portrait from behind a closed window
i do not know what i look like. i estimate
from quick reflections, expressions hidden by complimenting
acquaintances’ eyes. my neighbor makes a quick glance
towards me in the elevator, and i follow her onto the street.
i look at strangers and wonder what their answering machines
sound like — intonations on hello, their own names,
polite requests and apologies. i wonder what their mailboxes look like.
rushed signatures. accidental concrete shoe prints.
(i always avoid stepping oin these marks).
you can tell a lot about someone from their absences
and the things that receive them. could i ever
forge their signatures? would they remember if i complimented them?
i want to photograph their hands and the important things they hold.
you can tell when a person’s picture is taken by
someone in love with them. you have to look at the
softness in their eyes, or their smile. i have never recognized myself
on camera but perhaps
under these circumstances, i would.
Universe Of the Plane
There exist two Universes, that inside the plane and that outside of it. Plane-Universe time is prolonged and sticky, while Outside-Universe flashes by in rounded windows. Plane-Universe is one of seatbelts and pretzels and air polluted with stale snores. It is in this universe that I sit next to a man that I’m convinced was once a bird. I watch him carefully as he looks out the window at the clouds with a certain nostalgia I’ve often felt myself. His long nose stretches perched between small eyes on a wrinkled neck, and his suit jacket is draped over him. He reads a self-help book, so I respect him, or I respect the man I expect him to become as a result of his book. In my own hands is a trashy magazine I impulsively purchased with skittles to reach the airport credit card minimum. It embarasses me. He interests me more than celebrity drama.
We are flying across the Atlantic and I’m suddenly overwhelmed. The man on my other side is asleep and I envy him. I cannot escape myself: a person afraid on a flight and a person who reads trashy magazines. I’ve decided the Birdman is in love with the flight attendant. I’ve decided she doesn’t love him back, and he spends the whole flight pining for her attention. I’ve decided he only took this flight to see her, but it’s the fourth time he has done so in the past month and she feels unnerved about the whole situation. I’ve decided he hopes his self help book will send a message he has changed, he’s ready for her now. I’ve decided it does not, and he is not. She floats down the aisle, pleasantly pushing a cart and offering its contents.
I’m nervous when she arrives at our aisle, both for myself and the man. He orders a ginger ale so I do the same.
“Cheers,” he suddenly says, tapping his cup against mine.
“Cheers.”
“Ah, I’m glad you’re a ginger ale kinda person. I feel safe next to those.”
“Thanks.”
“So where are you from?”
“Tulsa. How about you?” I know the answer: the sky.
“Ah, an American.” I sense disappointment in his voice. “I’m from Montgomery.”
“Another American.” I want to ask about the flight attendant, and his undying love for her. He beats me to the next question.
“So what do you do?”
“I’m in finance.” I’m lying.
“Ah, money.”
“How about you?”
“I’m out and about.” I know what that means, and I feel comfortable.
“I am, too. I lied about finance.”
He laughs as if he’s heard this same confession a thousand times. “Ah, you like to impress. Let me tell you: it’s the people in finance least happy with their lives. Or at least I think — just look at them. So busy.”
“So busy,” I agree.
“I’m not busy. I don’t fly that way.”
I want to tell him: most birds don’t, that’s natural. But I don’t.
“I’m not that busy either.”
“Good.”
I sip my soda, and glance at the sleeping man on my other side. I feel guilty for excluding him — I want to wake him up, tell him all about this man and myself. I want to talk afterwards with him about how the man was a bird. I want us to all cheers ginger ale. Birdman goes back to his book, as Sleepman snores on. It is common practice in Plane-Universe to stare at the way things are. I have always wanted to break an airplane window and touch a cloud, but hundreds of lives are not worth momentary tactile satisfaction. There are many other windows I’ve wanted to break.
“Ah, you seem bored. Do you know a good game?” Birdman asks suddenly.
“Yes, actually. You look at someone and say their story: all the gruesome detail, all their
trauma and values and dreams.”
“And then?”
“You just assume you’re right, and go on with your life. It’s only harmless with strangers.”
“Ah, let’s play.”
“You can start.”
“Thank you.” He pauses. “The man next to us shot his wife.”
I’m startled: this game is usually peaceful. You want to see the good in strangers, to empathize, to love them and their flaws. You want their happy endings and resilience. You don’t want them to be evil.
“I’m not sure… that’s not usually how it goes.”
“But I followed all the rules.”
“I’ve never seen anyone play like that.”
“Ah, originality.” He seems satisfied with himself.
“Well now I’m nervous.”
“Why are you nervous?”
“I’m next to a murderer.”
“But you’re not. I made that up.”
“You’re forgetting the rules.”
“I’m sorry.”
I don’t want to keep playing.
We surge through Outside-Universe in silence for a while. The flight attendant comes around a few more times. Birdman and I do not cheers our second drink. When the pilot announces our imminent landing, Birdman and I both put on our seatbelts.
“You don’t do it until you’re told to,” he observes.
“You don’t either.”
“Ah, you’re right. If it’s loose enough that it’s not uncomfortable, it doesn’t do anything anyways.”
“That’s a dangerous way of thinking. I just forget after I’ve peed the first time.”
“Kid,” he looks at me with a slight smile. I’m not a kid. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t scare me. You just… didn’t play the game right.”
“I’m sorry.”
We hit turbulence quite badly before landing, and I’m suddenly nauseous. I take a few deep breaths, and fake-swallow to ease my pressured ears. Despite this pain, we land safely. The flight attendant walks by one more time, waking Sleepman-Murderer on her way. He hmmphs disorientedly, and turns on his phone. I wait for him to strike, to stab me or shoot me or slip poison in my water bottle when I’m not looking. He does not do so. People start filing out, and my row stands up, almost in unison. Sleepman-Murderer darts out. I look back at Birdman. This is my last chance.
“Are you in love with the flight attendant?” The words rush out of my mouth.
“No,” he says, calmly, but with slight disappointment, as if he had anticipated both this question and my resulting dismay. Sometimes I lose the game. “Are you?”
“No.”
“Ah, that’s okay,” he says, stepping through the aisle and flying back into Outside-Universe, where he is in love with someone else.