Here's the fifth chapter of Flight Risk! We're at 500+ views and counting, so thank you so much for that.
SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2024
The sunlight streaming through my bedroom window completely negated my need for an alarm clock. Of course, it must be said that I got up earlier than 95% of people my age, even when I hadn't set an alarm for myself. Even when there was nowhere I needed to be.
I stretched my arms up and yawned. I didn't have to enter work until noon, meaning that I could have slept in if I wanted to. There was only one thing that stopped me from doing this (besides wanting to face the day.)
My cell phone, which had spent the night charging next to my bed, displayed a prompt stating that I had received a voicemail overnight.
I gritted my teeth. Voice mail.
That shit didn't work half the time. If I called somebody and they didn't pick up, I'd just leave them the hell alone. Clearly, whoever had elected to phone me last night didn't have the courtesy to consider my perspective.
Well, that depends on who it is. If it's someone whom I absolutely need to obey, then it's "fine", I guess…
I unlocked my phone to find that the voicemail had been sent from Michael Fly's phone number. In other words, there were only so many things he might want to tell me.
My stomach dropped like a freight elevator whose chains had been cut, and my gut lurched as though I were on a roller coaster corkscrew. If Mr. Fly had sent me a voicemail at some ungodly hour, it could hardly be good news.
Nonetheless, I tapped the PLAY button that appeared on the screen. The voice that came over my phone's speakers was unquestionably that of my boss.
"Blaine, I know I don't tend to contact you outside of work. I know that we're supposed to remain strictly professional with one another…".
Meaning…?
"...but you need to understand. I need you to get here as early as possible this morning. I don't care if you have church, because nobody under sixty attends it these days anyway. It's an early work day for you, and I know that's really shitty, but today is different, okay?"
That was the end of the message. Truth be told, it was rather vague, but that didn't stop my hyperactive brain from trying to fill in the blanks.
Maybe he was calling me early so that he could inform me that I'd been fired. At first, that made all the sense in the world; why not make an example of me, as in That's an example of what not to do!
But when I thought about it a little more, it sounded ridiculous. If he truly wanted me gone, he could have just given me the pink slip right away, and there'd be nothing I could do about that. I wouldn't even have to collect any of my personal effects from the ATC tower, because there weren't any there.
And yet, even if he didn't want to fire me, there were other methods of punishment. It was at least conceivable that he might give me overtime (though maybe he was already doing so by having me come in so early).
Oh well. There was only one way to find out.
I stepped out into the crisp morning air and called for an Uber. While I waited, I tried to ignore the occasional glances from the few Bostonians out walking their dogs.
They know. I have to assume the whole city knows my name and face.
When my vehicle arrived after a seemingly interminable wait, I was all too eager to leap inside and no longer be a sitting duck for the prying eyes of locals and tourists alike.
The driver was a rather burly man with a beard and sunglasses. He did not initially react to my presence, which made me think I was in the clear. But then…
"Where are you going, sir?"
"Logan Airport" I mouthed.
And then I remembered: My Uber profile had my real first name on it. This man was surely well aware of his client's identity; at a minimum, it wouldn't take him long to guess.
"Which terminal?"
Of course. I fucking forgot to specify the terminal.
"It doesn't matter," I muttered. "Terminal E, I guess?"
In reality, I did not need to go to Terminal E. I merely wanted to, though a "want" can easily become a "need" the more you obsess over it.
The driver smiled. "Are you taking an international flight this morning? There are only two in the next few hours - JetBlue to Aruba and Porter to Toronto-Bishop."
"Oh, no…" I began, before realizing the best way to finish my response. "I'm picking a friend up from his flight. He just got here from…whatever airline arrives early in the morning".
My Uber driver frowned. "Tel Aviv? Who's going there these days anyway?"
"My friend, apparently."
"Well, I'm not going to judge him for his choice of vacation destination. Just hold him more tightly from here on out."
"I'll do my best," I said. "But this friend of mine is a free spirit."
Needless to say, none of this was true. Even if I'd possessed more friends in real life, it wasn't like we were close enough for me to pick any of them up from the airport. We weren't at that stage yet.
Anyway, we arrived at Terminal E. Once I'd thanked the driver and given him a generous tip, I entered the arrival hall.
At first glance, the place didn't look much different from usual. Passengers were slowly but surely coming through the doorway, mostly from the recently arrived El Al plane. Lots of them had bags under their eyes, but who wouldn't after an 11-hour flight?
And then I turned to the left, where I saw it.
In a small alcove adjacent to the arrivals hall, dozens of Pokémon - maybe more than a hundred - sat huddled together on a series of blankets. Most of them looked even more fatigued than the El Al passengers, as though they'd been up all night keeping watch. As though if they weren't careful, someone would come in and steal their belongings.
In the morning light streaming in from outside the terminal, the faces of these Pokémon (most of whom were likely children, which I could tell because…well, I just could) shone brightly. I'll never forget the look on an Eevee's face when she nudged a nearby Sylveon (her mother?) as though begging her for food.
The Sylveon, in turn, shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid I don't have any food right now. They haven't given us more food all night."
The Eevee whimpered a little more. If I focused hard enough, I could hear her saying something like, "But my tummy hurts from not eating."
My eyes watered as I glanced out the window. Right away, I wish I hadn't had this look.
You see, the road alongside the arrivals hall of Terminal E was clogged with traffic. These vehicles were not occupied by the family members of those who'd just traveled here from Israel. Rather, they were equipped with mirrors and cameras.
Oh, great. It's the media again.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to put my fist through the glass window, not caring about how much money I might have to pay in compensation for the resulting damage. But something else stopped me - the knowledge that money could be earned, but a reputation was far harder to fix.
A few reporters entered the building, carrying their giant cameras in order to get pictures of the poor Pokémon sheltering here. And that only made me want to scream more, because they were treating these creatures like mere animals in a circus parade!
One of the journalists closest to me, possibly about ten feet to my left, made her voice heard, stomping the floor with her high heels.
"I'm here from Logan International Airport, where Terminal E has some unexpected guests. It is not the passengers who just got here from Tel Aviv, but rather some creatures not known to exist.
"Or rather, creatures not known to exist prior to yesterday. That is when an air traffic controller spotted a suspicious flight number on this airport's radar, sounded the alarm, and made a name for himself as a whistleblower."
"I'm not a whistleblower!" I bellowed. "You can see it with your own eyes!"
"It's him, it's him! It's Blaine McBride!" a male journalist exclaimed. "He just admitted to being here!"
I almost felt like asserting something like, I'm not Blaine McWhatever! But that would get me nowhere except the land of further unwanted attention.
Instead, I put my hands in the air. "I've got every right to be here" I snarled. "In fact, I work here."
"Following his interview with Sarah Timecrawl of Fox Boston, Blaine McBride has returned to the airport for his second day of work! Except that he's elected to check on the illegal migrants who've invaded our terminal!"
I did not respond, because I knew that doing so would only invite more jeers in my direction. I could not give them the satisfaction of seeing that they'd set me off.
"But Mr. McBride has already given us an interview. Instead, we'll talk to some of the illegal Pokémon who are now living here."
The young Eevee girl who'd begged her mother for food was now whimpering audibly. Her Sylveon mother stroked her fur with her very long ears, but it wasn't working to comfort the Eevee. Not well enough.
"I'll talk to you" the journalist announced, holding the microphone in front of the Sylveon's mouth. "It's vital to get more than one side of the story, isn't it?"
In response, the Sylveon narrowed her eyes, but that wasn't enough to deter the Fox News journalist. The reporter practically shoved the mic in the Sylveon's face, then cleared her throat.
"So what species are you, Miss?' the reporter inquired.
I grimaced.
"Sylveon!" the creature bearing this species name exclaimed, in a rather automatic tone.
Now, you need to understand that I'd seen a good few episodes of the Pokémon anime during my childhood. It was simply something you couldn't escape during the time I grew up - cards bearing the images of these creatures were ubiquitous.
And one thing I'd learned through the episodes I'd viewed was that Pokémon were generally unable to speak English (or whatever language Ash Ketchum and his fellow humans spoke). Instead, they would typically shout the name of their species - or at least, that's what the humans heard whenever Pokémon talked.
"I appreciate the enthusiasm, Sylveon," the journalist continued. Maybe this was sarcasm, maybe not; I was hardly the best at detecting this form of speech. But this question had been innocuous enough; the next question was a different story.
"How did you get here?"
You already know how she got here! Don't interrogate her just for the sake of making her uncomfortable!
"I took the flight from Saffron City" the Sylveon replied, as casually as a kid might say they were going to get a snack.
The journalist frowned. "Don't say your name again. You already told me what species you were - there's no need to repeat yourself."
I scraped my shoe against the terminal floor, narrowing my eyes as I did this.
"I repeat…how did you purchase tickets for Flight PKMN1? And why did you decide to fly here?"
"That's two questions!" the Sylveon bellowed. "But the tickets were available just like any others."
"Again, don't just say your name! I already know your name! So does the entire terminal at this point! Just tell us something we don't already know!"
By this time I was seeing red, so I stomped one of my feet against the cold hard floor.
"That's just so wrong!" I all but yelled.
The journalist who'd been interviewing the Sylveon turned around. When she saw who'd been the source of that exclamation, she gave me a wild-eyed expression.
"What is so wrong about what I'm doing, Mr. McBride? I am merely conducting an interview with this Sylveon character. You're here for your job, and I'm here for mine. The only difference is, I'm the one actually doing what I'm supposed to."
"Don't pretend she's not answering your questions" I snapped. "The Sylveon told you that she flew here from Saffron City, and that she was able to buy tickets for that flight just like any other. You don't need to embarrass her by insisting that she's not giving you information!"
"Well, she isn't!" the reporter exclaimed.
"Yes, she is!"
The reporter smirked. "It's your word against mine, Blaine. And are they going to believe a dutiful Fox Boston journalist, or are they going to believe a nosy young man who isn't reporting for duty in the control tower when he's supposed to?"
"But you're not supposed to lie ," I muttered loudly. "Not that you don't stretch the truth sometimes. Okay, you do that often, because that's what your organization is!"
"That is libel, Mr. McBride! I recommend you report to your job now, because if you don't, you might face dire, drastic consequences."
That was one thing the Fox lady was right about. Every minute I'd spent bickering with reporters in Terminal E was one more minute I'd been delayed in showing up to the place I was actually supposed to be. And when it came to being an air traffic controller, that was one job where minutes mattered.
So I made my way to the control tower, my heart threatening to beat its way right out of my ribcage. The elevator ride felt both achingly slow and incredibly fast - before long I stood before Mr. Fly, having rehearsed a number of excuses that now seemed so feeble.
"Good morning, Blaine" my boss told me, in a tone that suggested he didn't really mean the word good.
"Good morning, Mr. Fly" I replied, because what else was I supposed to say?
"So you left early yesterday due to feeling sick? You told me you'd thrown up?"
I nodded sheepishly. "That is exactly what I told you, because that's exactly what happened."
"That's funny," Mr. Fly responded with an almost mocking nod, "because normally stomach viruses leave the victim feeling too worn-out to work the following day."
"Well, I made a miraculous recovery, I suppose."
My boss raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Well, even if you are feeling better, it's usually best to remain home for at least a day after your last episode of vomiting or diarrhea. That's the CDC guideline, is it not?"
Oh, shit. I'm dead meat.
I was between a rock and a hard place. I could either falsely admit to returning to work early following a stomach bug and possibly making others sick, or I could truthfully admit that I hadn't been sick to begin with. Neither option was ideal.
"Whatever you want," I muttered. "I just…".
"What did you do, Blaine?"
I told my boss that on my way to the bathroom yesterday, I'd seen the plane from Saffron City arrive at Terminal E. Admittedly, this story also had holes in it, but it was better to make up a story and stick with it than to be wishy-washy.
"So after that, you went home because you couldn't handle working any longer?"
"Yep."
"That's interesting," Mr. Fly responded, "because if your social battery was completely empty, it doesn't make much sense that you'd be able to handle an interview with a local news outlet."
I gasped.
There was no point playing dumb. If I did, he'd just show me the receipts, and I'd have to admit to yet another lie. Better to end this quickly than to drag it out any longer.
"You found out about the interview?"
Mr. Fly nodded curtly. "News travels faster than it did when I was your age. All anyone has to do is post it on Xitter (pronounced "shitter"), and suddenly the world will be all over it. They'll know exactly who you are."
"They already do, boss" I sighed. "They already do."
My boss took out his phone and pulled up a post on Xitter. Said post had been viewed nearly five million times in the last fifteen hours since it had been published. Who knew how the algorithm worked on that site, or even if the views were all genuine. All I knew was that I wasn't surprised.
Embedded on this post was a 45-second clip of me giving the interview, accompanied by the following caption: Blaine McBride tells a completely disjointed story about the flight from Saffron City to Boston that arrived today. Must watch!
"They're determined to get clicks" I remarked. "That's how these networks all operate."
Mr. Fly gave me a sad smile, then hit play.
Right away I noticed that the clip had been deceptively edited to skip over some of the context. For instance, when Sarah Timecrawl asked me how long I'd worked at the airport, I was shown responding "Clearly not, dipshit!" If you'd seen the whole interview, you would have known that this outburst was given in response to a question about the plane being a NATO exercise. However, those who couldn't bother taking the effort to search for a better source would think I'd insulted the reporter for no reason when given a simple question.
Additionally, numerous sound effects were added, and some of my responses were sped up, making the thing sound like a 1980s-era Saturday morning cartoon. To me, short edited clips like this were the modern-day version of the shows kids would get up at the ass-crack of dawn to binge-watch while binge-eating sugary cereal.
"That's not real," I muttered.
Mr. Fly snorted. "What do you mean that it is not real?"
"They put things in the clip that weren't there."
"Of course it is edited, but it's not like you didn't say those things. Whoever put this clip together wasn't lying -".
"They just gave alternative facts. Yes, I know. But alternative facts are not facts; they're falsehoods."
"I don't care" Mr. Fly snapped. "The point is, Blaine, as a member of a profession that commands so much respect, you have to set an example for the community. You know that in the age of social media and AI, people are going to try and twist your words around. It's a fact of life at this point."
"Well, it shouldn't be" I grunted.
"You must deal with the world as it is, Blaine, not as we might like it to be. But we haven't yet gotten to the matter of your consequence for lying…".
My palms started sweating like crazy. Mr. Fly might fire me right then and there. He certainly had probable cause; of course, he was allowed to terminate me for any reason or for no reason at all.
"I'd like to stay," I said weakly.
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," my boss responded, "because you're going to stay. You're going to work a double shift today, but you'll only be paid for one."
Is that even legal? Well, I guess I shouldn't complain, because doing so would risk the job I dreamed of for so long.
Outwardly, I could do nothing but acquiesce to my employer's demand. When at his mercy, I had no other choice.
But let me tell you something else: If yesterday (August 17) had been highly unusual, today (August 18) would be like "Hold my beer."
I almost wrote myself into a plot hole here. You see, this chapter takes place on a Sunday, and the only international flight arriving that hour at Logan is the El Al flight. But then I remembered that El Al doesn't fly on Sundays. But THEN I remembered that El Al started operating on Sundays again last year. As far as the politics of it all, I'll leave it at that. This isn't the place.
Anyway, thank you all for reading this far, and I'll see you guys next time.