When It's Almost Over
by Niles Reddick

Fantasies of skiing down mountain slopes, spraying snow, and eventually winning a gold Olympic medal combined with a couple of Valium helped me board the 727 bound for Salt Lake City, Utah for my second trip on a plane. My first plane ride was with a friend in college, Terry, whose Dad owned a Cessna. Terry had cut the engine at two thousand feet and pretended we would crash. "Oh my God," he had yelled over and over. I, on the other hand, got a glimpse of what it must be like to be comatose. Then, as the plane plummeted, he turned the engine back on, laughing. I would not speak to Terry for weeks and had never been more afraid.

Even though I was excited about skiing in Salt Lake with my friend, Ken, and his family, I would have stayed home and rented videos of skiing had I known my second plane ride would be worse than the first.

"Welcome to Continental Flight 322." The flight attendant smiled, extended her cupped hand, and added, "May I see your ticket?" A rectangular tag pinned to her uniform revealed her name was Audrey. Her brown eyes were clean and honest, and I wondered if she was ever afraid.

"This plane ever had any problems?"

"No," Audrey said. "Don't worry. Everything'll be fine. Is this your first time?" She touched my shoulder.

"No." I pulled away. "Been up a couple of times," I lied and turned toward the aisle.

Audrey returned my ticket, nodding. "Your seat is about half way down on the left."

"It's not a window seat, is it?"

"No, it's in the middle of the row."

I stumbled down the wine and sapphire diamond carpet, my duffel bag bumped seats and passengers' legs, and I said, "Excuse me" over and over till I sounded like a scratched 45. I wondered why people didn't move their legs and felt if there was a crash, I would have to wade through legs and feet to get out if I lived. An emergency door was located in the middle of the plane right next to row 18, and after stuffing my bag into the plastic overhead compartment, I plopped in seat B and fastened my belt. The engine was roaring, but passengers were still boarding.

Still, I kept the belt fastened to be prepared; I wanted no sudden jerking surprises. A tall, husky guy stopped at my row, shoved his army green bag in the compartment, and stooped. "I think I'm by the window."

"Oh," I said. "Excuse me." I unclipped the belt and turned my legs sideways, remembering football games where intoxicated fans constantly made me turn to get out. I hoped he'd been to the restroom. He squeezed in the window seat, slid up the shade, and gazed at the runway. I wanted him to close it at take-off and keep it closed, yet I said nothing to him, and while I tried to focus on Audrey's safety spiel, I could not because the Valium had begun to work its magic. The next thing I remember was the roaring and bumping down the runway and the tilting. I didn't breathe till the plane leveled.

"Nice take off," I said to the tall, husky guy.

"Yeah, I guess. Seen better."

I was bored. I had brought a book, which was in my bag, but I didn't want to get out of the seat. Though my mind raced with paranoid ideas, my body seemed paralyzed. I didn't know if it was from the Valium or from the memory of my plane ride with Terry. I thought if I carried on a conversation with this guy, it might help alleviate my fear.

"What do you do?" I asked.

"Military," he said.

"Headed to Salt Lake to ski?"

"Nah, just going out West to get away."

"Got family there?"

"No, they're all dead."

"Gosh, I'm sorry," I said. He didn't respond. His eyes were waxen, and I didn't know what to say. I remember asking relatives how they were doing and would get dissertations on hemorrhoids, gall bladders, and viruses. I didn't want details, yet I didn't want to come across as insensitive. I felt that if I could get my legs to work, I would visit the restroom, but the seat belt sign dinged on again; the captain asked for attention and said, "Please remain in your seats as we'll be experiencing some turbulence due to a storm." Following instinct and the belief that the restroom would be the best place to be in a storm, just like in a house, I stood.

"Sir," Audrey said, "you must remain in your seat."

"I've got to go," I said. "I just can't hold it anymore."

"Well, be quick about it then." She smirked like a teacher would to a second grader.

Churchy faces scolded me as I dashed down the aisle toward the plastic unisex closet. Once inside, I bolted the door, unzipped my Levi's, and answered nature's call, but turbulence caused my aim to be off target. Knocked against the door, I sprayed the seat, which I had left down out of habit, floor, and wall. I flushed anyway, but I didn't clean the mess because the paper container was empty. I staggered back to my seat, rationalizing an airline employee somewhere was probably paid to clean-up restrooms, and if I interfered, it might result in lay-offs. I collapsed into my seat, feeling nauseous.

"You okay?" The Army guy asked.

"Yeah, I'll be all right," I slurred, feeling dizziness and dryness of mouth.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of tiny white pills. "Here, take one of these."

"What is it?"

"Dramamine. It's for motion sickness."

I popped the pill into my mouth, kept it on my tongue till my mouth was saliva-filled, and swallowed. I hoped the Dramamine and Valium combination wouldn't kill me. Of course, I felt pretty sure the plane crash would and wondered why I would want to take a pill, which would cause me to experience death sober. I closed my eyes and felt like I was riding a merry-go-round.

"Any better?"

Opening my eyes, he appeared blurred. "I think I am."

"It's not so bad once you get used to it. I've flown for years."

"I would just as soon be dead to have to fly again," I said.

"I've been thinking about that, too," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I've got no family. There's no one left. I might as well end it." He looked less tall and husky all of a sudden and more like a shriveled balloon.

"Well, everybody thinks about it, but you wouldn't want to actually do it. You've got your whole life ahead of you." I tried to be reassuring amid the plane's jarring, yet I was also aware that I sounded like a talk show host trying to be a psychologist. "See that door." His eyes focused on the escape door a few feet from our seats.

I felt a rising lump in my throat. "Uh huh."

"All I'd have to do is lift the lever and dive out."

I remembered a CNN headline about a jet bound for Hawaii where a hole had sucked people out, littering them in the Pacific still snugly fastened in their seats. I could not remember where those who had been sucked out were sitting, but I glanced around the plane. The businessman with the red power tie in front of me who was reading an investment magazine would not be all that worried about his stock, the elderly lady reading a Harlequin would not care if the ficitonal couple did it or how, and the annoying child who was whining to his stressed mother about a toy packed away beneath the plane in luggage would hush if he were sucked out. Ultimately, I didn't care if the Army guy killed himself or not; I didn't even know his name, but I wasn't ready to die.

"Man, you don't want to do that."

"I'm a paratrooper in the Army. I jump all the time. It's easy for me. I'd just pretend I had a chute on."

I knew he was serious. I didn't want to call Audrey over, and I didn't want to cause panic among the other passengers. "If you open that door, it'll suck other people out."

He didn't respond, and like a VCR on fast forward, I scrambled for an idea and saw memories of tense times when I would change the subject to avoid emotional scenes. "What happened to your family?"

"They were in a wreck a few weeks ago. I thought this trip might help."

Manipulation had worked. I wanted to jump up, shout like a spirit-filled preacher. "How'd it happen?"

"State troopers said they hydroplaned. Dad was killed instantly, Mom died in the emergency room, and my little sister died the next day. By the time I got leave and got home, they were gone."

"My God, that's awful," I said and I meant it. I could understand why he wanted to kill himself. I didn't imagine I could handle it if something like that happened to my family. "What's worse," he continued, "is that I had been arguing with them about coming home for the holidays. Told them I didn't want to because they got on my nerves. I risk my life every day for this country, and when I go home, what's important is taking out the trash, who has a cold, and who in town is getting a divorce. At Christmas, they'd get upset if the bow ain't straight, if the turkey ain't done enough, or the shirt ain't the right brand. I just didn't want to go through that same old shit. Now, I wish I would've told them how much I loved them."

"I know what you mean." Though I had not experienced anything that traumatic in my own life, I felt I could somehow relate. Many times in my own family, I had not told them I loved them, and sometimes I didn't. When my aunt gave me a miniature car for my sixteenth birthday as a joke because my parents had not bought me a car, I despised her and them. When my sister got married and had to have Christmas with her new husband's family and we had to change tradition, I was mad at her and her husband, but the good outweighs the bad even though the worst times are often remembered. "I'm sure they knew you loved them," I said.

"I guess they did," he nodded, dabbing the corners of his eyes.

The seatbelt light dinged on, and the captain's voice boomed over the intercom, telling us to prepare for the landing and giving us the temperature in Salt Lake.

He leaned back in his seat. I felt drained. The landing didn't seem that bad and when exiting the plane, Audrey told me to have a nice day. I wanted to tell her about the suicidal man and how many might have died. In the bustle of leaving, I lost sight of the tall, husky Army guy and wondered why we never exchanged names and addresses. I knew I didn't want to fly home, but I felt like I should call my family and tell them how much I cared.

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