Chapter 2

"Wild Blue Yonder"

AT THE AIRPORT I ASKED THE TAXI DRIVER IF HE WOULD MIND CHECKING MY BAGS ONTO THE FLIGHT FOR ME.

HE EYED MY LEG AND THE CRAPPY OLD CRUTCHES; SMILED AND SAID, "SURE, BE GLAD TO …" HE SECURED A BAGGAGE DOLLY AND PLOPPED THE TWO SUITCASES ONTO IT. I GRABBED THE OLD BLUE BACKPAK WITH THE HANDLE OF MY CANE STICKING OUT THE TOP AND SECURED THE STRAP AROUND MY SHOULDER THE WAY I'D ALWAYS DONE IT.

HE CHECKED BOTH PIECES OF LUGGAGE ONTO FLIGHT 781, NEWARK TO SAN JUAN, AND HANDED ME THE CLAIM TICKET. WHEN HE ASKED IF THERE WAS ANYTHING ELSE HE COULD HELP ME WITH, I REALLY SURPRISED MYSELF BY SAYING: "NO … THANK YOU." HE STRAIGHTENED, THEN PAUSED AND TURNED. PLACED A WARM HAND ON MY SHOULDER AND SQUEEZED LIGHTLY. "BE CAREFUL YOU DON'T HURT YOUR LEG, OKAY?" I ASSURED HIM I WOULD. HE NODDED AND WALKED AWAY.

I WONDERED IF HE HAD ANY RELATIVES BY THE NAME OF WILSON …

I had an hour before my flight was ready to board, and the last thing I wanted was to sit and wait on one of the hard benches near the big windows facing the flight line. Too many morons not watching where they were going. Too many old farts with balance issues even worse than mine. Too many spoiled brats left to their own devices, running around unrestrained. I dug in the backpak for the Vicodin I'd found in my first aid kit and took two of them dry. Popped the bottle back into the side pocket and leaned into one of the roof-support poles.

I rested my sock foot on the opposite shoe and leaned hard on the crutches. The look on my face assured that no one in his right mind would come anywhere near me. I had asked for a seat on the port side of the plane, and the woman I talked to said she would try to accommodate me.

I looked around the terminal and saw a line of shops across from me that didn't seem too far to walk. So I set out and maneuvered in the direction of the first place. The interior was small, but management had made good use of the space. It was part lunch-deli, part snack bar, part notions-supply. Paper-back books, a good choice of newspapers, and a raft of magazines lined the walls and dotted the open floor in revolving wire racks. There were two booths along the back wall, both of them empty, and I headed in that direction.

I slid in sideways, hanging the crutches on a coat hook at the end of the booth. I squirmed backward against the backpak and the wall until my leg was stretched across the seat and as comfortable as I could make it. There was a small menu in a clear plastic jacket between the napkin holder and a chrome basket with sugar packets, ketchup and mustard bottles. I drew it out and flipped it open on the surface of the table. It was mostly standard fare. Sandwiches, platters, salads, desserts and the usual run of beverages. I scanned it and put it back. No brainer.

There was a waitress in a blue uniform moving from behind the counter in front and heading in my direction. I watched her approach, hoping like hell that curious questions about my leg would not be the opening topic of conversation.

It wasn't. She stopped in front of my table and gave me an appraising look over the tops of her glasses. Her hair was short and light brown, framing a pretty heart-shaped face. Her eyes were large and soft and brown and reminded me of Wilson.

*Get out of my head, asshole …*

She smiled with pencil poised. "What can I get you to drink? We have really lousy coffee, but the hot chocolate is good, and our mint iced tea is killer."

I scowled up at her, but it was like she didn't notice; just waiting for a response. I nodded in agreement for the tea, and specified, "Unsweetened."

"I like it that way too. Would you like to order now, or do you need a little more time?"

"Order now," I said. "Hamburger, well done. Small Fries. Cole Slaw. That's it."

She spun on her heel and walked back to the kitchen, but returned a minute later with a tall glass of iced tea, almost as dark as coffee and garnished with a slice of lemon. I nodded thanks, but didn't speak. She looked like she might start to ask questions, but thought better of it when she saw the off-putting look on my face. I was adept at that because I'd been honing it and others like it since Noah figured out what a cubit was. She left again and I sipped at the tea, surprised how good it tasted. Strong as hell, and the sharpness of the mint almost made my cheeks want to cave in.

I glanced at my watch. Only ten minutes had passed since the last time I'd looked. It felt longer than that, but when you're waiting for a specific time, hours sometimes seem like days. My leg ached with a tom-tom beat and I rubbed at it in an effort to tame it. The bandages were too tight and the Vicodin had already worn off. My leg had a heartbeat of its own, making me think there might be some swelling going on, and I should probably pay a visit to the men's room before they called my flight.

The waitress returned with my lunch and the check. I wiped the look of distress off my face as she was setting the dishes on the table in front of me. She had a wary look about her when she said: "Enjoy," and walked away again. I pretended to be oblivious and picked up the hamburger … which was broiled, not fried … and the cole slaw which was finely diced. The fries were crispy, not soggy, which surprised me further.

*Hmmm … sleazy little coffee shop buried in an airline terminal. Hamburgers and cole slaw and iced tea to die for. Who knew … ?*

I was hungrier than I had realized, and I hurried through everything because I needed to check the bandages on my leg.

Finally I slid out of the booth, grabbed backpak, crutches and check, and made my way across the room to the counter. She saw me coming and moved over to the register. I pulled out a twenty and slid it across toward her. My bill was ten-something and she reached to make change. I waved her off. "No. Keep the change. Good food, good service, and a chance to rest without silly questions. Thanks."

Twice now, I had used good manners and noticed at once that people looked at me a little differently than usual. What was up with that?

I could feel her eyes on my back as I clomped and screeched my way out of there. In a way I regretted not talking to her, but I had been stared at by so many, and had to listen to crude remarks about my disability for many years. I appreciated her silence much more than I would have put up with another conversation about how my damned leg got that way. I hoped the tip and the left-handed compliment compensated for all her sympathetic unasked questions.

I headed for the men's room on the concourse and noticed a sign across from one of the gates that said: "781, San Juan". Now I knew where I needed to board. The men's room was emptying out as I entered and swung into the "Handicapped" stall.

I unrolled the elastics quickly and checked the wound while I sat there. The gap in the skin was just beginning to close, but it was not yet ready for me to discard both bandages. I still did not dare bend my knee, and it was obvious that the wound must heal from the inside out. *Oh joy!* I knew I must wait until I disembarked in Puerto Rico to discard either of them. Oh well. I rewrapped both bandages a bit looser, and stood up.

I washed my hands at the sink and proceeded back toward the gate I'd passed on the way in. The flight was boarding, and I maneuvered myself in at the end of the line. I didn't try to hurry, although now was the time to get out my ticket … along with my 'cripple card'.

I leaned into my crutches as though they had become a life preserver. My leg still hurt, but I supposed I could walk a few steps on it if I had to. I was still in my sock foot, and the contours of the elastic bandages showed plainly through my jeans.

*Gangway, people … cripple coming through …*

I was moving forward along with the rest of the queue when a young man hurried up behind me and laid a palm on my forearm. "Sir?"

I don't know what I was expecting … cops maybe? But when he touched me, I was startled so badly that my knees buckled, and if two other men, plus the young guy, hadn't rushed in to shore me up, I might have landed on the deck in front of them.

"What the hell … ?"

"I'm so sorry, sir," the young one exclaimed. "I didn't intend to startle you. But you can't board on crutches. It's too dangerous. Are you all right?"

I looked around at the circle of men who had kept me from splattering myself on the boarding ramp. "Uh … yeah … I think so. You scared the crap out of me." Slowly I gathered myself, got the crutches back under me and straightened. The three men began to unhand me, one by one. Embarrassed that my intended scam had turned to reality, I thanked them all and returned my attention to the young airline employee.

Passengers standing off to the side watched the exchange. Some were sober, some were smiling, and some still looked stunned. Nowhere was there an expression of pity or disgust. I looked up and nodded thanks at them all as they began to move forward again.

From the concourse behind us, a woman in a blue uniform was running toward us with a portable wheelchair rolling in front of her like they were headed to a fire. She pulled up beside us and stopped, put the brakes on the chair and turned to me breathlessly. "You're the man in row three. We were afraid you couldn't make it." She knelt beside the chair and opened the wing on the right leg rest.

One attendant at my right shoulder and the other at the left took my crutches and eased me slowly into the seat. The man swung my backpak over his shoulder. With my cane sticking out the top, he looked like he was playing a bagpipe, and I smiled at the image. The woman adjusted the leg rest to about half-staff and lifted my foot upward to place it smoothly into position. "Ready to board?" She asked.

*Uh … yeah … that's why I'm here, y'know …*

I nodded and frowned. What did she expect me to say? 'No, I think I'll just run along behind and hang onto the tail …'?

She wheeled me down along the narrow aisle of the plane. Port side. Row three, almost to the bulkhead. About four steps from the rest rooms.

*Wow! First class!*

She put the brake on again, and behind her the young guy with my crutches and backpak set them aside. Together they began to make a flurry of adjustments to the row of seats. I had the entire spread to myself. I could prop up my leg and relax … if my leg would cooperate. I settled in the wheelchair and leaned my head against the backrest to watch, not caring who noticed. I was exhausted.

I was vaguely aware that they were still fluttering around, messing with the seats and adjusting things that probably didn't need adjusting, and which I couldn't care less about. I lolled, too tired to move and in a little too much pain to pay attention.

When they were finished, however, the woman touched my arm to rouse me. "Sir?"

I opened my eyes and glowered up at her. The middle arm rests and snack trays had been pushed down between the seats and I found that I had some space to stretch out. The rest of the row was empty, and a pair of pillows was pushed against the outside bulkhead so I could prop against one and rest my leg across the other. The two of them assisted me out of the wheelchair and into my make-shift nest. My crutches were beside me within easy reach and the backpak was on the deck about three inches from my outstretched hand. The young man was requesting permission to lift my leg onto the pillow. I nodded silently and watched as he picked it up by the pantleg and positioned it carefully onto the pillow. "Are you all right, sir?" His hand cradled my sock foot gently.

Between the Vicodin's waning influence and three days of senseless turmoil, I was tired beyond caring, and my mind was in and out of a dense fog. I remembered answering him with the standard assurance. "I'm fine …"

As I lay there, half in and half out of reality, I sensed that the plane was not that full. Maybe this wasn't the right time for vacations to Puerto Rico. The buzz of passenger conversation was intermittent and distant, and somehow mixed with the Tsunami wave of four powerful engines pumping up to taxi mode and then take-off roar. The two young airline employees were gone.

I thought about my friend Wilson as I'd last seen him; hunched over and in pain from an avoidable injury I'd caused him with my idiocy, and the hurt brown eyes watching me walk out of his life. Had he had his arm tended to? Did he hate me as I so rightly deserved this time?

I had never felt so humbled, so hopeless and lonely in my life as I felt at that moment. Very much alone and missing my best friend.

The plane's powerful engines exploded into the lift-off and I lay like a bag of marshmallows with a seat belt fastened across my sore belly, not knowing how it got there.

*OUCH! DAMN!*

"Off we go … into the wild blue yon-der …

Climbing high … into the sun. Here they come …. Zooming to meet our thun-der …

At 'em boys … give 'er the gun!"

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