Author: Bill Clegg
Category: Fiction
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I wander the airport for what seems like hours before getting in the line for security. I occasionally get brazen with some of the people I think are following me, look them squarely in the eye and smile, even joke several times that this must be a tedious assignment. They usually respond with a smirk or a rolled eye. At one point, when the tension is great, I imagine jumping from the third-floor balcony next to the escalator to avoid the arrest I know is coming. But the height looks too meager, not capable of causing more than a broken leg or two.
Later, bone-tired from hours of pacing the airport in a state of sustained panic and crashing from nearly a week of getting high, I finally turn to one of these guys, a younger one, and ask, Why don’t you just get it over with? to which he chuckles and says, It’s much more fun later, once you’re somewhere else. Just wait. I am certain he says this. I freeze at these words and decide finally to get in line, take my shoes and belt off, and go through the metal detector. It’s not possible that I will make it to the other side, and I’m now so wrung out that I just need it to be over.
But I make it through. I make it through and feel, briefly, cautiously, elated. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe it’s just the drugs, whose good effects have all fled, leaving the body that held them shattered and its mind delusional. I make it to the gate and the flight is already boarding. I hesitate a few times as I see, again, a few of the JCPenneys wandering around the seating area near the gate. The words of the younger Penney ring in my head but I am desperate for a vodka and somewhere in my bag are over-the-counter sleeping pills. If I can just crash in that big plush seat and pass out, I will be okay. If I can just get on that plane and away from these goons, I know I will be safe. So I march over to the check-in, hand the ticket agent my boarding pass, and get on.
My seat is on the aisle, in the second row to the right. Never has anything looked so welcoming. I sit down and begin to feel the high panic of the last two and a half hours slowly fade. I exhale and look out the window to the tarmac and ground crew loading luggage. This is the first time I realize that the bag I checked the day before was on a flight I never boarded. Worrying about a lost bag now seems like a lucky luxury and I decide not to think about it until I get to Berlin.
I stow my tote bag under the seat, sit back up, and close my eyes for a few minutes. Finally, I think, safe. And then, when I turn around to find a stewardess, the wind knocks out of me. I see them. The Penneys. One, two, three, four, at least five of them are sitting all throughout the cabin. At just this moment, one of the stewardesses leans down toward one and speaks softly. About me, no doubt. About the arrest about to take place in Amsterdam or Berlin. Or right here. Right now. The entire cabin suddenly seems to me like a set, like some elaborate stage prop created to replicate the first-class cabin of an airplane. The napkins seem to be flimsy fakes, the stewardesses actresses, and the Penneys androids—half human, half robot, emotionless and menacing.
One of the stewardesses is suddenly at my side. She asks, in a tone that sounds mocking and insincere, if I’d like a drink. I’m frightened by the Penneys, but I’m agitated by her. Angry, even. I ask her if the plane is, in fact, actually going to be landing in Amsterdam. She looks confused, but not as confused as I think she should look, so I ask, Don’t you think this is an awfully complicated piece of theater for just one person? She looks at me for a few seconds, excuses herself, and walks away. Moments later she returns with the captain, who politely asks me to gather my belongings and follow him off the plane. I can barely move. And even though I know this is the long-awaited arrest that’s been coming since I got in the car at the hotel, I am relieved when the captain puts his hand on my shoulder and says, Let’s go. Like a scolded kid, and with everyone in the cabin watching, I grab my bag and follow him off the plane.
But there is no arrest. Instead, the captain explains to me that after 9/11 they need to be cautious and that what I said to the stewardess alarmed her enough that they don’t feel comfortable having me on the flight. I notice his jacket, its hokey military mimicry—epaulets, stripes. Like everything on the plane, his uniform—shabby compared to the memory of my father’s—looks like a flimsy, slapped-together costume. He asks if I have been drinking, to which I answer yes, that I get nervous before flying and drank some to calm my nerves. How I form these thoughts and words, I have no idea. I apologize for alarming the stewardess and just as I am about to make my way back toward security, a man in a white shirt with a binder filled with papers arrives. He says he is the head of operations for Continental at Newark and instantly apologizes to me for the confusion. He asks the captain to reconsider and it’s immediately clear that, for some reason, this guy really wants me on the flight. The captain respectfully declines and begins to get visibly annoyed when the operations guy presses him further. I stay very quiet as this plays out. The operations guy finally gives up and the captain wishes me luck and heads back to the cockpit. I watch him disappear into the jetway and have to suppress the sudden urge to call out to him. I have no idea what I’d say if I did, but I know that when he’s gone, I want him to come back.
The operations guy asks to see my passport and continues to be apologetic. I tell him it’s fine, that I’ll just go home and fly out tomorrow. He tells me not to worry, that he’ll have me on another plane tonight. He steps away, makes a few phone calls on his cell, just out of earshot, and comes back to say that he’s booked me, first class, on an Air France flight that goes to Berlin through Paris. It’s all taken care of, and the flight departs in forty-five minutes from a nearby gate. Another person with binders arrives. The little group escorts me to an Air France counter, where a ticket is produced, and then to the gate. I am there for less than ten minutes when the flight begins to board. At this point things have moved so swiftly that I’ve barely been able to keep pace. I do, though, have a strong sense that someone—not just the operations guy from Continental—wants me on a flight tonight.
And then I see them. Three Penneys standing near the gate. Glancing my way, holding tickets, huddled together like the Three Stooges of badly dressed espionage. At first, I’m angry. And then the last words of the young Penney from before roar through my head.
Just wait.
The people continue to board the plane over the next fifteen minutes until the waiting area around the gate is nearly empty. A few last-minute stragglers wander over, and several people rush to the ticket agent with their boarding passes, relieved not to have missed the flight. Finally, there are just the three Penneys and me. The ticket agent speaks to them. They remain near the desk but don’t board. One of the ticket agents comes up to me and asks if I have a ticket for this flight and tells me that it’s the last call for boarding. I tell her I get panic attacks and am not sure I’ll be flying tonight. I ask if everyone is on board and she gestures to the Penneys and says there are a few left to get on but the flight is nearly fully boarded. I tell her I need a minute. Again, as before, I feel as if I am at some terribly important juncture. If I go, I might get arrested in Paris or Berlin. If I stay, I might get arrested here. If I go and don’t get arrested, all might be fine after a few rough days with Noah. If I stay here and somehow don’t get arrested, I will keep using. This I know.
So I stand up, turn away from the gate, and expect to get arrested. I look back once and see two of the Penneys walk over to see if I’m walking back toward security. I don’t turn back again and start heading out toward baggage claim. I know that I won’t make it to the taxi stand. I’m about to be swarmed with Penneys, police, airport security, and God knows who else. The last lines from a novel I worked with years ago somehow surface through the panic. It would be now, they read. It would be now.
I fish for my cell phone and see that it’s on its last bar, which is blinking red. I call David. It’s after eleven and his wife, Susie, picks up. I apologize and tell her it’s important and ask if David is there. They are clearly in bed. He picks up, asks what’s going on. I tell him I’m about to get arrested for drugs at Newa
rk Airport and that I need him to find a good lawyer. I’m probably shouting when I tell him he has to move fast because he shushes me and tells me to calm down. He asks where I am in the airport and I tell him I’m about to pass out of the departure gate into the baggage claim area. He says to just stay on the line and get in a taxi and come home. I tell him I’m not going to make it to the taxi and then the line goes silent. The battery dies. I keep walking. No one is stopping me. I cross the departure terminal and into baggage claim. Suddenly the Penneys have all disappeared. I’m convinced they’ve raced out of the terminal through the upper level and are waiting at the taxi stand. I walk out of the baggage claim area, through the automatic doors, and cross the street. A taxi comes up. I get in. The driver asks, Where to? I say, One Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, but because I expect we’ll be pulled over before we leave the airport, I warn him it’s going to be a short ride. He grumbles and pulls away from the curb. I look at his ID and the photo is unobstructed and shows the same gray-haired, bearded Indian man driving the cab.
I’m floating in a state of shock. Every second that passes, every inch the taxi moves forward without sirens and the glare of flashing lights seems like a miracle. Then it occurs to me that they’re all probably just waiting at the apartment. I ask the driver if I can use his cell phone. He passes it back and I call David. I’m in the cab, I tell him, but I don’t know that we’ll make it to the building. He says he’ll meet me in the lobby and to calm down. I agree as the taxi speeds toward the tunnel, back into the city. I can’t believe I’ve made it this far. I can picture the spectacle of police cars and unmarked DEA vehicles surrounding One Fifth, lights strobing and tenants’ faces lit with appalled interest. I wonder if Trevor, my favorite doorman, is on the desk tonight and what he’ll think when I get cuffed and carted off.
But there is no spectacle. Just David, with bed hair, bundled in a coat, waiting in the lobby. He looks exhausted and annoyed and says he’s spending the night. In the morning we go to breakfast and he asks which rehab I want him to take me to and despite the grim concern I see on his face I answer, None.
We sit in the front window at Marquet, on stools, and the day outside and everyone in it flashes like a taunt. This is a shiny world, I think, for the Davids and the Noahs, for people whose lives I can only see as unblemished and lucky. A place where I’ve been allowed a visit but cannot stay. A place I’ve already left.
David walks out of the restaurant and doesn’t look back. Whatever his last words are, I don’t remember, but they are quick and clear and sad.
Under Control
He’s ten. It’s dinnertime. He’s a little more excited than usual because he has a friend over, Kenny, and his uncle Teddy from San Diego is visiting for a few days. He loves Uncle Teddy. He has a pool, asks lots of questions about school, and is one of the only people who can make his father laugh, lighten him up. His mother makes hamburger gravy—a dish that takes ground beef and stretches it out with canned cream of mushroom soup and onion soup mix and is poured over biscuits or rice or mashed potatoes. Or maybe she’s made creamed chicken. Same idea as the hamburger gravy but with a bag of frozen vegetables—peas, carrots, pearl onions. These are the dishes she makes—the ones she learned in Youngstown, Ohio, when there was little money, after her father died, the ones she made as a stewardess living in Queens with four roommates. He loves these dishes; will eat them as if there is never enough and have seconds and thirds. His father calls them slop. Tonight he says he can’t believe she wanted to feed shit like this to his brother. When he is home from one of his trips, he usually cooks something else—a piece of fish on the grill, a boiled lobster—which is what he’s doing tonight.
The kitchen is crowded. His mother fusses at the stove. His older sister, Kim, is setting the table, and his younger brother, Sean, and younger sister, Lisa, are watching TV in the next room. His father’s large crystal tumbler is full of Scotch, and his uncle Teddy holds a bottle of beer.
The boys are taunting the lobsters in the sink, making up names for them and running commentary on their crustaceal movements the way sportscasters would a wrestling match. Kenny names the runt Mama-Pet, their nickname for Kim, and the two of them giggle as the bigger lobsters climb all over it. Oh noooooo… Mama-Pet! Kenny turns to Kim, who is doing homework at the dinner table, and says, Run, Mama-Pet! You’re getting crushed. Run! Mama-Pet, run! The two boys can barely speak they are laughing so hard. It goes on and on until Kim storms off with a slammed book and a bloodcurdling I hate you two! They love it and are dizzy with laughter. Uncle Teddy laughs, too, and gently tells them they’re terrible, but it’s clear he is amused.
Dinner is served and his father is quiet. Teddy is younger, but someone outside the family would probably think he was the patriarch, the eldest of the seven brothers and sisters, the leader. Maybe this is why it feels safe to talk at dinner. Maybe the easy laughter in the kitchen and Teddy’s smiling approval gives him just the confidence he needs to open his mouth. And so he does. He tells Teddy about his soccer team. How they travel to nearby towns; how he plays right inside, sometimes center. He tells him about Joe, the heaviest kid in the class, who is also one of the fastest, and how he plays halfback and scores the most goals. His father is quiet through this but gets up a few times to go to the kitchen to refill his drink. Kenny talks about their classmate Dennis, who, he says, doesn’t bathe and lives in a house without running water. Dennis has a deformed eyelid, one that folds over half his left eye even when open, and Kenny explains how this was caused by malnutrition when he was a baby. That his family is so poor they couldn’t afford to feed him.
His mother says something nice about Dennis’s family. Kim tells Kenny to shut up.
The boys keep chattering—about school, Kenny’s sisters, who knows what—and Teddy listens to both of them, patiently, and laughs his quick rat-a-tat-tat laugh, which only eggs them both on.
Lisa plays with her food, and Sean is in the high chair.
From a distance it looks like any other family. From a distance, he looks like any other boy. Laughing with his friend. Talking about soccer. Dressed in cords and turtleneck like all the other boys his age. Even if you looked closely, you couldn’t see how he is a boy who prays at night not to wake up.
He says something, something now long forgotten, and his father finally speaks up and says, Oh, yeah, Willie, is that so? He challenges whatever was said, whether it be about soccer, Dennis, school, the moths flapping madly against the porch lights outside. It doesn’t seem so harsh, but he knows his father is just getting started. Still, he feels emboldened by the hour before in the kitchen—Uncle Teddy, Kenny—he feels in league with them and, so, safe. He talks about something else. It doesn’t matter what. His father then says something that no one else understands, but he does. Looks like you’ve got it all figured out, Willie, he taunts. Looks like you’re really on top of things. As his father speaks, he knows he’s gone too far and not to say another word. Have your act together, do you, Willie? The voice is all Boston, all Scotch. All your problems under control? Any problems you want to talk about? Or should I? How about that? By this point no one will be speaking or understanding what’s going on. But he understands. And he’s praying that his father will stop and that he won’t, not this time, finally start spilling what he knows, what he’ll always have over him. He wonders if he’s told Uncle Teddy, because Teddy’s looking at him oddly now. Is it pity or disgust? He can’t tell. His face grows hot in the tense air and finally Uncle Teddy starts to talk about Chris, his son, and how he’s in a play or on a team or building a tree house.
The dinner winds down, and the awkward patch is ignored and forgotten. His mother asks for help in the kitchen and complains about how her back is acting up again. Could be a slipped disk, she says and sighs. His father rolls his eyes, Kim rushes to scrub dishes at the sink, and he and Kenny carry a few bowls into the kitchen and take off upstairs.
At some point before sleep he heads to the bathroom, and it takes lon
ger than usual. His mother knocks once, Kenny a few times; he runs the water, does the dance, makes the mess and cleans it all up. It’s done, but when he returns to his room, where Kenny is already asleep, it seems far from over.
Morning
I’ve been at the Gansevoort Hotel for almost two weeks. There have been other rooms, in other hotels. They are all near One Fifth—SoHo, the West Village, Chelsea—but feel worlds away, in neighborhoods I’ve never visited. I check in under names from childhood—Kenny Schweter, Michael Lloyd, Adam Grant-West—and explain that I’m in a fight with my girlfriend and am not looking to be found. No one ever blinks. They simply look at my passport, run the debit card, and hand me a key.
I’ve been at the Gansevoort the longest. I’ve stayed only a night or two, four tops, at the other places, 60 Thompson, the W, the Maritime, the Washington Square Hotel. These were after Newark, after the nights at Mark’s, and after New Canaan, Connecticut, where my friends Lili and Eliza checked me into Silver Hill, a rehab I immediately checked out of. After I scored from the driver who picked me up, he dropped me at a Courtyard Marriott hotel in Norwalk, where I stayed until the drugs ran out—romancing the prospect of dying a few miles down the road from the hospital where I was born.
I’ve changed rooms a few times at the Gansevoort and am now in a suite that the manager says, because I am staying at least a few weeks, he’s giving me for nearly half price. It didn’t just occur to him; when I changed rooms, I asked the person at reception what sort of extended-stay discount they could offer.