The Mechanic

[CW: LANGUAGE]

One rusty screw was all it took to end the lives of sixty passengers and four crew members on flight 2137. Sixty four lives ruined, sixty five if Michael Reid, the last mechanic to work on the aircraft, was counted on the list. Michael knew he was to blame the moment news got back that the Embraer 175 crashed during a routine flight from Reno, Nevada to Portland, Oregon. It was not unusual to hear about a recent crash when working in the aviation industry, people know people so word spreads rather quickly. However, hearing that this particular aircraft went down, the one Michael worked on last, he knew his career and his life were over.

If only he had replaced the rusted screw, it would not have taken much work. Hop in his truck, drive the quarter mile to home base, grab a new screw, return back to the aircraft and replace the damn thing. But no. Instead, he favored a much lazier approach and ignored the issue, if it held up this long then the rust could not be in that dire condition. His job was to readjust the lock on the cargo door, not dismantle the damn thing. Even doing just that was half-assed in favor of getting the flight out on time, and that he did.

Until the investigation came to a close, he was put on probation. God he wished things had been different. There was no chance of fixing his mistake, no going back in time to do his damn job correctly, no bringing back the dead. He knew what had happened before anyone else, but cowardice and guilt outweighed the desire to come clean and own up to not changing the screw, not fixing the lock properly. All in favor of flight time. In favor of speed, not safety.

What he thought, no, what he knew was this, the rusted screw gave way to pressure, straining the rest of the lock enough to snap in crucial areas holding it together. Adding pressure to the rest of the locking mechanisms on the door mixed with the now uneven air pressure inside the cargo hold fighting with the outside air pressure and boom. The door gives way and the floor above ruptures, pulling passengers and luggage out into open air. The pilots were experienced, but landing an E175 with a hole in it is much more difficult than one would anticipate. And so, they crash. No survivors. All because of one fucking screw.

He knew he should not drink about it, but how could he not? His career was over, nobody would hire him after this, if he even had his freedom left once the investigators found him at fault. A life sentence was potentially waiting for him. Seven years for every soul lost. That was what the training modules drilled into everyone. Seven. Years. May as well drink while he can.

The dimly lit hanging lights illuminated the establishment rather poorly as Michael nearly tripped over the entry way rug. Shit, he hoped he did not come across more intoxicated than he already was. The rush of cold air hissed to a close with the heavy wooden door, stale warmth enveloping him as he straightened his coat and took a seat at the bar. It was busy for a Tuesday, with two tables and an extra bar stool left as all others were full of patrons. Maybe he could strike up a conversation with someone tonight, maybe even go home with them if luck was on his side. Not that there was much to show for that being the case.

Ordering an old fashion he mentally prepared for the “You sure this is you” onslaught when handing over his ID. Christ alive, can a guy not order a drink without a million questions hurled at him? He really needed to get on updating the damn thing, not that it would matter soon anyway. There were more pressing matters at hand now than his all too feminine drivers licence photo. She was not him anymore, that was no longer his name, that was not his gender, but the government did not want to acknowledge those facts. So yes, that was in fact him in the photo, he even kept the long hair, see?

This drink was much more bitter than the one he ordered down the street, before he lost an argument with the bartender and was escorted out quite rudely. Wrong whiskey? Or maybe the orange peel was not as fresh as the last. Regardless, Michael savored the drink as long as he could, eyes scanning his surroundings for anyone to catch his eye. There was a man, thin and near his height, who finally took notice of him. His demeanor was a bit shifty, closed off and guarded to a degree, not holding anyone's gaze for too long. His eyes kept trailing back to Michael every so often though.

Not my type but may as well chat, he thought. Michael ordered the man a drink from across the bar and waited. It had only taken a few minutes before he was approached, hearing a quiet “thank you” that hung in the air behind him. The man's eyes were a cold gray, hollow looking and distant, and his hair rested at his shoulders in dark brown waves. He was pretty up close.

“Nobody has bought me a drink before…” He phrased it almost as if it were a question, pausing like he wanted to say more but changed his mind after a moment.

“Likewise. The name’s Michael,” he stuck his hand out in greeting, “And yours?”

Another pause, a wave of what could be best described as confusion flickered across the man's eyes. “Eli.” The moment was awkward for a breath before either of them spoke again.

“What brings you in here Eli?” A simple conversation starter for a simple interaction. Just two guys having a drink together, stop making it awkward, Michael thought to himself. Maybe he was just on edge from the day's events, or maybe he was always this strange when interacting with people. He could not really figure it out when cold gray eyes were locked unwavering on his own, warm brown.

“Long day at the office and needed a drink. And you?”

“What do you do for work?” A pause that dragged on for much longer than what was socially acceptable. Michael could not keep holding eye contact with him, he took a sip of his now watered down whiskey, Eli’s eyes staring deep into his now avoidant gaze.

“Finance. And you?” A soft sigh escaped Michael before he could stop himself.

“Aircraft maintenance tech, currently on probation sooo,” He shrugged his shoulders and gestured outward to the dingy establishment, “now I’m here…”

“Ah, cool job. Whatcha do to get booted?” The casual tone felt like a knife to the gut. He had not been booted. Not yet at least. Michael was not about to open up about his predicament just yet so he mumbled a quick story of miscalculations and, in a stretch of truth, grounding an aircraft causing a delay. That incident occurred months ago but he figured not talking about the crash was for the best, especially while the investigation was ongoing.

The stale chatter lasted well into the night, eventually dying off when Michael took a chance at offering to take Eli to a club down the road to dance, hoping the close contact and another drink would lead to more interesting conversation. It did, eventually, finally. Eli was a better dancer than he was a talker, growing bold enough to even rant about his passions when they took breaks throughout the night to smoke outside in the chill of the night turned early morning.

With a sudden break in music, the overhead lights flickered on and a collective round of displeasure erupted from the small crowd. Two in the morning, closing time for all the bars in town. Shit, Michael was not ready to face his troubles so soon, dancing was an escape from it all and he was not even tired yet.

“Come home with me.” It had a questioning undertone but was more a desperate statement as to not be alone with his thoughts. Michael did not mean to come across so needy, but the moment he was left alone to think he would crumble. “I’ll call us a ride and we can get out of here together.”

“How about we just walk back to mine?” Even better. Home was not exactly a comfortable space for two, let alone one. Four hundred square feet of studio mess was not exactly giving an I want to spend the night with you kind of vibe.

“Sounds great, how far is the walk?”

“Not far, I’m just a few blocks away from here.” Hand in hand they began a leisurely walk out of the club, each lighting a cigarette and avoiding the thinning crowd of tired people. Michael was sobering up fast in the cold, the temperature was sure to have been in the twenties at this hour and likely dropping fast. Street lights illuminated their path, enveloping them in a soft golden glow. Frost was forming on the leaves littering the ground, crunching with their steps. Everything felt peaceful, a calm that takes away all worries with each exhale.

Michael could pretend everything was fine for the rest of the night. He was good at that, pretending. He spent his life pretending everything was fine, emotionally avoiding all the heartache the world had to offer him, what was one more night? What he was not going to do was get his hopes up about Eli becoming a constant in his life after waking up next to each other in the morning. Just one night was fine by him.

“My place is just around the corner. We have it to ourselves tonight since my brother is out of town.” Good. Michael was not in the mood to have to be quiet tonight. He needed the sort of intimacy that left the drywall behind the bed frame permanently damaged. Security deposit be damned, sorry Eli.

“Oh? Where did he run off to?”

“Portland. He left this morning, well, yesterday morning now.”

Michael’s blood ran cold. It was not the kind of chill felt from the temperature in the air dropping below freezing, or the chill felt from the light snow beginning to fall, landing on his exposed face and blowing down the back of his collar. His heart hammered in his chest, ringing in his eardrums and twisting his stomach to the point of nausea. Eli’s fucking brother was on that flight.

Above them, the street light flickered as the both came to a stop just a few paces away from the front door of the apartment complex. The building was all brick, dinged with age and foliage growing up the sides of the door frame. That man would never step foot through this door ever again. He would never see his family ever again. He would never…

Michael was in crisis mode. He was the reason this man’s brother was dead. He needed to leave. Letting go of Eli’s hand and stepping back, he opened his mouth to speak. Nothing. No words came out. A soft questioning, “Michael?” escaped Eli as he studied the shift in demeanor from his companion.

Fuck fuck fuck Everything is wrong. Everything is so incredibly fucked up, Michael thought repetitively. Run run run run run…

“I have to go.” He was already turning on his heel to leave when Eli made an attempt at grabbing his sleeve to halt his movement.

“Wait, hang on, wait. If I said something wrong I’m sorry please don’t-”

Michael was already running. Of course this would only happen to him. Of course he would meet the one guy in the shitty dive bar to have family on the aircraft he downed. Tears threatened to escape and he picked up his pace to make it back to his car. He was not fit to drive but he could not care any less at that moment. Besides, he already killed sixty four people, what were the chances he upped that number? If he was lucky, the next person to die would be him. He deserved it anyway.

He made it back to his car out of breath and exhausted, slamming into it with his full body weight and rummaging through his pockets for the keys. He was dizzy with nausea and likely going to throw up at any moment. Shivering, wet, and disgusted with himself, it was all too much. Where the hell were his keys? Shit, did he lose them in the club?

There, in the left inner pocket of his jacket. After two fumbling attempts he unlocked the door to the beat up Camry and clambered inside. Where was he supposed to go at this hour? Home did not bring any comfort and the place was a mess anyway. The casinos downtown? All of them would be open at this hour he could take his pick. The weight of guilt was heavy on his shoulders as he heaved back a sob. Anywhere would be better than here.

Shoving the key into the ignition the car sputtered once, twice, three times. Nothing. Again, the engine shuddered and died out. Again. Come on come on come on… Dead battery. He shouted a range of profanity, punching the wheel and heaving another sob. Why now? Why today? He slammed his head against the steering wheel, relishing the throbbing pain in his forehead. Nausea was crawling up his throat as he fought back the urge to throw up.

Outside the car, snow was beginning to pile up in the near empty lot. A thin sheet of glistening white under the golden street lights. It was almost serene, almost. A couple walking past, chatting quietly among themselves. A lone bird, landing on an overflowing trash can in search of food. A stray cat trotting by. Michael, now throwing up between sobs outside the car door.

Clambering out of the driver's seat and over the pile of wet vomit he curled up in the cold snow. It was already soaking through his jeans and jacket making him shiver even more. God he wanted more than anything to just forget. No, not forget, but re-do the past twenty four hours. Go back and just do his job the right way. Catch a delay on the flight and let them arrive late rather than not at all.

His alarm to wake up for work began blaring in his back pocket. How did he forget to turn those off? Michael just let it ring, screw it. Nothing matters anymore, not really. Snow was piling up on him in large clumps, it was an embarrassing sight. The car door opened, vomit at his feet as he was curled up in the damp and freezing snow, phone alarm sounding off. Anyone looking on would pity him in his drunken state. There was nobody to look on though, three am was a relatively unpopulated time in this area of the city. Michael gazed up to the sky, large snowflakes crowding his vision, golden street lights blurring his vision, and he cried. A miserable sight. All too deserved in his mind. Michael closed his eyes and waited for sleep to envelop him.