The Story

We begin with a man in a box, in a seat about 35,000 feet above humanity, praying for his life and hoping that the Clonazepam is going to kick in any second; only it doesn’t kick in. What does kick in, tragically, is his imagination; and, following that, the reverse thrusters. And after the reverse thrusters, this box, this giant metal tampon flying at 400 mph and holding on a wing and a prayer, hits what’s known as Clear Air Turbulence (CAT), or what the laymen erroneously call “air pockets.”

What normally causes a plane to fall only about ten to twenty feet, has this box plummeting two-hundred, three-hundred, four-hundred feet in mere seconds. The wings, normally designed to handle intense stress and able to flex upwards of 25 feet in each direction, suddenly snap like a stack of Pringles. Bright orange sheets of fire lick the double-pained windows of this modern marvel and then fall away as the wings drop like shuttle pieces after separation. Except he’s not heading into orbit to gather information and perform science; this was supposed to be a three-hour flight to a Caribbean paradise. Well, he’s heading to paradise now: this much is certain. The pill-box careens wildly down. High school physics tells me that this man is traveling at 9.8 meters/second squared, but he doesn’t have time to think about that because he’s reading a magazine. After all, that’s what you’re supposed to do: “get your mind off the fear,” as my friends tell me, right? Distract yourself?

Well, he’ll have to think of something quickly, before his heart attacks. Mercifully, according to the expert known as ‘everyone,’ he won’t die hitting the ground. Rather, it will happen the moment his mind registers its predicament and calls his heart to go for a walk. The eruption is quick, sure, but not painless.

Statistically, I know it’s much safer in a plane than on the road, but something tells me he wouldn’t now be trying to calculate what 9.8 meters works out to in feet if he were in a bus in a Greyhound bus traveling down a gravel road somewhere in the Midwest. The end is almost here.

Suddenly, the plane hits the ground. Softly. First the rear wheels, then the front. The real reverse thrusters now sound and we come to a near halt, safely, on the airport tarmac. My imagination, the architect of this fear, slackens. Perhaps the drugs are finally catching up to me. Or perhaps my imagination melted into the ceaseless notes and stories I keep, not to exercise that muscular imagination of mine, but to channel it, redirect it, and send it harmlessly out into the ether, where it will no longer convince me that I’m about to die. Notes and stories like, say, this blog.