Gate P

It is a wonder why he did not put a “fragile” or “caution” sticker on his bag. If the TSA officer only new the gravity of the situation. Fortunately, no sense is paid to his belongings as demonstrated by their careless handling. He checks the bag and its contents are unscathed. A heavy sigh is released. Slipping into the nearest restroom, he darts over to the mirror and catches his reflection: sunglasses and hoodie are now in place. Soon after, he is maneuvering through the crowds towards the entrance of the gate and then through the jet bridge. The last group to board. He makes all effort to avoid any collisions with his bag; its precious cargo. Smiling nervously towards the cockpit; his shoulders relax to see the doors already closed. With eyes drawn downward, refraining from acknowledgment of the flight attendants. Discretion is a lost artform. Doubt suddenly suffocating him – is the package still inside the bag? Is it still intact? With his heart rate increasing and his breath becoming shallow, he stands in the queue. Waiting and waiting. He pays no mind to the unoccupied space in the overhead compartments; his bag will not be leaving his sight. Finally, situated in his window seat towards the back of the plane (with empty seats adjacent), he sends a quick text message:

Hope you have a safe flight- seems it is on time. Can’t wait to see you again. Enjoy the skies.

The cabin chime is heard from above, followed by the illumination of the “seatbelt” and “no smoking” signs. With sweaty palms, he secures the buckle with an audible click. The reality of his situation sets in and he attempts to strategize, but immediately finds himself grabbing the emesis bag (no contents are spilled due to his unintentional fast). The roar of the engine commences and the climb of altitude ensues. He believes to be at the desired altitude. The rattling of the service cart being employed confirms his suspicion. Leaning forward on the edge of his seat, he captures a glimpse of the flight attendant in charge of the cart and falls back into his chair, looking up towards the heavens while mouthing “Shit”. He is acquainted with her; he resecures his sunglasses and hoodie.

“What can I get for you, sir?” asks the flight attendant.

“Two Vodkas and two tonic waters please” he says with an almost desperation to hasten this interaction.

“Of course, sir.” She eyes him a bit closer with furrowed brow. “Is everything alright, sir?”

He quickly rights himself. “Yes, it’s just that flying make me nervous.”

She nods slightly, returning to the cart and then hands him the two bottles of

vodka.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we seem to be out of tonic water. The only other mixer available at this time is ginger ale.”

He waves his hands beckoning her to give him the cans, “I’ve never had ginger ale before, but frankly I’ll take whatever you have.”

She hands him the two cans of ginger ale. With some hesitation, she lingers in his periphery for a few seconds longer then departs with the cart.

His hands cannot move fast enough; he twists the cap of the vodka bottle then angles the tab of the can with swiftness. He wins the silent race of cocktail maker and without delay is gulping down the elixir of nerves. His mouth begins to open slightly, his breathing levels, and he allows his seat to take on the full weight of his body.

Every so often he shifts his legs to confirm the presence of his bag. Permitting himself some reprieve in the midst of his endeavors, he stares out the window. Taking in the array of colors gifted by the day’s conclusion, he begins to note an itch along his face as well as his neck. Assuming it to be the nerves of the day, he tries to dismiss such an annoyance. Except he cannot. The itching becomes relentless and the heaviness of his upper eyelids becomes recognizable.

Before long, with his bag secured on his person, he is in the lavatory and staring at himself in the mirror. With wide eyes and an open mouth he notes all the welts along his neck, along his face, and the swelling of his upper eyelids. Absolute panic follows: he rushes out of the lavatory looking for a flight attend (hell with recognition) pleading for aid.

The first flight attendant he comes across jolts back from him.

“Can you help me?! I think I am having an allergic reaction!” he almost yells.

Pulling herself together the flight attendant says “Sir, let’s get you back to your seat immediately and we will notify the pilot of your circumstance.”

“Do you have anything you can give me?” he asks while trying to restrain himself from clawing at his face and neck.

With forced confidence, the flight attendant guides him back to his seat, only a few feet away. She then rushes to the crew rest area, picking up the phone and relays information (presumably to the cockpit) that is inaudible to his ears.

His field of vision becomes smaller with bouts of blurriness not to mention the itching seems to have reached its climax.

He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, trying to keep the hyperventilation at bay.

If there was ever a way to die, I guess in the air with her would be it, he thinks.

The cabin chime dings twice and a familiar voice addresses the passengers:

“Good evening, passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We have a medical emergency on board and must reroute to the nearest airport immediately. In the meantime, if there are any medical professionals on board, please make yourself known to a flight attendant. Thank you.”

Frantically, he looks around to see if anyone identifies themselves but is only met with disappointment.

The flight attendant from earlier approaches out of concern when she closes her hand over her mouth and says, “Daniel? Is that you?! Oh my goodness!”

Before any interaction is to be had, the cabin chime is heard and the plane quickly begins to descend.

He continues to remind himself to take deep breaths; he cannot die on this plane. He cannot fail to deliver the package.

His ears have equalized and a loud, mechanical thud ignites a small relief in him.

The main aircraft door is opened and medical personnel make their way to the back of the plane.

If his cheeks were not already crimson, they would have turned so.

He is asked several questions, examined, and administered an antihistamine. With shaky legs, he is escorted to the front of the plane. Despite all that has transpired, he keeps his bag close and fumbles through it until the package is accessible.

Upon arriving at the cockpit, he notes a startled woman standing at the doorway.

“Daniel! What are you doing here?! What happened?!”

She carefully reaches for him, confusion and concern etched on her face.

“Hello, Jane. This is not how I envisioned this to go, but… “

And slowly, Daniel gets down on one knee.