Rossopomodoro

I’ve been staring at the tablet screen across the aisle for two hours now. Lying in the center lane, all social transgressions are forgiven on public transportation, all but the most severe. Lydia Lampon, my former hair dresser turned flight attendant was attending me and the other passengers today on our flight. She hasn’t brought the drink cart over since I put on The Mysteries of Shau-Lang on my in-flight “Entertainment Center”, a nuisance at best on the red eyes. I had a strange, inexorable craving for tomato juice which brought me to the back of the cabin before my sleep deprived mind realized where it was going.

“Lydia, you bitch.”

I swiped a can of Rossopomodoro on my way out before she could protest. I laid down, popped it open, and passed out.

It's already too late, Shau-Lang. Did a man like you ever expect to find solace in a town like this? Beijing isn’t a place for anyone, certainly not a goddamn Gumshoe. Tell me, is it so wrong to spit on the streets which are already soiled? Not in a town where we eat in the shitter. Sometimes justification is not needed when the world has proved too many times that justice just doesn’t exist. So I live for myself, and do I resent the honest man? No, but I laugh at him.

I ripped the earbuds out before opening my eyes. I only slept 2 hours. The perfectly translated dub of Shau-Lang still sung in my head. To think that the Chinese could make a better noir than any Americans. According to Lydia, who, on various flights, has watched every title in the Shau-Lang cinematic universe, they’ve boiled it down into a precise formula, the exact essence of noir. One parts indifferent world, one parts damsel in distress, and two parts tragic hero. She says this is the recipe for success. I’m inclined to believe her, flight attendants tend to have good taste in mediocre film.

As a rule I don’t drink on flights. According to my peers, this is also a mistake. They say drinking is the core of an enjoyable flight experience. They say that if you aren’t wasted before you disembark, then you have to make up for it at the airport bar. What's the point, though, of drinking on an airplane? Doesn’t it make flights just drunken incoherent interludes between destinations? From Narita to Portland to Newark to Charlotte to god knows where. I’m just a soul whose final destination lays outside corporeal bounds, left in a mass grave buried a mile above the ground. Flying is a part of accepting death, an emulation of the revelation, an idea of transcendence in material form. A lot of people like to be very high before they die, for good reason. But I think there's some merit to allowing the pain inherent to dying. You should feel your last gasp before the lights darken, while you're still on the runway, so you know it's there and not just an automatic response, not just a dying throw. To be present all the way to the end, down to earth before you lift off. At least I’ve still got Lydia, somewhere. I wandered to the back of the cabin. Lydia was looking at her nails intently.

“What’s the deal with airline food?” I asked sheepishly while snorting to myself.

“Nothing at all really. You hungry or something? I can make some leftovers.” she said with dare I say the most elegant of American accents, the Hell’s Kitchen (she picked it up from her mother). Although I wasn’t actually hungry I couldn’t refuse. She got up and threw a metal tin into a toaster oven, then went back to perusing her nails.

“So wheraya livin now? America? Europe? Asia? Africa?” she inquired.

“I have no fixed dwelling.”

“Yeah, just what I’d suspect from a guy who flies for free. Do you even have a job?” always so critical, it could make some uncomfortable, but for us northeasternese it's a sign of endearment.

“I’m a writer, Lydia, I write. Sometimes I have money, sometimes I don’t. It never really bothers me.

“Alright, and the rest of us have to work while you and your intellectuals friends get to wander around the world and mentally jerk yourselves off.”

“It's more of an international discourse if you will - a sharing of experiences gathered from all cultures.”

“All the ones that can afford a plane ticket, except you I guess.”

“Yes, if only the truth-seekers from all walks of earth were given the opportunity to peruse the world as they see fit, like myself.”

“If only.” She rolled her eyes. “Speaking of intellectuals, there's a guy on the plane who you might be interested in talking to. He wanders back here every so often, can’t sit still. It should be any minute now.”

Just then a dark figure shambled over.

“Can I get you anything sir?” she said slightly annoyed.

“Yeah, uhh, yeah.”

“Well whaddya want?”

“I’ll have what he's having.” He said then grabbed my meal from the toaster oven and ran off.

“Hey, HEY, SIR! Whatever.” Lydia said, defeated.

“I wasn’t really hungry.”

“I know that, I was gonna eat that meal after you didn’t finish it. Can you do me a favor and go grab it?”

“Can’t you just put another one in?”

“That was the last one.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have anything better to do?”

I didn’t. I found myself shuffling between the deathly thin aisles of the airplane, inspecting each passing tray table. Sadly, our friend sat in first class. He was gorging, eating just with his hands, nearly half-way through the meal. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“What? Can’t you see I’m eating?”

“Can’t you see that's my meal?”

“Can’t you just get another one?”

“No.”

“Then I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“What is a man like you in first class doing wandering around the cabin, stealing other people’s food, and eating with your hands.”

“What are you, the air-police? Am I not allowed to eat free food?”

“Not without the express permission of the flight staff.”

“And you were given such permission?”

“Yes.”

“And I wasn’t?”

“Yes?”

“So what are you going to do about it? Tell the flight attendant on me?”

“And what if I do?”

“Then I might be given a stern talking to by a depressed sleep-deprived women, and then I’ll be left alone for the rest of the flight. And if anything else happens then I’ll threaten to publicize it.”

“On what paper? Are you a journalist?”

“Yes I write for the New York Times.”

I scoffed, “The Times? Nobody reads that rag anymore.”
I clocked our intrepid reporter in his mug and took the remainder of my food. Lydia stared at me with disbelief upon my grand re-entrance.

“What’d you do?” she said antagonistically.

“What anyone would do when challenged by a belligerent idiot.”

“You lost an argument, took the food and ran off?”

“Quite the contrary, I let my fist finish our conversation.”

“You punched him.”

“Indeed.”

“He’s the Air Marshall.”

“And you are the Air Lydia?” she slapped me.

“I shouldn’tve sent you after him, I knew it was bad news.”

“That's what I said.”

Just then I received a tap on the shoulder. I turned around to greet a man about the size of three drink carts with rippling muscles and a nasty scowl. I turned back to Lydia.

“Hey, buddy, talk to me.” a gruff voice said, sharing no similarity to the journalist’s.

“Lydia, the weather?”

She didn’t respond.

“Excuse me, maybe this persona will refresh your memory.” I heard a more elegant, sophisticated tone.

“And we meet again, Mr.?”

“Phillips, Marshall Phillips. And would you mind facing me?” That was an order.

“Mr. Phillips, might I ask you how you came to take your position?” I said standing defiantly motionless.

“Why do you care. You’ll be departing this plane in handcuffs.”

“So I will, but before you are forced to handle me, please humor me first.”

“I haven’t told this story in a long time but,” Lydia was still trapped in the back, “it doesn’t hurt to tell it again. It all started back when I was 17 years old. You see, my father was an Air Marshall too. He was everything to me and my mother, well, before she died. Back then, during the long months when he was up in the air, I was down on the ground receiving regular checks for food and shelter. He provided the basic necessities, and when we talked I could tell deep down that he really loved me, but he loved the air more. We never really knew each other, not as people, not as friends. Sure I could see him on the weekends, but I usually made plans with friends and either I could never find the time or I didn’t want to. I didn’t hate him, you need to understand that we were almost strangers. Maybe it was worse than hate. But, well, I got good grades, and he kept paying the bills, so there was no room for fights. I remember vividly, I got up late that day since my dad called me the night before, saying he was flying in this morning. I didn’t want to be excited but I couldn’t sleep. It was that morning, on my drive to school, that I heard the news. 9/11. They called out the flight number, but fortunately it wasn’t his. School was canceled obviously, or at least I assumed, so I headed home. I was watching the news, frightened, but also relieved, knowing that my father was safe. Then the second plane hit. The tears hit the carpet before I did.

You might be thinking I became an Air Marshall to follow in my Dad’s footsteps, but no, I never wanted my children to be treated like I was. Besides, I hated traveling. Traveling meant leaving home, leaving my friends, leaving safety. To be honest, I was probably more scared of travel itself than anything else.”

“Just get to the part where you become an air marshall.”

“You won’t understand the importance of the end if you don’t hear the rest of the story.”

“I don’t want to hear the rest of your stupid story.”