Epilogue
"I'm not sure I understand the point of this story" the man said. The kid thought for a second. He was confident there was one, and the statement seemed like a challenge made in good faith. After consideration, he delivered an answer.
"I dunno, man, I just sort of thought, like... if you knew about all the stuff I did, and all the stuff I fucked up and all of that, then maybe at least you wouldn't end up handcuffed to a bar stool on a pilotless plane to Somalia." It satisfied the kid to be able to give the man an answer. In a way, it felt like redemption. The man did not see things in this way.
"I don't think that's a very likely scenario" he said.
The kid became livid. He grabbed the phone and slammed it into the bar stool repeatedly, until the entire thing had fallen to pieces in his hands. Realizing what he had done, half-realizing what the answer had meant, he fell over onto his back and began to cry.
Alone at 30,000 feet, torn apart over the events that had transpired only recently, his mind raced to find solace in something. The abstractions he had clung to in past circumstances now failed him, and he found it difficult to let himself slip into their comforting grasp. Out of a strange and self-effacing sentiment, he turned his minds eye to inspect the handcuffs which bound him to the bar stool.
They gave him a peculiar comfort, as if he had earned them through his actions. There was a certainty in them, and a finality. He felt his difficulties evaporating as he meditated on their significance. Then something terrible began to grip him, and he knew he could not permit himself these feelings without first confirming his understanding. Turning towards the stool, he made a careful and serious inspection of the handcuffs.
Shortly down the chain which bound one cuff to another, a link was bent. It no longer represented a perfect oval, but one with an opening. A gap. An absence of great significance. His greatest fears were realized. Trembling slightly, he slipped the chain apart until he was free. At this point he was completely lost. Before the inspection, a plan had made itself clear in his mind, and he had tailored his sentiment for this occasion. Unsure of himself, he stood up. Unsure of himself, he looked about his surroundings for something to guide him, but there was nothing. Except, there appeared to be a few bottles of liquor remaining in the mini-bar. Breaking into the cabinet which held them, he took the first one he could find. Then, simply out of a desire to be moving, he made his way towards the cockpit of the plane.
The controls were complicated and foreign to him. Each lever, knob, dial and readout served no immediate purpose in his estimation. Meaningless and incomprehensible, they sat there not as a threat but as an irrelevency. He could make an effort to use them, but then what good would that do? With no guarantee of payoff, he could not bring himself to their operation. On the other hand, with nobody to chastise him for failure and no unique consequence for it, he knew the option was worth consideration. However, as the plane flew onwards towards an all but certain disaster, the alternative grasped his imagination more vividly than usual. It was right in his hands already, as a matter of fact. He knew that it wouldn't do much good to try and compromise between the two options, but just the same, the decision was not easy. Brushing his hand across his forehead, he took a long moment to consider his understanding of things. He would have to make this decision himself, and he had only his own sense to guide him.
When this consideration was finished, he decided upon a course of action. For him, the choice was obvious.