21C and Other Sordid Tales

I’d just finished telling the story again. For the third time? Or was it the fourth? I didn’t know. All I knew was my voice was hoarse. A thin croak, really. It felt like I’d been talking for hours. Dear Lord, I’m tired. I can barely keep my eyes open, I thought, before giggling again.

The two stone-faced men seated opposite me stared impassively, no doubt part of their strategy to break me. They didn’t know I was already broken. Or maybe, they were just used to it by now. I’d done lots of giggling over the past few hours.

When the silence lingered, I knew we’d reached another of those, “Let him stew for a while before we ask him to tell it again” interludes. They were looking for inconsistencies, I knew. Waiting for me to slip up. Despite everything, I couldn’t blame them. They didn’t know there would be no inconsistencies. I was telling the truth. Hard as that was to believe, I was telling the truth.

The pause anyway gave me a chance to regain my bearings. Near as I could tell, I was in an office somewhere, deep down in a sub-basement. I didn’t know for certain. I’d been hooded somewhere along the way. But it had felt at the time like the elevator was going down.

The place had a musty smell to it, with perhaps a hint of jet fuel. A thin layer of dust or soot covering the desktop had been smudged clean in a few places. One looked like a horse. Another like a big puffy cloud. I’d had lots of time to contemplate those.

The scant furnishings consisted of a desk, with a lamp on top providing the only light. A trash barrel with a plastic liner sat in one corner. An American flag with gold tassels stood in another. Nothing hung on the institutional green walls. There were just three chairs. My interrogators sat in two. I was handcuffed to the third.

The two men had said very little throughout. They’d asked no questions. They did not interrupt. Mostly, they asked me to repeat my story again … and again. In between tellings, one or the other would leave the room for a few minutes. I didn’t know what that was about. Curiously, they’d taken no notes, so I suspect I was being recorded. Probably videotaped too, though I glanced around early on and saw no evidence of it.

I smiled to think that of the hundreds of billions spent to secure airports and air travel in the past few years, surely a few bucks had been spent in this room, right? I suppressed another giggle to think that if it hadn’t, my congressman could expect a very nasty note from me.

I was again contemplating the puffy cloud smudged onto the desktop when the man on the right pulled me from my thoughts, breaking the silence to ask, “Could you go through it one more time?”

After a while, all airports look the same. All hotels look the same. Rental cars, taxi drivers, front desk staff. Same same same. And in my line of work, all conference rooms look the same, all filled with wide-eyed middle managers seeking to be trained on the Fifty Ways to Motivate and Retain Your Employees! It’s my job to tell them. I know, I know. Nice work, if you can get it.

My name is Rob Jeffries. I’m a regular on the motivational speaking circuit. My story goes that after fifteen years or so spent in Human Resources and Marketing, I thought I’d try my hand at a book. To even my surprise, it was a hit. I didn’t understand it, at first. But folks who care about such things say that my ideas are good and my books are funny, filled with anecdotes (mostly true) about my time in HR. The Wall Street Journal even rated it one of their Top Ten Management Reads of the Year.

Still, as good as the books might be, I figure there are two main reasons why I’m in demand. The first is litigation. Companies want all the ammunition they can muster to defend themselves against lawsuits brought by disgruntled employees. Buying my books and bringing me in for seminars at least offers tangible proof the company pays more than lip service to such things.

The second (and I think more important) reason is that most of my ideas cost nothing. Twenty-dollar gift cards go a long way! Have you thought about silly trophies? Public acknowledgment works!

Yeah, I know. Common sense, right? But one thing I’ve learned in my years spent in corporate America is that the old cliché is true, and common sense isn’t that common. It should come as no surprise there’s even less of it the higher up the corporate ladder you go. Subprime mortgages, anyone?

Anyway, my day began in Colorado Springs, on the last leg of a four-city West Coast swing. After spending eight hours in an overheated hotel conference room performing my act for a dozen earnest managers from a software startup, I took a cab to the airport for the short hop back to Denver, where I’d connect with a redeye that would take me home to Boston.

The day started out crisp and clear, but clouds rolled in sometime during the afternoon, bringing with them a light dusting of snow. By the time I reached Denver, it had turned into a major storm. Upon entering the terminal, I was relieved to see most flights were still on schedule, some of them even on time, including my own.

With a few hours to kill, I had a quick bite and a couple of beers in an overpriced restaurant bar, where afterward, I called my wife. All was well on the home front. The kids couldn’t wait to see me. Before leaving, I glanced up at the news and saw much of the Midwest was experiencing similar wintry conditions, however the East Coast was getting mostly drizzle, so I figured as long as we got off the ground, I should be in good shape.

Forty-five minutes before my flight, I made my way through security and over to Concourse A. From the crowd at the gate, the plane appeared only about half full, giving me a chance to have a row to myself. Not that I sleep much on planes, but it’s always nice to spread out.

I had planned to use this flight to finish reviewing the galleys for my latest book, titled, How to Know What You Want – and Take It! Sounds trite, I know, but trust me, it’s better than the title suggests. My hope anyway is that this is the one that springboards me from primarily corporate conference rooms to a more generalized audience.

After fifteen minutes or so, they started pre-boarding, and a few minutes after that, they called my row. I showed my boarding pass to a bored-looking attendant and made my way down the Jetway.

The plane was an Airbus A320, which fully loaded, I’d guess seats about a hundred and fifty. It has three seats on each side with an aisle in-between. I’ve always found they have plenty enough legroom for me, and I like the personal video screens with lots of channels to choose from.

I had to wait the usual minute or so for people ahead of me to stow their bags. While waiting, I noted the passengers seemed mostly mid-career professionals like me, along with a smattering of younger folks, and at least one fresh-faced and uniformed soldier who looked straight out of boot camp. It wasn’t long before I was able to make my way to my aisle seat about two-thirds of the way down the plane, seat 21C.

In the window seat of my row was an older woman. Heavily lipsticked, she had her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses and still wore her thick winter coat. Already zonked out, she leaned to her left, with her head jammed into the cramped space between her seat and the wall. I smiled anyway to think that despite the awkward position, she looked pretty comfortable.

Because my seminars are business casual, I’m able to travel light, with just two bags, a larger one that goes overhead, and a small one that fits nicely beneath the seat. The bin above my seat was full, and the one behind it mostly full. Still, I managed to push and rearrange what was in there, making what I knew would be just enough room.

While struggling to compress the last half-inch of my bag into the space, I heard a female voice to my left say, “Sir. Let me help you with that.”

I admit I wasn’t really paying attention. Anyway, it had become a kind of silly quest to finagle that last bit into the space. I’d done it a thousand times. Without thinking, I answered, “No, thanks. I got it.”

Moments later, the single word “Sir” cut through the air like a chilly breeze. It was only then I realized who had spoken. Turning, I looked at her for the first time.

Somewhere near the high end of the average flight attendant’s age range, she was dressed in the familiar uniform of the airline: white blouse, navy skirt, powder blue vest, and a red scarf. Her dark hair was tightly wound into a bun, fastened in the back with a black velvet ribbon. The gold badge affixed to the left side of her vest read, “Jill.” A button on the right said, “I’m a People Person!” – a play on the recently merged airline’s new motto.

I suppose it’s easy for me to say now that even then I detected something a little … off about her. But it’s true. I did. There was just something about her eyes. The eyelids seemed higher up than normal, allowing me to see every bit of them. When I noticed they were the same powder blue of her vest I remember wondering if, chameleon-like, they changed color depending on her clothes.

“Excuse me?” I spluttered, understanding on some level something strange was going on, though whatever it was, it was beyond my experience.

“Sir,” she repeated icily, still staring me straight in the eyes. “I’m going to ask you not to take that tone with me.”

Wow. What was she talking about. Tone? I found myself frozen in place, with one hand still on my overhead bag. I started to ask, “I’m sorry?” but never got the chance.

“Take … your … seat,” she said, clenching her teeth and pausing between each word as if speaking to a child.

I felt the blood rising in my cheeks, the universal response any time someone with even a little authority takes advantage, from the junior high school bully who knocks the books from your hand, to the traffic cop who pulls you over for just a little fun, to the boss who abuses you because he knows you hate your job and he knows you hate his guts, but he also knows you have no choice but to stay and take his shit because the economy sucks and you have a wife and kid to feed.

As I was thinking those things, I watched her mouth turn up at the corners in just the beginning rictus of a smile, and I knew exactly what that smile was telling me. “I have all the power here,” it said, “and if you dare say the wrong thing or maybe just another word, you’ll be ushered off this plane and forced to sit in a room and answer questions.”

A thousand things swirled through my mind at that moment. I’d never even gotten a speeding ticket, let alone been kicked off a plane. What happens when you get kicked off a plane?

Then, I thought about the publicity. Now, I’m no celebrity, but even I knew that given my line of work, the tabloids could have lots of fun. I almost smiled to imagine the headlines. “Motivational speaker kicked off plane!” I didn’t smile, though, because I realized with a shiver that what was happening right now, if allowed to escalate, was something that could end things for me very quickly.

Still, I couldn’t help but be baffled by this bizarre turn. I dared move my eyes for a brief second and glance sidelong around the cabin to see if anyone was taking notice. A few passengers still stood toward the end of the plane, grabbing last minute items from overhead carry-ons or waiting for others to take their seats. A middle-aged businessman was making a last minute call. Most scattered throughout the cabin already had their noses buried in newspapers or laptops or thick books. Nobody had even noticed.

Red-faced, embarrassed, still not understanding what was happening, I felt my shoulders slump. Whatever this was, it was clear I’d been defeated. But at least, I was still on the plane.

I glanced toward the dozing woman in the window seat before noticing the row behind mine was empty. When I moved to sit there, the voice came again.

“Sir,” she said, smiling without mirth while patting the top of my ticketed seat. “I believe, this is your seat.”

In hindsight, this was the critical moment. The cabin doors were still open. I could have simply gathered my things and left. On some level, I think I even considered it. I knew what was taking place was wrong, but still. I needed to get home. My nine-year-old son had a basketball game in the morning. My six-year-old daughter a dance recital in the afternoon. I promised them both I’d be there. Plus, my wife needed a break. I’d already been gone a week. And so, the moment passed, and I took my seat. My assigned seat.

Moments later, from behind and above, I heard what sounded like Jill removing my suitcase from the overhead bin. There was no reason to do it. If she had just given me another second, it would have fit just fine. But then, I knew there was no reason for any of this, and no reason I couldn’t sit in the empty row behind me either.

Yet even with all that, I smiled inside thinking that for the rest of this flight, I was going to be a good boy. A very good boy. Still, I couldn’t help myself. Chancing a quick glance behind me, I saw no sign of Jill, so I turned to the sleeping woman beside me.

“Did you see that?” I whispered. “What was that all about, huh?” I imagined her agreeing with me and offering solace. “I know, I know!” I replied, then laughed knowingly and sent a wink her way. “But what are you gonna do, right?”

Turning away, I felt better already. The whole thing was just silly. Sometime soon, I knew I’d be able to laugh about it. Probably as soon as tomorrow. I remember thinking I couldn’t wait to tell my wife about it, before realizing it was so trivial, it wasn’t even worth the telling.

Shaking my head, smiling sheepishly, I buckled my seatbelt before bending over to fumble in the outer pocket of my bag for my headphones. While still bent over, I heard quick footsteps from behind and felt a rush of air go by. Sitting up, I glanced toward the front of the plane to find that three people were now staring in my direction.

One was a uniformed male, who appeared to be a member of the flight crew. The first officer, maybe? He seemed a little young to be the captain. A second flight attendant also stared my way. Both of them appeared to be listening to a third person. It was Jill.

The second flight attendant turned away the moment we made eye contact. Jill turned away after another moment and continued her conversation. Flight crew guy kept his eyes locked on mine before turning toward Jill. He appeared to ask a question or two, listening carefully to the answers. Apparently reassured, Jill and he took one last look my way before he turned and headed toward the flight deck.

Moments later, I shuddered to hear a voice come over the intercom, because my first thought was that whatever it was, it was going to be about me. Something like:

“Ladies and gentlemen, for your own safety and comfort, we do ask that you be aware of the man sitting in seat 21C. It has come to our attention he has taken a tone with a flight attendant. As always, thanks for flying with us!”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” it began. “This is your captain speaking. I’d like to welcome you aboard Flight 162 bound for Boston. We do apologize for this nasty bit of weather, and wish to inform you that with your safety in mind, we’ll be delayed just another few minutes for one more pass with the de-icing equipment. For now, we ask that you sit back, relax, and I promise we’ll have you out of here in a jiffy. Thanks again for flying with us. We’re the People Persons!”

I realized then I was shaking. For some reason, no doubt my half-serious foreboding that he’d be talking about me, I had held my breath while the captain spoke. Letting it out, I had just reached up to rub my closed eyes when I heard from the front of the plane the sound of overhead bins start slamming shut. Closer and closer they came.

When the one above me should have been next, but wasn’t, I opened my eyes to find myself staring at a navy-blue crotch. For some reason, Jill had stopped at my row to reach into the bin above and rearrange things, or pretend to. Then, to the sound of scraping and grinding above, she began moving closer.

Recoiling, I pulled my head away while watching her thrust deeper, as if seeking me out. Turning away, I closed my eyes. Moments later, I heard the frustrated slam of the overhead bin finally close. This is a fucking dream, I thought, before thinking no. That’s not right. It’s a fucking nightmare.

Outside the plane, I heard the sound of powerful jets of water moving closer. Glancing up, I peered out the window and was startled to see a man standing not three feet away. Bundled up against the storm, he was hosing down the plane with de-icing liquid. I started to smile upon seeing a … well. Not necessarily a friendly face. But not a hostile one either. Moments later, he was gone.

Maybe they’ll close the airport, I thought hopefully. That would be the best thing. The easiest thing, anyway. It might be the only way I get off this plane with my dignity still intact, though I wondered even then if there was anything left of it. I tried to reassure myself.

You’re just seeing things, I thought. Making something out of nothing. They probably weren’t even talking about you. And come on, was she really “thrusting?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we now ask that you turn your attention to the flight attendant nearest you, and please follow along on the plastic card in the seat pocket in front of you as they go through their safety demonstration.”

Silly, I know, given how many times I’ve flown. But I’ve watched enough episodes of Air Crash Investigation to pay close attention during these briefings because hey, you never know. Glancing up, I was relieved to see “the flight attendant nearest me” wasn’t Jill, but the other one. Her name tag said “Dawn.”

Reaching into the seat pocket, I started pulling out the plastic card. I had pulled it about two-thirds of the way before seeing with disgust the bottom was smeared with ketchup or bloody snot or some other kind of reddish-gray goo. I quickly dropped it back inside.

Looking up again, I saw Jill at the front of the plane. She was pulling on the tubing to demonstrate how to get the air flowing into the oxygen mask. Now, maybe I just imagined that she stroked it a few times in what appeared to be a crude imitation of masturbation, all the while smiling and staring straight at me. Maybe I imagined it. But I don’t think I did.

While demonstrating proper buckling and adjusting of the seatbelt, she pulled it far tighter than I’d ever seen any flight attendant pull it, then let the looped end dangle and swing so it resembled nothing less than a noose. When I glanced again into her eyes, I understood that’s exactly what it was.

Tearing my eyes away, I glanced around the cabin to see if anyone else had noticed, but from what I could see, no one was paying any attention at all.

Do they? I couldn’t remember. Burying my face in my hands, I tried to think. I’d seen it done a thousand times, but I don’t recall them ever drawing it so tight that it resembled a noose, and I don’t remember them ever looking malevolently my way while doing it.

Maybe so. But one thing was certain now. I needed to get off this plane. Whether I was imagining all this, or having some kind of panic attack, I didn’t know. But I knew I needed to get off this plane. At the same moment I reached down to unbuckle my seatbelt, a high-pitched squeal came from below. I felt a slight lurch. Seconds later, a voice came over the intercom.

The plane began taxiing from the Jetway. I was too late. Closing my eyes, I took a few deep breaths. It’s okay, Rob, I thought. You’ll get through this, then smiled at my incessant positivity, an occupational hazard. My wife complains about it all the time — and that thought that gave me the faintest glimmer of an idea.

If nothing else, I’m an expert on communication. It’s the business I’m in. It’s what my books are all about. It’s why companies large and small pay me to improve their internal communication. Now, if I detached myself from my present situation, what had really happened between Jill and me boils down to a simple miscommunication. In fact, most all the world’s problems are caused by it: wars, failed marriages, broken family relationships. You name it, a litany of most all the world’s heartaches have their roots in simple miscommunication. Why, I’d written on that very subject in most all my books, and if nothing else, I took solace in knowing that’s what happened here.

Just thinking those things, being able to fall back on my professional training, made me feel better. But then, naming something always gives a person more control of any situation. I’d devoted an entire chapter to that subject in one of my books. No, I thought, if anyone on this plane was prepared to deal with and mitigate just such a situation, it was me.

I felt the plane take a sharp right turn as it reached the beginning of the runway. Glancing out the window, I saw vast amounts of snow piling up beneath the amber halogen of airport lights. Moments later, the engines roared and the plane began accelerating, gaining speed with every inch, audibly crunching the thin layer of snow underfoot.

I felt the familiar sensation of being pressed back in my seat, then the slight vertigo as the front of the plane got off the ground, followed moments later by the rear. Then, I heard the high-pitched whine of the landing gear being pulled up, and we were in the air.

The fasten seatbelt light went off about ten minutes into the flight. The ascent had been bumpy. The pilot warned there’d be lots more bumps along the way. Having glanced at the national weather map while at the airport restaurant, that came as no surprise.

In the meantime, from the bag beneath my seat I’d pulled out the galleys – in publishing terms, galleys are the final proof of a new book, and the last chance to make changes before it goes to the publisher – and picked up where I’d left off. I admit the title wasn’t my idea. How to Know What You Want – and Take It! seems a little crass to me too. Then again, the publisher spends lots of money focus-grouping such things. I was reliably informed this one had tested through the roof. But like anything else, only time would tell.

By happenstance, the next chapter up for review was titled, “Confronting the Fears that Hold You Back,” and I realized it was time for me to do just that. Looking up, I saw the flight attendant named Dawn at the front of the plane. That would most likely place Jill in the rear.

Setting my paperwork in its folder, I placed it down on the empty seat beside me before plastering on what I hoped would be a sheepish grin. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I stood up to begin my walk toward the rear of the plane while in my head, I rehearsed my speech:

“Look. I’m not sure what went on earlier. But I want you to know that I’m very sorry about it. I also know you have a very important and stressful job, and if I in any way added to that stress, you have my most sincere apologies.”

How was that? Nope. Doesn’t work. First off, beginning with the single word “Look” is confrontational. And even though it was true, saying, “I’m not sure what went on” puts the entire onus on her. No, what I needed to do was to verbally take some responsibility for the miscommunication. But what was my responsibility?

Well, I didn’t know she was a flight attendant, at first. Surely had I known that, I would have been more obsequious. I can do better, I knew. How about this?

“Hi there. I just want to apologize for what went on earlier. I know you have a hard job, and I shouldn’t make it any harder. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, I’m sorry.”

Much better, I thought, especially if said with sincerity and a rueful smile. In fact, I realized my current smile – mostly a reflection of my own silliness and nervousness – was exactly the smile I was going for. Turning, I walked down the aisle, went past the rear restrooms, and stepped into the T-shaped galley.

On both left and right were emergency doors with small windows in the center. In the nook to the left was a collapsible flight attendant jump seat. In the center of the rear wall was a sink with storage above and below. On the inner wall to the right were stacks and stacks of stainless steel warmers and small ovens and coffee pots. To my right, standing against the emergency door with her back to me, was Jill.

Half bent over in what looked like a quasi-frisk position, at first blush I thought she was simply leaning against the door and staring out the window. Then, I noticed there was tension in her body. Her left arm seemed to be pressing hard against the door. I couldn’t see her right arm. I do remember thinking someone more suspicious than me might just think she was using it to try to lift the handle of the emergency door.

But that made no sense. Emergency doors couldn’t be opened mid-flight, could they? Something about compression, or them being made so they only opened inward, or some such thing. And why would she …

I must have made a sound. Maybe an intake of breath. I watched her body relax. Whatever tension she’d been using to press against the door vanished like a puff of smoke. Uncoiling herself, she lifted her head and stood up slowly before turning around to face me. I remember noticing her face was red, as if she had indeed been exerting herself in some way. Or maybe the galley was just hot. What the hell do I know? Again, our eyes locked.

She raised her left eyebrow questioningly, and I knew then she was waiting for me to say something. Funny thing, though. At that moment? I forgot what I had come to say. Then, unable to stop it, I smiled. It wasn’t the rueful or apologetic smile I’d planned, but a real one, because it occurred to me then I was simply grateful I hadn’t been chastised for being in the galley.

But as soon as I smiled I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. Her face turned to stone. Still, there was no turning back now.

“Look,” I began, and instantly regretted it. Her expression transformed from hard to … something else entirely. I’m not certain even now what it was. I knew only in that moment it was an emotion I was unfamiliar with. It didn’t matter what it was anyway, because by then, I was done talking. I don’t think I could have said another word if I tried.

Suddenly, her expression changed, and she surprised me by smiling. Moments later, she spoke.

“No,” she said quietly. “You look,” and she began lifting her skirt. Higher and higher it went, until it was high enough to reveal that underneath that skirt was shorn genitalia and nothing else. Still, she kept lifting until she captured the bottom of the skirt between her chin and chest, freeing her arms. After that, she bent her knees and bowed her legs.

“You know you want it,” she breathed, and then began manipulating herself. I was repulsed. I couldn’t look away. Moments later came a voice from behind.

“Excuse me,” it said. I jumped. Pivoting, I saw it was Dawn, the second flight attendant. I realized I was blocking the entrance to the galley.

Turning back to Jill, I saw her skirt was now lowered. She was absently shaking a packet of coffee. Aside from a slight blush to her cheeks, you’d never know what she’d been doing. “I said excuse me,” Dawn repeated.

Avoiding eye contact with Dawn, I turned to exit the galley. I wasn’t sure what I looked like at that moment, and who knows what Jill had told her about me. Plus, I needed a second psychotic flight attendant like I needed a hole in the head. So, I kept my head down and kept on walking.

“Do you need something?” Dawn asked me from behind. The barest hint of caring in her voice made me want to cry. Still averting my eyes from hers, I turned and answered with the first thing that came to mind. “Juice,” I said. “Orange juice.”

“We’ll be bringing the cart around shortly,” she replied to my departing back.

Back in my row, Mrs. Rip Van Winkle slept on. I envied her unconsciousness. Sitting down, I closed my eyes and thought that’s what I should have done the moment I got on the plane, simply closed my eyes and gone to sleep, remembering only then that before I even had sat down, Jill had set her sights on me.

What the fuck just happened? I thought, realizing then it wasn’t the first time I’d asked myself that question on this flight. Oh, nothing much. Just watched a psycho flight attendant masturbate, is all.

Jesus Christ, I needed a plan. There was nothing I could do about Jill. Nobody would believe me. I wasn’t sure I even believed it myself. But one thing I was NOT going to do for the remainder of this flight was get up from this seat, no way, no how, because doing that only leads to trouble.

How much of the flight was left? Three hours? Maybe three and a half. Though it felt longer, we’d only been off the ground a half hour or so. It might even be closer to four. I remembered then with dismay that the storm might also add some time.

I felt a rush of air and then the presence of someone beside me, but I wasn’t going to open my eyes. Nope. Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to open my eyes. Moments later, I felt another rush of air and the person was gone. I opened my eyes.

My tray table was down. In a clear plastic cup on a napkin in the center was a glass of orange juice. I almost cried. Reaching out, I drank it down greedily and felt immediately better. Not because of the juice, necessarily. It was the simple act of kindness. Someone had gone out of their way to be nice to me, and in that moment, it mattered, more than Dawn would ever know.

Still on the seat beside me were my folder and headphones. I grabbed the paperwork and tucked it into the bag beneath my seat before putting on the headphones. Plugging them in, I clicked around the dial before settling on a rerun of Law and Order.

While listening to Sam Waterston pursue justice and exude integrity, I felt the drink cart go by. I didn’t raise my head, though. By the time I felt the cart beside me, Sam was in the judge’s chambers fuming about something or other. I didn’t know what. I wasn’t paying attention, because by then, I had closed my eyes and was feigning sleep. It didn’t stop her.

I felt at first the slightest brush of a hand against my cheek, maybe just the backs of four fingers. Then, I felt a hard pinch. I imagined Dawn was busy with a customer at one end of the cart, with Jill on the end nearest me. And what with all the gesticulating and arm movement that goes with serving, I’m sure nobody saw a thing.

The pinch continued, increasing in intensity, but I didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. Mrs. Van Winkle two seats over had taught me well. After another moment, I felt her shake my pinched cheek, and then, after a single hard finger flick, she was gone.

When I thought enough time had passed, I opened my mouth and flexed my jaw. As if in sleep, I raised my hand and rubbed my cheek to get the blood flowing again. While up there, I learned she hadn’t broken the skin, anyway. I figured I’d live.

I allowed myself only a moment to feel sorry for myself, to think, This is truly fucking bizarre. But that was all. Just the one. Because this was my new reality, and I understood then that you can get used to anything.

I let a few minutes pass before I dared open my eyes. The lights throughout the cabin had been dimmed to better let passengers sleep. The plastic cup and napkin had been removed from my tray. I was going to leave it down, though, to further the illusion I was sleeping.

Jill knows you’re not sleeping, I thought. That pinch would have woken the dead.

Maybe so. But there was nothing else to do. Or was there? Who could I talk to? The flight crew was out. For all I knew, they’d already put my name in a file somewhere as a troublesome passenger based on what Jill had told them, whatever the fuck that was. What could it possibly have been?

The other passengers? They’d be no help. No, for some reason, I’d been singled out. Better just to sit here and pretend to sleep, and if pinching was the best she could do, then so be it.

In my headphones, Sam Waterston was in the judge’s chambers again, railing against I don’t know what. It sounded like a different judge, so perhaps it was a new episode. Or maybe he was appealing. I didn’t know or care.

Letting my mind drift, I felt and heard the soothing thrum of the jets and let out a sudden yawn. God, I was tired. I didn’t dare put my seat back, though, not wanting even that much motion to capture anyone’s attention.

And so, while Sam Waterston railed away against injustice, I found myself drifting, and soon, I was mercifully, blessedly, asleep.

Waterfalls. I dreamed of waterfalls and streams and rivers. Beneath the sound of rushing water came a cartoon voice:

“A successful employee retention program doesn’t have to be complicated or expensive. Jim Schultz, who owns and operates a number of fast-food franchises in the southeast, also owns a number of vacation cottages. When they’re not in use, he provides them to employees as a reward for a job well done. That way, he gets a deduction for something that would have been empty anyway, and his employees get to go there and fuck their brains out.”

“Fred Griffith, who owns a dozen auto repair shops in the Pacific Northwest, hands out a “Grease Monkey” award every month to his best technician. The award consists of a fifty-dollar gift card and a plastic monkey in a jar of Vaseline. The employees can use the fifty for a hooker, and the Vaseline can be used …”

My eyes opened. On the TV in front of me, Dr. House was remonstrating his charges for something or other. If I listened hard, I could still catch a word here and there. But the dominant voice wasn’t his.

“Studies have found that employees who get fucked on a daily basis are far less prone to updating their resumes and looking for—”

Ripping the headphones from my head, I threw them on the seat beside me. She went into my bag, I realized with a shudder. The one she removed from the overhead bin. I kept a working copy of my first book in there. She was now reading from it, but giving it her own, unique spin. And that wasn’t my biggest problem.

I felt lightheaded and dizzy, the way you feel just before coming down with an intense flu or illness of some sort. I was drenched in sweat. My mouth felt dry and gummy. My face, unbearably hot. Worse than that, I realized suddenly I had to pee like a racehorse. Explains the waterfalls, I thought.

While glancing around the cabin, my vision went in and out, blurring and tunneling like I was stoned. Maybe it’s just because you have to pee, I thought. I’d been on long car trips when I had to pee so bad it sometimes seemed my vision went in and out. Still, I didn’t recall it being anything like this.

It was another moment before I realized that adding to my troubles, I had what seemed the most powerful erection of my life. Piss hardon? I wondered, smiling to think it certainly wasn’t Jill. Reaching down, I adjusted it, but that only made the pressure on my bladder worse. I knew then there was no way I could keep my promise to myself. I was going to have to get up and use the restroom.

Unbuckling my seatbelt, I stood up unsteadily while seeing red starbursts and the smeared trails of objects. Closing my eyes, I clutched the headrest of the empty seat in front of me and waited a beat. Upon opening them, I saw and heard the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign come on, then felt a shudder as the plane was buffeted by turbulence. A voice came over the intercom:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hate to disturb you, however I’d like you to know we’ve turned the “fasten seatbelt” sign on again because we’re gonna feel a few bumps for the next few miles. Unless it’s an emergency, please try to stay in your seats with your seatbelt fastened, and thanks again for flying with us!”

My stomach lurched as the plane fell downward for a moment, before twisting from side to side. I glanced again at my crotch and adjusted as best I could, contemplating for a moment bringing my paperwork along to cover my embarrassing condition before deciding I could neither bend down to get it nor wait.

Turning, I began making my way down the aisle toward the restroom, grabbing empty headrests along the way to brace against the buffeting winds and my own unsteady legs. The half-bent position anyway helped cover my condition.

Jesus, I feel like a teenager again, I thought with some shame. I couldn’t remember the last time it had happened, anyway.

My vision cut in and out as I made the walk. Tunnel vision made it seem as if I was going down a never-ending corridor. I saw starbursts and smears again moments before finding myself next to the restrooms. I took the one on the left.

Once inside the barely closet sized space, I quickly undid my belt and dropped my pants and underwear to my knees. Glancing down at my engorged member, I watched it pulse and throb with every heartbeat. Remarkably, it felt even more swollen than it had when I’d first noticed it, yet there was nothing sexual about it.

Whatever was happening, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to pee in this condition, bent knees or not. I had just started reaching my right arm to turn on the cold water, thinking that might help, when I felt a push from behind.

Stumbling forward, my head glanced against the curved ceiling. From behind, I heard the door close and lock. Looking up, I glanced in the mirror and saw someone had joined me. It was Jill.

Did I leave the fucking door open? I wondered, before realizing it didn’t matter. If flight attendants can tap into a specific set of headphones, then they can open a fucking bathroom door, locked or not. Instinctively, I moved my hands to cover myself.

“What are you doing here?” I managed to ask, or tried to. My mouth was desert dry. My voice sounded strange. My vision had yet to return to normal.

In answer, she reached around my body, took my organ in her hand, and started roughly stroking.

“You pulled me in here,” she said, never taking her eyes from mine. “I was walking past, and you … reached out and you … pulled me in.” With that, she pulled me uncomfortably to the right. “Or, that’s what I’m going to tell people if you’re not a very good boy.”

It was then I realized what she was doing, why she was pulling me sharply to the right. One final and painful yank had me turned all the way around.

Squatting as best she could in the confined space, she reached out to unbutton the bottom two buttons of my shirt and then pulled apart the flaps, revealing me in all my turgid glory. This isn’t happening, I thought. This cannot be happening.

After glancing at it almost reverently, she moved her eyes up to mine before taking me in her mouth. I closed my eyes.

The plane was again buffeted by shakes and shudders. I felt another stomach churning drop and a glancing brush with hard teeth before opening my eyes to find her still staring up at me. I watched her give one final lick before she stood, lifted her skirt, put her arms around my shoulders, and mounted me. Only in that moment did I fully understand the enormity of what was happening.

Putting her arms around my neck, she lifted her legs and locked them around my waist. The plane did the rest; buffeted up and down, it provided most all the movement. Still, I couldn’t help but move my legs and knees occasionally to keep from falling, and that only spurred her on.

After almost losing my balance, I reached out to grab the handhold built into the wall to my left; she took that as signal to clutch more tightly around my neck with her left arm while letting the other one wander to my backside. She stopped there a moment to pinch my left cheek hard before she opened me up and penetrated me.

I stopped talking. The two stone-faced men sitting across from me had heard this three or four times already. It was around the second or third time I began trying to read their faces. What must they think of me? I wondered.

“Do you need something Mr. Jeffries?” the man on the right asked, not unkindly. “Maybe some water?”

It was the first time they’d asked if I wanted anything. Funny, you’d think after what I’d been through, I’d have no pride left; yet, thirsty as I was, I wasn’t going to ask for anything. I didn’t deserve anything.

The man got up and left the room. The other one stayed and did what he seemed to do best. Stare impassively.

The man seemed gone longer than necessary, however at some point, the door opened and he returned. He took a moment to uncuff my right hand from the arm of the chair before handing me an unopened bottle of water.

While reaching for it, I glanced up at him. Though his face remained unreadable, he gave an imperceptible nod. I looked down and suppressed a sob. After opening it, I gulped thirstily while silently thanking the man for his thoughtfulness.

I imagined him walking down corridors, passing sinks, and water coolers with paper cups, and conference rooms with pitchers and glasses, to find me a sealed and unadulterated bottle to drink from. His nod told me he understood where my blurred vision had come from. My dry mouth. My powerful erection. They had all come from the juice. There had been something in the orange juice that had been so kindly delivered to my seat. It was the only explanation.

My thirst quenched for the moment, I capped the bottle and put it on the desk, then flexed my right arm and shoulder a few times to get the blood flowing. The man made no move to recuff my hand. When I felt ready, I cleared my throat and went on.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, as she clutched me and probed me and rode me like there was no tomorrow. Her body tensed as the plane gave us both another jolt, sending her fingers deeper inside me.

“Because … I . . can …” she breathed, and I knew then she was on the verge. She followed that with a barely audible high-pitched keening before giving herself one … two … three more plunges, clutching me tightly around the neck as the shudders flowed through her; then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.

She dropped one leg to the floor and then the other. After removing her fingers from my body, she took one last opportunity to give me a painful pinch before drawing back to glance down at my still engorged penis.

“Too bad you couldn’t just go with it,” she said, looking up to add, “because where you’re going, you’re not going to get fucked that good, at least not by a woman.”

Turning, she took a moment to run some water over her hands before glancing at herself in the mirror. I stood there watching stupidly while she adjusted her skirt, then reached up to straighten some stray hairs that had loosened from her bun. Once satisfied, she turned and reached for the doorhandle.

Taking a final moment to adjust her scarf just so, she answered, “Ask Mrs. Barrett,” before giggling once and leaving me to my shame.

I don’t know how long I stood there. I remember at one point noticing my pants and underwear were now on the floor at my feet, forced there by the force of Jill’s passion. My violated yet still tumescent member, now red and wet and glistening, stared mockingly up at me. It hadn’t lost any of its firmness, though. At some point, I turned on the water and used paper towels and hand sanitizer to cleanse myself of Jill as best I could.

It was around then, while holding back sobs and rubbing myself raw, I realized the truth of my situation. Jill was more than just disturbed. She was clinically and violently and criminally insane; and yet, there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

Once satisfied I was clean as could be, I reached down and pulled up my pants, and it was at that moment I thought for the first time about my wife and kids. How could I ever explain this? How would I ever again be able to look them in the eye? What kind of man was I? Or maybe better asked, what kind of man was I … now?

I didn’t know. I allowed a few sobs to escape as I turned again to the sink and washed my face. I didn’t look in the mirror, though. I’m not sure I’ll ever look in the mirror again. When I felt as presentable as I could make myself, I lowered my eyes and opened the door.

On the way to my seat, I became aware that the blurred vision and dry mouth I’d experienced after waking from my nap had ebbed somewhat, turning into what was now mostly a dull, throbbing headache. But it was only after sitting down again I remembered why the hell I’d gotten up in the first place. I realized then I still had to pee.

My face fell. Covering it with my hands, I started weeping softly, grateful in that moment to have a comatose seatmate. I cleared my throat after letting out one deep sob, hoping to cover it up. Meanwhile, my bitterness and self-loathing grew.

Maybe the airline doesn’t treat its employees well! Maybe they don’t hand out GIFT CARDS! Why, if only they’d used your BOOK in their training, maybe their employees wouldn’t RAPE THE CUSTOMERS!

After another few moments, I wiped my eyes on my shoulders and glanced around the space. My headphones were still on the empty seat beside me. On the television in front of me, the House interlude was apparently over, and Sam Waterston once again inveighed against injustice. How many FUCKING episodes did they MAKE? I wondered, finding myself doing and thinking anything I could to take my mind off my recent violation.

Beneath Sam Waterston’s earnest visage, the top half of the plastic safety card jutted from the seat pocket. Below that, toward the bottom of the pocket, something bulged. Whatever it was, it wasn’t mine. I hadn’t put anything in there. Looking to my left, I saw no bulge in the pocket of the empty seat beside me, or in the pocket of the sleeping woman in the window seat. From her pocket, the top half of her ticket envelope stuck out halfway.

Upon seeing it, I flashed back to having a hell of a time booking my own seat. Something about the newly merged airlines’ computer systems being incompatible. It took a dozen online attempts and two interminably long waits on their customer service line to straighten it all out. I almost smiled to think that in retrospect, I probably should have taken that as a harbinger of things to come.

While glancing in that direction, I snuck another peek at Mrs. Van Winkle. She still hadn’t moved an inch. Her head was still stuck awkwardly between her seat and the window. She’d made no effort to remove her coat or even unbutton a few buttons. Dark sunglasses still shielded her eyes. After glancing again toward her seat pocket, I again turned my attention to the mysterious bulge in my own.

Probably a paperback a previous passenger left behind, I thought. Or worse, a dirty diaper. That made sense. I remembered the brownish-gray goo that was smeared on my plastic card. Had that come from whatever was making the bulge?

But the voice was right. Put more gently than my critical inner voice ever would, any man who’d allow himself to be abused in the manner I had today had no right to call himself a man. Any man who’d let himself be—

You’re not being fair, another voice said. Don’t you get it? From the moment you got on this plane, your goose was cooked.

It did seem that way, didn’t it? Well, fuck it. What was done was done. Maybe Jill had sated her sick impulses for the time being and would now just leave me the hell alone. Anyway, what more could she do? It was long past time to man the hell up.

Before losing my nerve, I pulled open the seat pocket and stuck my hand inside, feeling about for the source of the bulge. Toward the bottom, I felt cloth of some sort, then something hard before feeling sharp pain. Fuck, I thought.

Pulling my hand out, I saw blood now seeped from diagonal slices along the tips of the index and middle fingers of my right hand. I watched a drop or two fall into the seat pocket before bringing the fingers to my mouth. After a moment, I took them out and looked again.

The cuts were at an angle. Blood flowed from open flaps on both fingers. Bringing them again to my mouth, I remembered I had some Band-Aids in my shaving kit, but my shaving kit was in my suitcase, and my suitcase had been moved to only God and Jill knew where. Just gonna have to suck it up, I thought, allowing myself a momentary smile.

After another few seconds, I looked again and saw the blood flow had lessened, noting the cuts themselves were about a half-inch and a quarter-inch long. I supposed I’d live. But what had caused them?

Suddenly, I flashed back to the bathroom. I didn’t want to. It was the last thing I wanted to remember. Just thinking about it made the pressure on my bladder worse. But there was something else; it was something Jill had said.

“Where you’re going, you’re not going to get fucked that good, at least not by a woman.”

I shivered. What did that even mean? And where am I going, again? I remembered her cryptic answer. “Ask Mrs. Barrett.”

Jesus Christ, I needed to pee. And I needed to get off this plane. And I needed to find out what the hell was in the seat pocket in front of me.

I took a moment to again work up my nerve before leaning forward, pulling the pocket open, and peering inside. It was too dark. Glancing up, I thought about turning on the light but rejected that out of hand.

Reaching in more carefully this time, I gingerly felt around and found again what before had felt like linen. While pulling it out, something heavy fell from it into the pocket. Removing it, I saw it was a heavily stained red cloth napkin. Setting it aside, I opened the pocket again and reached to the bottom where my fingers fell upon something hard.

Lifting it, I learned what had cut me was a straight bladed, double-edged knife. About three inches long, its blade was caked with the same brownish-gray goo that had attached itself to the safety card. I quickly dropped it back inside. For good measure, I threw the napkin back in too.

I shot a glance toward the sleeping woman, thinking that would have been a wonderful time for her to finally awaken, to see me holding a knife. While looking, I noted again she hadn’t moved so much as a muscle since I got on the plane. Glancing again toward her seat pocket and ticket envelope, Jill’s answer to my question flashed suddenly in my brain.

It took more than a few moments to work up the nerve. My hands shook as I unbuckled my belt, no doubt partly because of what I was about to do, and partly because my need to pee was now overwhelming. Getting up halfway, I reached across the row and snatched the envelope, then fell heavily back in my seat. I waited for my insides to stop sloshing around before examining it more closely.

On the front was the airline’s new name and logo, along with their now hateful motto: We’re the People Persons! I thought whichever New York ad agency came up with that one was laughing all the way to the bank.

The envelope itself was of the tri-fold variety favored by many airlines, with a convenient pouch inside to slide your ticket, boarding pass, and other travel documents. Opening the outside flap, I saw inside only a blank itinerary. Opposite that was a list of boilerplate travel tips and cautions.

Opening the inside flap, I saw nestled in the pouch was a pale yellow, computer-generated ticket. Turning the envelope clockwise, I read that the ticket was for travel on Flight 162 out of Seattle, traveling to Boston, with a stop in Denver.

My eyes lingered on those details a while, because I didn’t want to know, and it was none of my business, and anyway, I shouldn’t be looking at other people’s private documents. I had to force my eyes to move from that to the passenger name field, which read: “Mrs. Edna Barrett.”

My blood ran cold. Maybe I even flinched. However it happened, at that moment, gravity kicked in, and the ticket fell halfway out of its slot. Behind the ticket, in big block letters written in a shade of lipstick I’ve grown accustomed to, were the words: Help Me

I flung the envelope aside as if it were on fire and started to get up, because I wanted to run … somewhere. Anywhere. I caught myself halfway because I knew there was no place to run. Instead, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths and tried to get my heart rate to slow, all while clenching my abdomen in an effort to not wet myself. Yet, even as I tried to calm myself, I steeled myself for what I had to do next.

She had planned it all, I realized then, even to the point of dropping those hints in the bathroom. And like a dutiful lapdog, I’d played right along. You almost had to give her credit. It just might be the perfect crime.

Only when I was ready, when my shudders and shakes had subsided somewhat, did I open my eyes to play out the final scene. Turning to my left, I noted again Mrs. Van Winkle hadn’t moved a muscle; but of course, I understood by then that she never would again. Still, I had my part to play.

Leaning across the middle seat, I reached out with an arm that felt like it weighed a thousand pounds and pulled down her sunglasses, and behind them found only wide-open and vacant and dead eyes staring back. At that moment, my bladder finally let go. Wet warmth began filling my crotch, running down my backside even as I pushed the sunglasses back in place. After that, I simply leaned back and let myself go. There was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried.

With almost clinical detachment, I looked down and watched the dark stain on my khakis grow, saw liquid escape the fabric to trickle down the seat and run onto the floor where a pool of my own urine was now puddling beneath me.

Closing my eyes, I took deep breaths and slowly found relief. While emptying the last few drops, as I was just beginning to feel what had begun as warm wetness already turning cold and damp and miserable, I heard footsteps and felt a rush of air. The footsteps stopped beside me long enough to emit a now familiar giggle before they again began moving up the aisle.

Minutes passed. I kept my eyes closed, understanding at long last that even the simple act of opening my eyes hadn’t worked out for me on this flight. As more minutes passed and the damp set in and I started shivering, I began going over my options. I soon realized I had none. I was as well trapped as any entomologist had ever pinned a bug. The list of my transgressions was long.

I’d been a “difficult” passenger or whatever the hell Jill had told them. I was seated next to the dead woman. The knife was in my seat pocket. It had my fingerprints, and now even my blood on it. No, you didn’t need to be Sam Waterston to get a conviction on this one.

Where? They find a murdered dead woman, believe you me they’re going to be looking for a weapon, even if they have to sift through the crapper to get it.

How do I explain the cuts on my fingers? How did my blood get in the seat pocket? No, I could throw the knife out the window somewhere over Ohio never to be found again and they still had enough to put me away. Jill’s words rang again in my ears.

Where you’re going, you won’t get fucked that good, at least, not by a woman.

I spent the next few minutes examining it from every angle and could find no escape when suddenly, another thought occurred.

Now, we’re talking. But I wouldn’t use the knife. That would be no fun. What I’d do, see, is get up to use the bathroom again. I was certain that if I did, I’d get another visit. Then, I’d take that red scarf into my hands, and I’d twist, and I’d twist, and I’d watch those powder blue eyes start to slowly hemorrhage until they turned blood red, and then …

And then you’d have a second dead body on your hands, Sparky, one of them a flight attendant. I think that’s a federal rap. Think then we’re talking death penalty.

How did that work, anyway? Would I be tried in Colorado, or would they do their best to figure out over what state poor Mrs. Barrett had been killed? I realized at that moment I didn’t know and didn’t care. I realized then too that I couldn’t kill Jill either. I just didn’t have it in me.

I wondered briefly if that’s what she wanted. Surely she understood that if she had played this game with another man, maybe (I thought with some shame) any other man, he might have done just that. Then again, maybe that possibility was just part of the thrill.

It was madness, I knew, trying to figure out the motives of a psychopath, not to mention something well beyond my area of expertise. You’re a communications guy, Rob! Not a People Person!

As my thoughts drifted, it occurred to me the flight had to be over soon. I could have reached out and tuned to the channel that shows the progress of the flight, but I didn’t want to and it didn’t matter. It was beginning to dawn on me that these were my last moments as a free man.

When would she do it, I wondered? When they came along with coffee and a breakfast sandwich would she suddenly notice Mrs. Barrett hadn’t moved, and scream? No, screaming wasn’t her style. More her style was to send Dawn over under some pretense and let her make the discovery. As careful as she’d been to cover her tracks, she’d probably want to keep her distance.

It was only then that I gave more than a passing thought to what Mrs. Barrett might have gone through on the flight from Seattle to Denver. Had she been chosen as Jill’s plaything? For what reason? Maybe Jill thought she wasn’t deferential enough. Or maybe, she’d just wanted another cup of coffee.

Remembering the note written in her own lipstick, I knew whatever it had been, it was enough for her to know that her own goose was cooked. I wondered how long she lasted before I managed to push those thoughts aside and began waiting for the inevitable.

I started shaking when the smell of egg and coffee began wafting through the cabin. My shakes intensified when the smells became stronger and I heard and felt the heavy cart roll by. I kept my eyes closed, but heard the familiar sounds of sleepy passengers waking up to the dawn of a new morning as the cart moved closer.

My heart almost stopped when I heard a giggle, followed by the sound of my tray table being lowered. I waited for the cart to pass before half-opening one eye to see a wrapped sandwich and a glass of orange juice awaiting me. A joke about my last meal, no doubt. I wasn’t going to touch it. Hungry and thirsty as I was, I’d learned at least one hard lesson along the way.

My eyes were still closed minutes later when I heard Dawn and Jill walking through the cabin with plastic bags collecting refuse. I held my breath when the crinkling sound drew nearer and then stopped at my row. Moments later, it was gone. Opening one eye, I saw the sandwich and the coffee were gone.

But that wouldn’t do, I knew. In fact, I was thinking this part was probably the most fun for her as a voice came over the intercom:

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. We are about to begin our descent into Boston’s Logan International Airport, where local time is five forty-two A.M. We do hope you had a pleasant flight, and ask that you keep us in mind for all your future travel needs. Once again, we thank you for flying with us, and remember, We’re the People Persons!”

Slowly, I opened my eyes and glanced around to see the gray light of early dawn streaming in. Throughout the cabin, I heard the sounds and movement of laptops and briefcases being closed, and seatbacks being moved into their full upright position. The intercom came on again:

The plane banked hard to the left. Looking out the window, I saw below the shimmering waters of Boston Harbor. I took that opportunity to take one last look at Mrs. Barrett. I figured I owed her at least that much.

The engines issued a high-pitched whine and then I heard the sound of landing gear being lowered. I somehow understood then with certainty that it would happen when I tried to get off the plane. Probably, when I was halfway up the aisle. Maybe, she’d even let me get all the way to the door.

The engines found another pitch; moments later, the wheels hit tarmac and we were bumping along the runway. My shakes and tremors increased throughout the two or three minutes it took the plane to make its way to the gate. After coming to a complete stop, I heard the sound of dozens of seatbelts unfasten.

Should I just sit here? I wondered. I may as well. It would at least deprive her of the satisfaction.

But one look out the window convinced me that was impossible, because out that window was life, and hope, and in this seat was only urine-soaked wetness along with the inevitable smell of death and decay. And if I’m going down, I thought, I may as well go down swinging. I unbuckled my seatbelt.

People toward the front of the plane had already gotten up and were starting to queue. I reached down to grab my carry-on and then stood up, stepping out of my row. I can’t imagine what I looked like. It was manifestly obvious that I’d wet myself. For all I knew, people could smell it. Up ahead, I heard the sound of the cabin door opening.

I kept my head down to avoid eye contact with anyone. I carried my bag in front of my groin to cover up as best I could. Still, I knew the cold dampness I felt along my backside and down my thighs must be visible to those behind me. I bet they thought they already had a story to tell.

The line started moving. My heart raced. Quakes and tremors ran through my body like an electric wire. I took one step, then another. The line stopped. Daring to look ahead, I saw an old woman still struggling to remove her bag from the overhead bin.

There’s always one, I thought. At that same moment, my heart leaped in my chest when I heard a high-pitched shriek. It’s all over, I knew.

Feeling faint, I reached for the nearest headrest to steady myself as the line started moving again. It took me a second to realize why no one but me had paid any attention to the squeal. It was simply the baggage handlers below opening the holds. I’d heard it myself a thousand times before.

There were now ten or so people ahead of me. Nine. Eight. Beside the door, a ruddy, uniformed, older gentleman stood beside Dawn and the guy I knew only as flight crew guy. They were all smiling and saying their goodbyes. Of course they are, I thought. Because they’re PEOPLE PERSONS!

Suddenly, I was standing in the doorway. Maybe I only imagined flight crew guy’s smile fell a little bit to see me approach. Dawn too seemed a little standoffish. But the captain’s smile didn’t fade, and he thanked me for flying with them and told me to have a nice day.

I stood in the doorway another moment. Then, I took my first step, and then the next, and then the next. Down the Jetway I went, waiting for a scream that never came. It seemed the longest corridor of my life.

Next, I stepped out of the Jetway and into the terminal, where a small crowd of people waited for friends or loved ones or business associates. I knew there was no one waiting for me. My car was parked in the medium-term storage lot at the edge of the airport. If I stood by the curb long enough, a van would come along eventually and take me to it.

I stopped talking for a while, before saying, “Well. You know the rest.” Reaching out my still uncuffed hand, I took the bottle of water from the desk, opened it, and downed the remaining liquid. It tasted sweet.

The two stone-faced men stared a while longer, until the one on the left reached up to rub his hand across his chin. I understood why he did it, because “the rest” was that I only made it a few more steps before the two stone-faced men and a uniformed security guard came out a side door. The man on the left put his hand on my shoulder. I panicked and tried to run. He held on tighter. Dropping my bag, I flailed and managed to somehow accidentally get him a good one on the jaw.

“Sorry about that,” I said, looking at him while recapping the now empty bottle and placing it on the desk. Perhaps surprised to find he was unconsciously touching his face, he quickly moved his hand away.

The three of us sat there another few seconds before the man on the right asked the first question I’d been asked in the long hours we’d spent together.

“Had you ever seen her before, Mr. Jeffries? I mean, do you know who she was?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I mean, I’ve flown the airline often and don’t recall ever seeing her working any of my flights, if that’s what you mean,” adding, “Then again, this was my first flight since the merger,” assuming she’d come from the merged airline I rarely flew. I caught myself smirking when looking up to say, “I think I’d remember her, don’t you?” It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t expect an answer.

“But is it possible you knew her years ago?” he persisted. “Maybe from high school, or college, or an old job? What I mean is, are you absolutely certain you’ve never met this woman before in your life?”

I shook my head again. “Of course not, and anyway, why are you asking me? Why not ask her?“

I took a moment to look them both in the eyes, and for the first time in the hours we’d spent together, they averted their gaze. Suddenly, I realized two things. First, these were not the questions I’d been expecting, nor were they the sorts of questions to ask a suspected murderer. Second, I remembered then there was one question that I had never asked.

There was no doubt they were security. But it occurred to me then that after being jostled and manhandled and hooded, being hustled down stairways and long corridors and an elevator, after being handcuffed and forced to tell my story again and again, that I’d simply assumed all along they were with the Transportation Security Administration, the FBI, or both.

“I’d like to see some identification, please,” I asked as sincerely as I could.

The one on the left didn’t like that much, and his cold stare let me know it. But the man on the right, the one who had kindly hunted around for a bottle of water, seemed to understand. Turning to his colleague, he nodded, and the two of them stood up.

And with that, I was alone. Out of nowhere, my shakes began again in earnest, because I knew what was coming. Those two were the “good cops.” Had to be. The bad cops were coming next, to take me wherever people who commit murder on an airplane get taken. I’m still thinking it’s Federal jurisdiction, so that’s where I’ll eventually end up. The Boston Police might hold me for a few days for paperwork to be processed, and of course, I’d have to get a lawyer. At some point, I’d be allowed to talk to my wife.

Even after all I’d been through, this was my lowest moment. I knew then if I again had access to the knife that had been used to kill Mrs. Barrett, I’d have used it then and there to cut out my own heart or die trying.

From behind, I heard the sound of the door opening and felt a rush of air. My heart leapt to my throat. I braced myself.

To the desk walked a man I hadn’t seen before. Balding, wearing round glasses and a wrinkled brown suit, he had the air of an accountant about him. As he sat down behind the desk, I felt a presence beside me. Looking up, I saw it was the kinder of the two stone-faced men. Bending over, he reached down and unlocked the second of my handcuffs before stepping back.

While I rubbed my wrist to get the blood flowing again, the rumpled man opened the folder he’d been carrying and looked down. After examining the first few pages of whatever it was, he picked up some papers and turned them around, pushing them toward me. Then, he looked up at me before apparently remembering something. Reaching into his suit jacket pocket, he removed a pen and placed it on top of the paperwork. He stared another moment before he began to speak.

“Mr. Jeffries, first of all — informally and unofficially, of course — I’d like to apologize for your ordeal. Secondly, I’d like you to sign the paperwork before you. I’ve clearly marked each page with those places requiring either your signature or your initials.”

My quakes intensified. My mouth was dry and gummy when I asked, “What are they?” assuming they were legal documents having to do with my looming incarceration.

“If you could just sign them, Mr. Jeffries,” he said, “then we can all move on.”

Funny, but at that moment, I wasn’t sure I wanted to move on, knowing what was coming next. No, with what I had in store, I was more than content to sit in this now familiar room for the rest of my life. Still, I was curious.

Sitting up, I glanced down at the two short stacks of documents to see the one on the left read, “Waiver of Liability.” The stack on the right read, “Nondisclosure Agreement.”

Looking up at the man, I asked, “Who are you?” remembering then that I’d asked the same question of the two stone-faced men and received no reply.

The officious man stared back, before saying, “Mr. Jeffries, you’ll note that I have — however informally and unofficially — apologized for your ordeal. Now, if you could just sign that paperwork, we can wrap this whole thing up.”

It took a moment for a light to dawn. My heart began to race. What was he talking about, wrap things up. I’d killed a woman, hadn’t I? Well, not really. But still.

“Who are you?” I asked again, surprised to find my teeth clenched and my anger rising. I felt a movement of air and knew the stone-faced man who was standing behind me had moved closer.

The officious man and I stared a while, before he asked, “Would you like to go home, Mr. Jeffries?”

It took more than a moment to process that — home? — before things started falling into place. “You’re not with the TSA, are you?” I asked. The officious man said nothing. “FBI?” I asked. Again, nothing.

In my mind, that left only one organization. I started shaking my head, because it simply wasn’t possible, not in this day and age. I again felt my anger rise, interspersed with the hope that I might really be able to go home, untouched by scandal. Unscarred.

Except, you know, for the humiliation, and the physical abuse, and the rape, I knew. Except for those.

After squeezing my arm rests one more time, I leaned forward and picked up the pen. Slowly, carefully, I began signing my name and initials at all the places marked with Xs. When I was done, the officious man reached across the table and examined each page, finding one place I’d missed. After examining them again, he placed the paperwork into his folder and stood up.

“Mr. Jeffries,” he said. “I think you’ll agree, in time, that this is the best way to handle things. And once again, informally and unofficially, all of us at the airline do apologize for your ordeal.”

He took a step or two before seeming to remember something else. Stopping to reach into his folder, he removed an envelope and placed it on the desk in front of me. It was an envelope I was quite familiar with, of the flimsy paper jacket variety now favored by many airlines.

“Well …” the man said, understanding then that I would not be picking up their complimentary ticket to anywhere. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Jeffries. This gentleman will see you out.” And with that, he was gone.

I sat there another few moments, only this time as a free man. Free? I thought, then laughed out loud. I knew I’d never be free.

At some point, the kinder of the two stone-faced men put his hand on my shoulder. When I felt ready, I stood up. I took a last glance at the envelope before deciding to leave it on the desk. I wouldn’t be flying this particular airline again. Thanks anyway.

Turning, the two of us walked toward the door. Before opening it, he stopped to pick up a bag that had been left against the wall. It was my carry-on, the one that held my headphones and the galleys to my new book. After picking it up, he handed it to me and the two of us left the room.

We walked down corridors, past closed offices and active security stations. I almost smiled when we passed a bottled water station with paper cups. The man opened a side door, and we went up two flights of stairs and down another short passageway before stopping at an elevator with only an UP button.

The elevator came. The two of us stepped on. While riding up, I turned and asked, “What can you tell me?” I was surprised to hear my voice crack. I was embarrassed it had come out a weak, childlike plea.

The man said nothing, just reached into his breast pocket and removed a handkerchief. After covering his mouth and nose, he said, “Wait,” before wiping his nostrils and putting away the cloth. The elevator door opened.

He led me into another stairwell. When that heavy door closed, he stopped and turned. After waiting as if listening to hear if anyone was coming, he spoke in a hushed tone. “We’ve got maybe two minutes at most,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

I stood there stupidly, realizing I didn’t know where to begin. “Who is she?” I asked, the first question that came to mind.

“We don’t know,” he replied. “All I can tell you is that since the merger there’s been lots of … let’s just say, confusion. Lots of new faces at both airlines. Schedules have been … spotty at best. Nobody on the crew was surprised to see an unfamiliar face.”

I flashed back to my own difficulty buying a ticket, which hadn’t been a problem before the merger, before asking my next question. “What does she have to say?”

He didn’t answer that one; in fact, he wouldn’t look me in the eye. And so, I asked it again, slowly and carefully this time as if speaking to a child.

“What … does she … have to say?” After another moment, he did look me in the eye, and I had my answer. She didn’t have anything to say. She was gone.

He weighed that one a moment. It wasn’t until glancing at my face he came to a decision. “The first officer radioed there was a problem. A number of … reports were made. He didn’t know what to make of it. But even that was FUBAR. He contacted only us, not TSA. He went against procedure, I think maybe because by then…” his voice trailed off.

“Tell me,” I said, my voice again a childlike plea. “I deserve to know.”

“Because by then,” he said. “Even they began having suspicions.” Before going on, he again looked me in the eye. “You know, Mr. Jeffries, some of those hundreds of billions spent to secure the airlines were indeed put to good use. We were able to corroborate much of your story.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. How? Cameras? I thought. Dear Lord, just how much did they see? Maybe in the galley, but Lord, please, not in the bathrooms …

The sound of our footsteps echoed in the stairwell. “She was a flight attendant,” I said. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”

I got no reply to that. At the top of the stairwell, he opened a door, and the two of us stepped out. Glancing around, I realized it was the same gate my plane had arrived at. Crowded now, it was filled with bustling people.

Looking at the clock, I saw it was past two o’clock in the afternoon. I’d been in that room even longer than I’d thought. The man turned to leave.

He stopped and turned. “You’re not going to want that one back, Mr. Jeffries,” he said kindly. “Trust me on that.” And then, he turned and was gone.

I stood there for a moment and took inventory. Looking in the front pocket of my bag, I saw my wallet had been returned to me. My car keys were in there too. My phone. The only things in my other bag were dirty clothes and the working copy of my book. I could live without all of it.

Taking only another second to glance around the busy gate area, I turned and began walking toward the exit that would take me out to the curb, where if I stood there long enough, a van would come along that would take me to my car.

A month later. I’m slowly healing. The day after getting home, I talked Beth into pulling the kids out of school to spend a family week at her parents’ summer home on the coast of Maine. Beth was puzzled, but managed to scare up some vacation time and didn’t ask any questions. The kids were excited for about ten minutes, and bored after half a day. I couldn’t blame them. Mid-March is no time to summer in Maine.

I haven’t told anyone. Not even Beth. I’m not sure I’ll ever tell her. Don’t get me wrong. I know that she’d be kind and understanding. I even get the sense she knows something happened on that trip. But we’ve been together long enough to know that only when one of us is ready, we’ll talk, and not a second before. Anyhow, I am starting to feel myself again.

The first pre-release reviews of my book came out. USA Today called it a “must read.” The Wall Street Journal liked it too. That was nice. Even so, my flying days are over. I’m not sure what I’ll do to fill the time. Maybe work only the Northeast corridor, up and down the Mid-Atlantic states: New York City. Philadelphia. Washington D.C. Those cities that are easily reachable by car. Or maybe, I’ll put my resume together and go back to the daily grind in HR or Marketing somewhere. I suspect with my newfound fame, I might be able to write my own ticket. But only time will tell.

I do get spooked every now and then. The sight of a woman with a bun at the supermarket sent me into a panic. Red scarves and blue skirts all trigger memories of the unhappy episode. I know too that I’ve drunk the last glass of orange juice I ever will.

I admit that upon returning home, panicked thoughts of changing my phone number and even moving to another state all crossed my mind at one time or another. But those would all entail having a long conversation with Beth, and I wasn’t ready for that yet.

Of course, I think about Jill every day. Sometimes, every hour of every day. Sometimes, every minute. What’s she doing now, I often wonder? I already knew she made one hell of an authority figure: police officer, nurse, substitute teacher. But I know such pondering is futile. She could be any of a thousand things.

Two weeks after getting home, I was reading the newspaper online when a short article caught my eye. It read:

Body of missing woman found

Boston, MA – The body found in Boston Harbor last week has been identified as that of a Seattle woman missing since March 5th, authorities say. In town to visit family, the woman apparently arrived at Logan Airport, however had not been seen since. Her family reports she was in the early stages of dementia, and it is believed she wandered from the airport and somehow ended up in the water. Identification of the body was hampered by its coming into contact with a boat’s prop.

Nice touch, I thought. I wondered who had put her there. My money was on the stone-faced guy on the left, maybe with an assist from rumpled accountant guy. Cutthroat business, the airline industry. Margins are thin, and quickly eaten away when lawsuits get filed. It’s just the sort of thing that puts them out of business. I mean, who wants to fly Rape Air?

Anyway, I’m home now and slowly putting my life back together. I still don’t know if Jill is done with me. I don’t know how I’ll react if she’s not. But then, after going over and over it in my mind, I also don’t know what I would or could or should have done differently. There is just one thing I take solace in.

That day at the airport, after standing at the curb a while, the van did indeed come along to take me to my car. After taking my seat, I happened to glance out the window and saw a familiar face. Coatless in the frigid cold, he was sitting by himself on a bench. White-faced and ashen, he looked twenty years older than the last time I’d seen him. His leg moved spastically up and down, up and down.

The expression on his face was one I no doubt wear myself sometimes, when I’m alone and there’s no one there to see. I can’t know for sure. I’ve stopped looking in mirrors. But I do remember when I saw it on his, being reminded of an old military expression used by grunts in the field after days of battle. They call it the “thousand yard stare.” It seemed more than appropriate on his face, because the man on the bench was the fresh-faced and uniformed young soldier I’d glimpsed when I first got on the plane.

From my seat in the van, I watched his leg jerk spasmodically up and down, up and down, until we turned a corner and he was gone. I know it’s wrong. Still. I do take solace in that. Because she’s still out there.