Nobody asked me how it was; maybe they just knew. The worst part was the flight over. The seats in the very back row were almost wide enough to plant my skeleton through. Alternating hip bones every half-hour, I was the mime for butt trumpets everywhere. The plane is ten minutes from leaving, where is my seat partner? Oh God, please not her. It was her.
"And Jesus, please let whomever sits next to me be pleasant and not condemn me to the pit for my non-conformist ways, amen . . ." She sat as a pillar of salt; never looking at me. I wanted to break the tension, but there was none. I was a hunk of protoplasm that occupied the space next to her, that's all. Damn, eight hours across and I have to apologize for being periphery obstruction. She was a New York artsy type, probably vegan. I mentally scribbled my lines for half an hour, waiting for the right moment. " I hope we get some sleep." She barely turned four degrees and uttered, "I will."
Losing sight of the good ole U.S.A. was the signal for the screaming baby to crank it up. The travel agents don't mention this in their brochures, but there's always one if I'm flying. I'm thinking: maybe the mother should remove the acetylene from it's balls. Maybe that'll pipe the little demon down. Miss Artsy dealt with the torment by tossing a blanket over her head. Cool, I thought; I'm flying to Rome beside Cousin Itt. The seats were tall, mini-spotlights lit the crowns of novel addicts. Other passengers mumbled in Latinesque conjurings; I was imagining the Mercury Marquis bar mitzvah by the token doctor on board. Poor baby . . .
The rectal numbing crept up my sides to the neck, maybe I was drifting off. I managed a look at the wing; the last five feet flapped like foil. " Jesus, please don't let a cloud tear it away." Despite the folded coccyx and the screaming baby and the last five feet of wing, I was fading out. The flight attendant from the school of "Our Father Which Art in Hell" decided this was her cue to slam my window shut. Kawhap! I broke out of my stupor and gave her enough evil eye to last through her greatest grand-kids. "Sorry," she habited. Yep, just remember, those buildings hit hard.
The screaming baby kept one eye on me, if my lashes met, he'd peal a note that could shatter the Crystal Cathedral. I'm wondering, what can be done about this? Maybe a microphone can be taped to his mouth and then I can wire a Bose speaker to the ear. Maybe there should be a womb-embittered air hag whose job it is to force the child to a glass bottomed tour of the circling sharks below. It screamed all the way to Zurich.
The airport in Zurich glistens with cleanliness, way too much since nobody lives there. If pocket-knives or chocolate ain't your thing, you may as well sit down and shut-up. It was an impulse to Q-Tip ream your orifices before you sat, is pooting a felony? My hip bones were unraveling, I was almost to the Vatican.
DaVinci Airport is twenty fives miles from the ancient city, but I could make out it's white marbled grandeur from the plane window. I thought of the Apostle Paul and the witness he fearlessly bore to the councils. I thought of the Appian Way, the road where Jesus appeared to Paul to give him the thumbs-up from above. I thought of the poetry and art and the love of the great city. I was there and alive and loaded with anticipation to be enlightened.
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