Authors: Russell Blake
Survival (37 page)
The woman handed back his ID and over-enunciated a gate number, pointing to where it was printed on the pass, lest remembering the number thirty-two overload his cognitive abilities and doom him to wandering the airport aimlessly in search of a flight that had left without him.
Why so negative and judgmental?
he wondered to himself, and realized that it was his brain’s way of dodging the image of his brother’s final moments, combined with a healthy dose of self-loathing for not having tried harder, not having spent more time with him or called more often.
There’s no rewind in life
. That had been one of his brother’s pet sayings, and it sprang to mind as he followed the crowd to the TSA checkpoint on the way to the gates. Indeed not. The problem with reality was that it was for keeps. As his brother knew.
The line was moving at a snail’s pace, the passengers coagulated in a clump where a humorless security worker checked ID and boarding passes before the travelers sent their bags, jackets, and shoes through the X-ray machine and waited their turn to be irradiated by scanning systems that a child could defeat. Jeffrey watched as a rotund officer stood by observing one of the security team pulling a sixty-year-old Vietnamese woman aside for a more intrusive search, and bit his tongue rather than ask whether anyone really believed that going through her belongings like honey badgers after grubs would keep the skies safer.
The internal dialogue was unlike him, and once he was through he stopped at the bar and paid twelve dollars for twenty cents’ worth of slightly flat draft beer, seeking the relief it would bring with a greedy, bottomless thirst. Ten minutes later he was feeling less anxious, less like he was a spectator at a bad version of the film rendition of his life, and he left a generous tip as he slid off the bar stool and went in search of his flight.
Once on board, he watched as his fellow passengers wedged their belongings in overhead bins and then closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to interact with his seat mate, a nervous-looking man with a bad oily-black comb-over who smelled vaguely of onions and peat.
As the plane gathered speed and launched up into the sky, the vision of his brother’s mangled body falling into the Atlantic sprang fresh into his mind’s eye, and for the rest of the five-hour flight he gladly paid a small fortune for the slim respite promised by sparkling mini-bottles of vodka, delivered by an unsmiling stewardess who clearly wished she was anywhere on the planet but tending to him.
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