbled. "And Annie Braddock's been helping me out with my English."
"Not your math?"
"No, why would she?"
"Because it's the subject you're failing?"
Jet shrugged. "She's not great with math either. Besides, it was just a test. I'll do better next time."
You had better, Alan thought. "So, why haven't you spoken to Sam?"
"Because, we don't hang out like that anymore? Just a guess," Jet couldn't help the sarcasm that filtered through his response.
"I thought you guys apologized for that big fight?"
"We did! But –" Jet bit the inside of his mouth, "–You just can't be friends like that anymore, it's not the same. And, I might've told him that I thought Uncle Flynn was dead –"
"Jet!" His father's voice, while weary, was sharp enough that he sat up and scooted away from him.
"He asked me if I thought he was really gone. Was I supposed to lie?"
"In this case, that might've been the better option, Jet."
Jet made a face, Alan knew he was reconsidering the constant "thou shall not lie" lessons that his parents drilled into his head. "So you think he's dead?" Jet asked.
"No, I think Flynn is alive. He just hasn't come back."
"Well, I think he's dead. He's a jerk, otherwise," Jet said. "I know enough jerks."
There was a moment where he met his son's gaze – just before Jet focused his attention on veins of his palm – and wondered if he was talking about him. But, Jet wasn't without a point. In '89, Kevin's absence that was becoming a harder and harder to defend to the members of the board as sabbatical, or even a missing person's case. By 1990, his friend had worn away whatever sympathy that might've accumulated, and the world was slowly forgetting he ever existed as one personal crisis followed after the other. The board was now trying to convince his ten year old son's guardians, the elder Flynn's, to declare him dead in absentia, but Sam didn't want that.
It was excusable when people thought something terrible happened to him, but the prevailing thought soon became that Flynn had simply abandoned the world and went some off someplace, probably to die. Neither Alan nor Lora believed it. Even with how badly he missed Jordan, the one thing that kept him moving was his son and his parents. "I can't leave them. I'd never leave them – at least, not like that. I hope."
They lapsed into an awkward silence. Alan pretending to read the magazine, Jet looking everywhere except in his father's direction.
"I'm bored," Jet sighed, shifting the conversation away from the Flynns. "Can I walk around?"
"You can walk around, but you can't go any further than the window," Alan said without looking up from Meryl Streep interview.
"Why not?"
"Because, you'll get lost."
"No, I won't. My sense of direction is way better than yours," His son argued.
"Jet, I love you, but, you don't even know your way around ENCOM."
"Like, I'm supposed to?" Jet pointed to the right and for whatever reason, Alan actually looked up to see what he was pointing at. A rapidly crowding pathway of bodies coming and going from terminals or nearby shops. "Look, I'm only going down there and I'll come right back."
"Jet, this is an airport, I don't want you anywhere without me or your mother," Alan said. "It's not safe."
"Who's gonna kidnap me? It's not like I'm worth anything."
"I'll pretend you didn't say that," Alan frowned.
"But, Pops –"
"No further than the window. End of discussion," Alan cut him off. Jet slouched back in the chair for a moment then stood up. Alan watched him with suspicion. He didn't expect Jet to run off, but he also didn't put it past his son not to antagonize him for the sake of pushing boundaries. Closing the magazine again, Alan checked his watch. It was 9:11AM, Lora wouldn't arrive for another half hour give or take (without delays).
Most of their time was spent getting to the airport, filing through traffic – the commute to work, the commute to the airport – and the rest was navigating the same-y open space of reflective surfaces and overhead chatter that made him question his hearing. Jet situated himself sit in front of the window overlooking the exterior of the airport, dwarfed by the enormity of the world before him. Bored with the magazine, Alan set it aside and got up. Jet was too preoccupied with whatever was going on outside to pay any attention to Alan approaching him.
"See something you like?" He asked.
"There's a plane docking," Jet answered, pointing at the slow going machine parking in front of the extended tunnel pathway adjacent to the window. "When is Mom supposed to come in?"
"Ten o'clock give or take," Alan replied.
There was a weary sigh from his son. "And I couldn't have stayed home?"
"Jethro – can we not fight?" Jet glanced up at his father with a quizzical brow. "We're not fighting, we're talking. At least, I was." Not my fault you always wanna fight, Jet thought bitterly to himself.
"That's how it always starts. Sooner or later, we always end up bickering about something."
"Hmmm," Jet grunted. "When Mom gets here, can I go to sleep?"
"You can sleep as long as you like when we get in the car," Alan reassured.
"May I have your attention, please? Southwest Airlines would like to announce, Flight 1732 is now disembarking at Gate 7-C."
"Is that her?"
"No, but her flight does arrive here at this terminal."
"Can we get something to eat now?" Jet asked, turning his back to the window.
Alan shrugged. "Sure, but can't go too far. I don't want to miss your mom."
"Finally!" Jet grabbed his father by hand and started dragging him toward the busy path. "I think I saw a McDonald's."
"Hang on, Jet, I have to get my jacket,"
"No one's gonna steal it," Jet argued, but stopped pulling on him. "It's old and smelly."
"Yes, I'm sure that's what everyone considers when stealing things left unattended," Alan approached the row of chairs and grabbed his jacket off the seat. Jet was bouncing on his heels as his father pulled his jacket on slowly, (on purpose, Jet thought). Joining Jet on the path, Alan let himself be led through the crowd by his son, who was probably more relieved not to watch him pretend to read a gossip magazine than he was trying not to read it.
Author's Note: The Entertainment Weekly magazine in question is the October 7, 1994 issue (featuring Meryl Streep promoting The River Wild).