The Woodhouse - Wilmington College

Short Story
A Seemingly Inconsequential
Meeting
by Shawna Hamm
Today could quite possibly be the last day of my life.
I am hurtling at what feels like the speed of a comet,
racing forward at eighty miles per hour in a shiny, silver
Impala. Like a gazelle. Isn’t an impala a type of gazelle?
In any case, this car could be the vehicle of my death,
driving me forward at a neck-breaking gazelle-like pace.
My friend Chels is driving me to the airport, taking me to
an even larger vehicle of death. I feel like I’m in Death’s
Carriage, and poor Chels with her silver blonde hair and
pale complexion is the Grim Reaper, delivering me to my
doom.
We are in her parents’ car headed for the airport in
Columbus. The morning is cold, rainy, dreary. The heat is
at full blast, easing both me and Chels into a comfortable,
sleepy stupor. It’s possible that Chels could get too
comfortable, too sleepy, and suddenly pass out at the
wheel, falling on the horn, it blaring like a sort of dull roar,
the roar of an angry beast smashing into construction
cones and nearby cars, eventually plowing through
concrete dividers and plummeting down onto another
highway fifty feet below, exploding in a brilliant fiery blaze
that can be seen for hundreds of miles away, with body
parts and car parts flying everywhere, hitting innocent
horror-struck bystanders and motorists that are crying out
in a panic: “Why God, oh why?!”
My stomach growls and shakes uneasily. A small but
cataclysmic earthquake is taking place inside of me,
causing me to retch in the back of my throat. When I woke
up this morning, I thought I was going to die, just implode
ever so slightly, and then explode magnificently. Or else
vomit.
I haven’t been able to eat anything, and I bend over
slightly, my stomach growling with hunger, nagging at
me like some old bitter hag at the grocery store, bitching
about some coupon that expired a month ago that she
“just got in the mail,” pissed that she can’t use it now; I am
nauseous because I’m nervous. If it was the last day of
your life, you’d be nervous too.
“You alright, man?” Chels says, glancing wearily at my
pale, contorted face.
“Yeah dude, I’m fine. Just somewhat nervous.”
“A little nervous, huh?”
“I’m nervous as fuck, dude.”
“Aw shit man! I missed the fucking exit.”
The Columbus airport exit flashes by me on my right.
Perhaps death could be averted today, after all.
“That’s alright dude, we’ll just find another exit and
turn around,” I say calmly, trying to play the role of
unconcerned frequent-flyer. I am a veteran of the skies.
But of course I am going to be late for the epic take-off
of the Death Machine. Somehow, God finds this hilarious.
Eventually we are smart enough to listen to the GPS
mounted on the dashboard of the car, affectionately
nicknamed “Betty,” and we make it to the airport.
Teamwork prevails once more.
“Do you want me to just drop you off at the front or go
in with you? Will you be alright, I mean?”
Maybe it was my deer-in-headlights look or the highpitched
panic in my voice that was the warning signal of
impending disaster, like a tornado siren that wailed and
screamed, indicating that you have five minutes before I’m
swept up and away, in a whirlwind like fucking Dorothy in
the Wizard of Oz, and I’ll never be seen again. I’m about
to leave Kansas.
“I thought you were going in with me? I mean, you’re
not going in with me? Would you maybe go in with me?”
“Of course, dude, of course.”
Chels has a kind heart.
“Do you want me to pay for the parking pass-ticketthing?”
I sure as hell hope not. I didn’t bring any cash.
“Nah, I’ve got it, don’t worry. It’s not much anyways,
maybe a couple of bucks.”
Thank God. I don’t have any cash anyways.
We ultimately made it inside the airport, where I learn
all about the new and astounding do-it-yourself-printyour-own-ticket
kiosk. And the huge giant T.V. screen
that announces arrivals and departures. Learning is afoot
today. Kind of like Sasquatch, lurking about in a dark
forest, gnashing its teeth, a foamy white drool dripping
down its mouth, just waiting for the opportune moment to
snatch an innocent babe and eat it whole—watch out for
it.
At the security checkpoint, Chels and I hug goodbye.
I feel like I’m being sentenced to a Nazi death camp—I’ll
be sent left if I’m deemed too weak to work, or not blonde
enough, and then condemned to die a horrible deathby-shower.
Hopefully I’m sent to the right because I am
strong and agile, always on the prowl like a sleek panther.
Either way, I know I won’t be taking the middle path—that
one is reserved for “Experienced Frequent Fliers of the
Mile-High Club.” This is the point of no-return.
“I’ll miss you. Hope you have a good time.”
“Thanks man, thanks for driving me, and for
everything.”
“No problem. Have fun.”
My mouth was dry, so dry, as if I had eaten a fucking
cotton sandwich for breakfast.
■ ■ ■
I have somehow made it on to the plane, on to the
machine that could very well consign me to my end. The
very idea of a plane is rebellious. It defies gravity, roaring
and fighting to free itself from its home on Earth, longing
to sail in the sky and touch the clouds.
I am an adolescent, teenage Superman rebelling
against my life. I will touch those fucking clouds.
The plane is tiny, cramped, crowded, dark, stuffy.
Babies are screaming, crying, whining, smelly and unruly.
Those babies don’t want to sit in a confined space with
only ten inches in front of them, with that other guy in the
seat next to them using up all the fucking arm rest with
their stupid, pushy elbow, fucker, any more than I do. I
can’t blame them. I’m on the verge of throwing a tempertantrum.
The pilot comes over the intercom, shooting the shit
about the weather, our destination, departure and arrival
times, like anyone gives a shit, blah blah blah, oh yeah
and by the way, the plane is slightly overweight, too many
people possibly, too much baggage, perhaps just too
many fucking fat people, but we’ll be fine we won’t run out
of gas not to worry we’ll take off anyway, enjoy your flight!
Click.
What the fuck? The fuck? Overweight? We. Are.
Going. To. Crash. And. Die. Hopefully I can land on one of
those fat, squishy people that caused this, and bounce off
of their soft, cushiony body like a fucking trampoline.
I can only hope that my reason for risking death is
worth it. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met him.
I am flying to Washington from Ohio—pretty much
across the country—for a guy I’ve never met. We’ve
known each other for at least two years, but the nature
of our relationship up
until this point has
been of the internet
type, consisting of a
few phone calls now
and then, just to make
sure the computer
has a face, to make
sure that another
human being exists
out there in the world,
to reassure ourselves
that A.I. hasn’t
completely taken over
the world yet and is
fucking with our minds
and emotions. Stupid
computers.
On a whim, simply
on a whim, I decided
to fly to meet him. He
said yes. All is right in
the world.
“Would you like
something to drink?
Or would you like to buy
a box lunch?”
The stewardess is standing there behind her narrow
metal cart, like some queen behind her impregnable
fortress, staring at me as if I’m inconveniencing her.
“Coke®, please.” I am so not paying ten dollars for a
fucking bite of a sandwich. I pay good money for the plane
ticket, and they can’t even give me a damn sandwich onthe-house.
Somehow, the world makes sense again. All
the better—I’d probably just end up throwing the sandwich
right back at her, in the form of flying chunks.
Two women behind me are discussing their children,
sons from what I can gather (which is a lot because
they’re fucking loud). Perfect angels. How cute. The
conversation goes a little something like this:
Mother 1. Yeah, Brian is going to the University of
Seattle. He’s such a great student, straight
A’s, majoring in Business Politics.
Mother 2. Oh wow, that’s great!
Nods enthusiastically
Mother 1. He’s kind of going through a phase, you know,
where he has blue streaks in his hair, but oh!
It looks so cool, though!
Mother 2. Oh really?
Nods attentively, looking grossly absorbed in
the enthralling tale
Mother 1. He’s just a cool kind of kid. He’s always been
that way, kind of different, you know. He’s
studying Japanese and wants to go to Japan
in the next year. I’m just so proud of him.
Bats her eyelashes and smiles softly to
herself, bursting with pride, as if all is well in
Cotton Candy Sky
by Tristann Jones
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The Woodhouse • Spring 2010 The Woodhouse • Spring 2010
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