SEVEN
The flight from Bangkok to Sydney had gone extraordinarily well. It was everything I had hoped flying would be. All catering was delivered to the aircraft in correct quantities and the aircraft was spotless on arrival. The Thai ground staff had even left us orchids on the forward galley bench with a note wishing us a pleasant flight. I admired the local airport workers, as I looked at the colourful orchids. They did their jobs with a genuine smile, unbegrudgingly with no moaning or complaints. I noticed what felt like guilt rising in my stomach, realizing I had barely acknowledged them was we passed each other in the aerobridge. The ease and success of our day depend on every gear of the human chain moving correctly and our Bangkok ground handlers were very well oiled indeed. Boarding was easy, no confused passengers unable to work out the alphabet seating sequence. No arguments over what constitutes an electronic device. If the passengers were easy to work with, the crew were even better. I had met the new crew in the hotel lobby, grateful not to be flying with Tanya, Simon, or anyone I had flown with so far. I could put Bali and Daniel Barron behind me. I wanted to crush the humiliation I felt when Simon told me about their impending marriage and forget about the poor guy who went over the cliff.
I was assigned my position in the mid galley with Margaret. She preferred to be called Mags. The passenger load was lighter than expected, providing time to chat with passengers. An elderly couple sitting together seemed to struggle with their entertainment system, I offered a hand and twenty minutes later, we were still talking about Buddhas and markets, and all things touristy in Bangkok. A stressed out mother travelling alone with three children, was glad to get them out of her sight while I gave them a tour of the galley. They watched in awe as the trash compacter made easy work of thirty-odd used plastic water bottles and were impressed to learn we were travelling nearly 950km per hour.
With meals services completed in shorter time than usual, I tried to remain busy to pass the time. I came across a mother traveling with her son, occupying the window and aisle seat on the right hand side of the aircraft. The young man looked uneasy, like something just wasn't quite right. As I approached it was obvious there was something upsetting their otherwise smooth flight. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, and shook his head, appearing to dismiss the mother's questions. At this point I was only reading gestures, and speculating about their dialogue.
"How you going there?" I asked, bending down to meet their eye level. They smiled back, their demeanour changing immediately from mysteriously concerned to happy holidaymaker. I was profiling them, asking a random question and hoping for anything that would give a hint to their inner thoughts or state of mind. The friendly greeting at the aircraft door and checking of the boarding pass, is not just for the sake of kindliness. You are being examined, scrutinised by the people who will have to spend the next 12 hours with you locked in a pressurised tube high above the earth. In other words, do I have to remove you from the aircraft? Because this is the last chance.
"Good, thank you," the mother replied calmly, smiling.
"How about you? Enjoying the flight?" I looked at the young man, who I guessed to be about eighteen, maybe nineteen.
"Yeh, good thanks. Just want to get there already," he said, still smiling.
I chuckled at his longing to get out of the aircraft. Everything seemed fine. Maybe I had been so bored that I was looking for some drama, I thought. He seemed tired. He was handsome. He shared the same brown hair and dark eyes and natural tan with his mother. His personality did not match what I expected from someone with good looks like his. He was humble, polite, and without a trace of conceit. Very unusual for someone with such good looks, I thought. Maybe it was his mother who had kept him inline up to this point in his life. She was polite herself, with a warm temperament, rather the stony cold type I had come across so often recently.
“Have you been on holidays orrrr..?”
“No, actually, I ahh, I've been in hospital,” said the young man.
"Ohh no, really?" I gave my concerned expression I reserved for times like these. "Yeh, I had heart surgery in Bangkok. The wait in Sydney was too long, and the price was much cheaper in Thailand."
I suddenly remembered the cabin leader mentioning a passenger with a medical clearance. I had forgotten all about it until then. If he had not mentioned it I would never have recognised him as the ill passenger. They continued their story, eating a good ten minutes of otherwise boring flight time. My ankles were getting sore kneeling so long, and I was feeling thirsty. I excused myself, pretending I needed to switch off a galley oven. In the galley, as I took a swig of water, I saw the flight paperwork. I flipped through the manifest and catering reports, and found the medical clearance form. His name was Bobby. A Thai doctor with a name I could not pronounce had filled out his medical clearance form. The document was messy, with multiple entries crossed out and re-written, and signatures and initials all over it. It was indecipherable, but someone had obviously deemed it acceptable.
There was water and green forests in view as we neared Sydney. We were about to take our seats for landing.
Bong, Bong, Bong.
Call bells were going off at a phase of flight when there should have been none.
"Help, help." I could hear coming from further down the cabin.
"I'll get it." I said to Mags, who was already buckled into her jumpseat in the mid galley.
What the hell could be so important before landing?!
I walked down hurriedly to defuse whatever could be the matter, intending to get back to my seat quickly for landing. There were people out of their seats, crowding around other passengers. I pushed through.
"What's happening?" My voice was firm and impatient.
"Do something, help him, HELP HIM!" Screamed the mother with the warm temperament. Bobby was grey, with a sheen of sweat over his face. His eyes were rolled back in his head, showing white where there should have been two brown eyes looking back.
Oh Fuck!
I pressed the call bell above three times to get the attention of other crew. I still had recent first aid training fresh in my mind, and I recognised the symptoms as cardiac arrest, or heart attack. I couldn't remember, nor understand the difference. In any case, it was bad.
I gave commands, "You get up! "You move!" "You. Help me carry him!"
A man obliged nodding his head, not saying a word, and we dragged him like a bag of concrete to the mid galley. Mags was out of her seat and had the resuscitation mask and a portable defibrillator out. She had instinctively grabbed the equipment from the storage cupboard upon seeing me with the other passenger dragging the lifeless body through the aisle towards her. In only seconds we formed a well-oiled machine and the gears started moving. I was thinking very little at this point. I didn't have to. It was muscle memory taking over.
Breathing? No.
I started hammering at his chest in a quick rhythm. I could hear and feel bones breaking.
'Bones will break, shift your hand position slightly, and keep going.' I heard the voice of my first aid instructor in my head. Around my palms, placed one on top of the other, his shirt was turning dark. Something was seeping through. I kept pounding away. Mags put the protective mask over his mouth and provided air to the lungs. A second later it was covered in vomit. Unflinching, she flicked it off and returned it to our patient's face. The thought that I was glad she was part of our machine, dashed through my head. I pounded away, while she ripped open the defibrillator pack. She turned it on and the electronic voice began giving instructions.
“Start CPR……. Remove clothing to expose chest."
Mags pushed my hands away and ripped the shirt open with surprising strength. The buttons all popped, firing off like a machine gun.
"Apply electrode patches as shown in diagram on lid." Instructed the slow American accented robot voice.
Fuck! How recent was this guys surgery?!
Blood oozed from a zig zag of thick black stitches running vertically do
wn his chest.
“They won't stick! Dammit!” said Mags, struggling to get the sticky electrode patches to stay attached to the skin. “he’s too darn clammy.”
"Continue compressions to the beat. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP." Said the machine.
Mags used her sleeve to wipe away sweat and blood, and finally they stuck.
The robot voice continued. "Do not touch patient, Analyzing heart rate. Wait Wait." Fuck, Come on!
"Shock recommended. Stand back and press green button. Stand back and press green button."
We leant away from the man, and tried to catch our breath. Manually operating another human's organs was hard work. Mags pressed the green button. The body twitched from the shock.
"Analysing. Analysing……Continue compressions."
I went back to my job of pumping away at the bloody mess. My hands were soaked in blood. They were wet and slippery. I could see the shoes of other crew standing around me, but I was focused on the job. The cabin leader was on the phone, telling the pilots about the deteriorating situation. The stitches started ripping apart. More blood spewed out. I knew it was my own manual pumping of the heart that was responsible for the mess. I wished I could do a neater job, the stitches now ripped away from the skin entirely. The blood felt warm. Crunch, crunch, crunch, squish, squash, shlop, shlop. Blood was spraying onto the galley walls, and over the jumpseats. It was on my face, in my eyes. My wrists ached. My arms were burning. My shoulders screamed at me to stop.
"Swap over, Swap over!" The cabin leader yelled. Mags pushed me out of the way and leant over the body, and began crunching away at the sopping mess. Another shock from the defibrillator produced no results. There was no spontaneous breathing, no springing back to life.
I knew he is dead. No doctors had come forward, nobody to save the day. No miracles.
The cabin leader spoke again. "The captain has given permission for you both to continue to CPR for landing, and Belle will do a two door operation as permitted by the incapacitated crew ops contingency."
Why are you talking like a fucking text book?!! Of course we’re doing CPR! Fuck the door! This already is a fucking emergency. Fucking Moron!
I barely noticed touchdown. We were focused on hammering away, occasionally zapping and blowing air into the body. Our aircraft was given priority on the ground and we were soon at the gate. Doors opened and four paramedics in blue uniforms walked calmly over to our patient. I felt like an amateur who had made a complete mess in front of the professionals. Two of the officers came our way, and took hold of the body, dragging him, like a blood covered rag doll out into the aerobridge. They went to work on him, with their superior equipment and skill.
Mags and I were still on the floor, catching our breath. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I did not know who it was, nor did I care. Back in the cabin, the mother was wailing. Two other women, who all seemed the same age, were attending to her. Perhaps they were mothers too, I wondered. I was now silent, but strangely calm. My heart rate had returned to a normal level. I felt numb and robotic. I was not there. I was watching myself from afar. From here, my memory became blurry.
The next few hours was fuzzy and hard to recall. I was told the passengers were made to disembark via a rear staircase, so that they did not have to witness the war zone that had become the mid galley. Blood had been sprayed in every direction. No amount of cleaning would ever get all traces of the blood out, which would have crept its way into every corner, and caked itself onto any surface it touched. Quarantine officials, Federal Police and a Coroner's representative all visited the aircraft. I don't remember much of what I told them. The next flight out on that aircraft was delayed only four hours. Not bad for a machine that had just been to hell and back, I thought to myself, angry at the way the gears just kept on turning at the airline. In the Sydney airport crew room, Mags and I had scrubbed as much blood from our hands and faces as possible. We changed our clothes and went off to the hotel.
The adrenaline had faded away and I was plummeting into physical weakness. I fell asleep on the bed. The pillows were still wrapped with hotel labeling and my bags were untouched when I woke up to the sound of my hotel room phone ringing. I was still in the clothes I had earlier changed into when the unfamiliar ringing tone sucked me back to reality.
Dammit. It really happened.
I could see the brownish red dried blood still caked around my cuticles. The handsome Bobby was still dead. I answered the phone. Not because I particularly wanted to talk to someone, but because I knew it would likely be an important call regarding the flight. I had no choice but to reach for the phone. It was my manager back at the base. A face I had only seen once before. She had already learnt about what had happened and was calling to check on my welfare. I was glad to hear her voice. As we spoke, she sounded genuinely worried about me, like a parent giving me her personal advice on dealing with the aftermath of tragedy. She briefly retold a number of horrific stories from her flying years. She explained the company's procedures and rules regarding such a serious incident. Company counselors would contact me, whether I wanted it or not. I could hear embarrassment and the reticence in her voice when she explained that I must not speak to media, or use social media regarding the incident. She knew I would not anyway. We talked for a good half hour, until I convinced her that I was essentially not in any danger of losing my mind in the next few days. The phone call ended. I walked over to the window, leaning my head against the glass, and looked over Sydney Harbour, with its smattering of tiny boats and sparkling lights while the sky turned pink and yellow as the sun set. I suddenly felt a little better. I could fight through this. No dead man in a pool, no bastard pilot, no dead passenger would destroy me.
I met with Mags and the other crew in the evening at the bar in the lobby. It seemed we all needed a chat. We had our bravest faces on as we sat around chatting, not realising it was effectively a debrief after a tough day at the office. The ten of us went through a good twelve or so bottles of wine. The captain insisted on picking up the tab. He seemed proud of his team, but judging by his stern manner, was obviously not the type for emotional speeches and praise. Our cabin leader, Anna, however, who was a natural talker and extrovert, piled praise on the team, especially Mags and myself. I almost felt embarrassed, especially because we could not save him. Crewing had notified Anna that we would not be operating the flight back to base. We would fly back in plain clothes. After joining the airline, it had not taken long to learn that the company never acted out of courtesy, but self-concern. It was easy to see through the seemingly nice corporate gesture. In our possibly fragile state, we were a liability and they did not want us doing something stupid while in the company uniform.
As the lights in the bar were turned out, all the crew had dispersed, leaving only Mags and me in the dim light, while chairs were placed upside down on the tables in preparation for the cleaners, whose way we would soon be in. We were a little too wired, or maybe too intoxicated to return to our rooms and sleep. We went out into the street to get some fast food. The streets of Sydney's King's Cross after dark rival any of the world's seediest and most dangerous. In any direction prostitutes and beggars make no attempt to hide themselves. Rival gangs operate conspicuously, often resolving their differences in violent public spectacles. The shops alternate between, brand name chains and sex shops, drug paraphernalia vendors and nightclubs. Random violence against the public got to such a point that the company emailed warnings to all crew to be wary our safety in the area, fulfilling their duty of care.
Mags and I bolted between teenagers vomiting in the gutter after one too many jello shots. We avoided eye contact from the group of guys out the front of the sex show who unashamedly leered at us like they were sizing up a new car. The few extra paces between us and the two female junkies in a scruff would ensure we wouldn't become collateral damage as we finally made it to the kebab shop. We sat a table with our kebabs and energy drinks.
"Ahh, happiness wrapped in tin foi
l" Mags thought out loud, admiring the kebab. I laughed. We had the same sense of humour, which had made for an enjoyable flight before all hell broke loose. She was the kind of crew I would like to have flown with all the time. But that was not how it worked of course. Mags was from Los Angeles, but her family was originally from Mexico. As we munched down the kebabs followed by more energy drinks, I learned that her family had the typical humble beginnings of any Latino family that had made it in America. Her mother was a house cleaner and her father, a painter. They had built their own home maintenance business that had put Mags and her brother through school, and bought the things they never had themselves as children. Mags had been itching to see the world, when her reluctant parents eventually gave her their blessing and made the move to Elhalia. I imagined they would have been very proud of her. With natural good looks, multilingual with a personable demeanour, she was the ideal candidate for the job. We talked for the next two hours while drunks staggered in and out of the shop and hookers harassed passers-by just outside the entrance. Mags had been at the airline a year longer than me, and seen a lot more of the company culture than I had. She knew more people–the good and the bad. Her stories were funny and I laughed, somewhat inappropriately considering the day we had just been through. We talked about the crew, the personalities, our favorites and the ones we were happy to do without. When I mentioned Tanya, her expression instantly changed, confirming my suspicion that she was not everyone’s favourite. She soon taught me some knew information about the woman who was weaseling her way into my life.
"You know, she applied for that latest TV commercial. The one where the crew are walking down the runway." Mags was referring to the campaign that had been spread throughout the world. Crew were given a chance to apply to be one of twenty filmed in a commercial for the airline, as the faces of Elhalia. There were printed versions all over the airports we visited. It was even being parodied on sketch shows and by late night comedians. It was a big deal for the airline. She continued, "Well, she didn't get a part. I applied too. That's how I know. I applied because some of the girls in my block talked me into it. I didn't get a part either. But hey.. Who cares…?"
I nodded. I was hungry to hear more.
"So she's there at the audition, telling the film makers and some company rep, that she is 'entitled' to a part due to her experience and good looks! She has no shame! None!" Mags took a sip of her heavily caffeinated soda and tells more of the story. "Her ego took a massive hit. She wouldn't talk to any of us who were rejected on the trip back to the crew compound. She completely expected she would get it. And honestly, she's not that pretty.”
I felt relieved that there was at least one other person on the planet who felt the same way I did. It was true. I thought of mentioning what happened in Bali, or just the theft I had seen so far. Perhaps Mags knew of similar behaviour, but thought it best not to say anything. I could not be sure, so I accepted that now was the time to listen and learn. On the verge of finally making a friend at the airline, I was not going to blow it by saying something stupid.
“People are scared of her,” Mags said, “She's gotta be one of the cruelest people I've ever come across. I was on a trip with her soon after the audition, and uhh this crew member asked her how she did at the audition… Big mistake! She made her life hell for the next week, just for bringing it up. The poor girl was only trying to take an interest in the other crew and in return she’d destroyed. And her friends are just as bad.”
Although there had been complaints made by other crew about her, they were no match for Tanya's knack for manipulation and ability to work over her superiors. I was enlightened, and confident with my knowledge. We soon called it a night. Dodging passed-out drunks and pushing through crowds of partygoers getting their post booze-up munchies, we made it to the hotel and took the elevator up. We exchange a quick hug before Mags stepped off at her floor.
Yes, finally a friend.
Even if we hadn't guzzled down energy drinks, I don't think I could have slept anyway. I was tossing and turning. I was filled with a hopeless anger. I was angry that Bobby was dead. I was angry that his mother would not have a reason to wake up tomorrow without a reason to live another day. I was angry at the doctor who had said Bobby was fit to fly. I kept replaying the scene over in my head. Should I have run when I heard the call bell, instead of dillydallying over? Were my compressions hard enough? Should we have started CPR in the aisle rather than the galley? Maybe those extra seconds could have made the difference. I was mad at the company. They just mopped up the mess and were on their way again. Nothing stops the gears turning. They had better see to the welfare of his family. His mother had better be looked after. The company had better look after all those people who helped. The man who dragged our casualty through the plane and the women who held the poor mother while she screamed would be traumatised. I was grinding my teeth. M jaw was tense. I stretched my hands to release the tension that was building. I could have destroyed the room with the rage inside me. The sun was rising.
I knew I was dreaming when his head sprung up from the seat in front. It was not the kind of dream that was so lucid that the dreamer can control what happens next. All I knew was that what I saw was so far from possible, that I knew it was a dream. He was there right in front of me, turned around in his economy seat and looking at me sitting behind him. He was looked lively and tanned, not grey like the last time I saw him. Bobby eyes were locked onto mine.
“Why didn't you do something? You knew something was wrong. But you didn't do anything.” He said.
This is not right It’s not supposed to be this way.
He had interfered with time. He was fighting fate. He was dead and shouldn't be talking to me.
“Go away! You're dead! You're supposed to be dead!” I shouted back. I grabbed his face between my two palms. I hit his head as hard as I could. I wanted him gone. I wanted him dead. I kept hitting his head trying desperately to kill him again. He did not flinch. He showed no pain as I tried to pummel his face. I could feel his warm skin and his prickly stubble. His head felt heavy. As I hit his head over and over, he spoke. "You're doing something now aren't you!? You’re taking action now! Don't you know, Liz?! You see something, you say something! You see something, you say something! That's what you're supposed to do!”
“Go away! You’re dead. You're fucking dead!” I was yelling now. I was crying. The cabin bounced slightly as I jolted awake. The cabin lights had been dimmed and a glow from the seat back TV screens illuminate the cabin in blues and greys. I could make out the back of a blonde head in the seat ahead. There is no Bobby in front of me. Judging by the map on the screen in front, I had been asleep nearly four hours, having fallen into a deep slumber immediately after takeoff from Sydney. There was another hours seven to go. I stealthily wipe each tear away as it emerges on to my face.
Will I ever be able to sleep properly again?
I wanted to get off the plane. I wanted to erase the last few months of my life. I wanted to go home.
After a few days off, filled with phone calls from the company ticking their ‘duty of care’ boxes, my flying duties resumed and I was back in a routine. I was glad to be forced out of the shoebox and back interacting with other humans. In the crew room, I clocked on using the computers and checked my crew for my flights. I could hear the squeals of other crew greeting one another. A male and female crew were talking a few feet behind me. They were whispering, but their attempt at discretion was failing. I could here every word.
“Speaking of medicals, did you here what happened on a Sydney flight the other day?” The male said.
“Oh my God yes, something about CPR and the aircraft ending up soaked in blood.” She replied.
“The poor crew. I heard it was some new chick who found him and had to work on him.”
“Yeh, that would turn me off this job for good.” She sighed, and they walked away.
“Flight attendant's onboard meltdown freaks out fli
ers”
June 29, 2012
After rain and refueling delays and having to deplane and reboard a flight that was already five hours late, it was understandable that passengers on an American Eagle flight were muttering R-rated words into their seatbacks. Not understandable: a flight attendant grabbing the mic to tell them that if they "[have] the balls" to get off the plane, they should. Jose Serrano's rant -- including a vaguely ominous "this is probably my last flight" -- on the LaGuardia-to-Raleigh-Durham route freaked out some people enough that they took their balls and left. The flight was eventually canceled, and an American Eagle spokesman blamed the "group dynamic" for the situation. Sounds like the real problem was wearing one of the airline's uniforms.
––MSN News
“Flight attendant jailed for Gatwick bomb hoax”
May 21, 2009
A flight attendant was jailed today for leaving a bomb hoax note on board an Emirates aircraft he was working on and sparking a scare that led to the brief closure of Gatwick Airport.
The Australian national, 24, left a message in the toilet of a flight from Dubai to London in March, which read: "Explosive material can be found in the FWD (forward cargo department). We have the Taliban to thank for this."
A passenger on board the Boeing 777 found the note 10 minutes before the plane was due to land and raised the alarm. When the flight arrived at Gatwick it was taken to a secure holding area and surrounded by armed police.
The 164 passengers and 16 crew were taken off the plane and interviewed and the flight attendant was arrested shortly afterwards.
He pleaded guilty to communicating false information, namely a bomb hoax, at Lewes Crown Court, police said.
––The Independent
EIGHT
For weeks after Bobby–as I soon named the experience–I could barely sleep. I found myself agitated by the smallest things. If I ran out of cups in my cart during the beverage service, my heart would race and I would want to scream. Every call bell that went off made me tense, and want to lecture the passengers who pushed it not to, unless its an emergency. Nothing seemed enjoyable anymore. Whenever I finished a flight I would be counting the hours until the next one with dread. I took solace in the fact that I had a trip to New York coming up and Mags was on the crew list.
Our day in New York City had left our legs tired and our joints aching. For a change, we had been jovial and energetic the entire day. Mags had insisted that we were in 'a New York State of Mind.’ I wished I knew where my mind was. The sun had gone down now, and the city turned on its lights. We arrived in the lobby of 30 Rockefeller Plaza, via the revolving doors. Mags was keen to tell me the origin of the revolving door. They were not just made to keeps to keep the lobby temperature constant. The invention was a necessity after it was discovered how deadly the aerodynamics of new skyscrapers could be. People were being blown out of upper level windows by violent updraughts whenever the doors were opened down below. The humble doormen of New York were shoving the big wigs of power out windows. The massive building had been built during the Great Depression by an army of desperate workers, keen to put food on the table and keeps the lights on.
“And it takes 20 years to build a stinking bridge these days.” Mags griped, nostalgically admiring the achievements of a time gone by. Everything seemed golden in hindsight. Everything seemed warmer than the present–even a world in recession, facing pandemic and on the brink of world war. We obliged the happy, bubbly photographer who took our snap against the fake background, giving the impression we were perched precariously upon a steel girder, high above the New York skyline. Our cheeky grins belied the illusion. With a snap, two young women in the prime of their lives were captured in time forever.
The elevator to the top, was crowded, we smiled awkwardly at the tourists crammed up against us, they returned a close mouthed smile. The doors open at the top, the crowd slowly moves out.
“You see that?!! The Kid's got blue in his hair!…Blue!" Said the elevator attendant, in his thick Brooklyn accent. He was referring to the young teenager who just stepped out of the elevator with his parents. Like any New Yorker, the middle-aged man had something to say, and it was the hairstyle of a typical rebellious teenager that had led him to decide, yes I absolutely gotta say this out loud. Now out of earshot, his strangely charming vent about the kid began. "Why,. if my kid came home with that freakin' blue in his hair. Pishh." Bringing his hand across himself and over his shoulder, he gestured how he would slap the kid. The remaining tourists, slow to get out of the elevator, laughed out loud–perhaps because they were expected to. They seemed amused. Things always seem funnier in large groups, I thought, realisng that we had all thought it a good thing that we laugh with a complete stranger who had expressed his unsolicited disapproval of another parents discipline. We condoned his preference for violence against teenagers, and all agreed that no kid shall ever do something freaky with their hair. Perhaps, it was okay because he seemed like a caricature of a man–his charming accent and his portly appearance making it all just fine. Maybe I was the one with the problem. I didn't feel like the others. I was not a tourist having a good time.
We walked around the observation deck. Thousands of gold specks formed the island of Manhattan, the outline of New Jersey and Queens. The big attraction from up here was the Empire State Building, lit up yellow, green, red and blue. The crowds, of mothers and fathers, boyfriends and girlfriends, honeymooners, backpackers, all pointed out landmarks to impress their companions with their local knowledge. Most likely it had been recently learnt from tourist information leaflets. Others pointed out where they thought the World Trade Center would have been, and tried to imagine a skyline of the past, longing for a safer, more moral time.
Mags and I had wandered apart. She was probably in the covered area with the art exhibition and the interactive light show. I walked around the observation deck to find a quiet spot away from the tourist traffic. I found a space on my own, and gazed out across the skyline. I was not thinking about New York, nor the day Mags and I just had together. I should have been thinking that we were the envy of all our friends back home. We had just completed what many save their whole lives to do; two chums, running amuck in New York City. I should have been reflecting on the day that some only ever dream about, but my mind was malfunctioning. I pressed my crossed arms against the concrete barrier. It felt warm with the heat from the days sun still trapped within it. I brought my hands forth and touched the rough surface. The barrier was not high. This was the original barrier, built in the style of an old castle it was formed by blocks with small gaps in between. It was obviously not very safe for a skyscraper, so higher glass panels had been put in to prepare for the recent reopening of the observation deck. I was caught in a deep stare. I didn't know what I was looking at. I didn't care. I was alone on top of a grand old building. I didn't feel like the carefree twenty-something that I used to dream I would one day be. I felt cheated. I was on top of the world, stuck in my own mistake–my messy hell of a mind. No turning back. Maybe the nostalgic thinkers were right. Maybe the world gets worse as time goes on. Maybe it doesn't get any worse. Maybe we had reached hell.
The closest people were a good fifteen to twenty paces away. My mind performed a series of estimations. I pressed my hands firmly against the perimeter causing tension on my arms, testing their strength. I could spring myself up over the barrier. I estimated the distance from the closest sightseers. They weren't close enough–even if they ran–to stop me climbing over. Nobody was looking at me. They were all turned away looking at various silhouettes and lights representing the city's points of intrigue. I could do it. I wanted it.
I lunge forward. I lift myself up onto the concrete barrier, I climbed–one leg over first–across the reinforced glass that is not high enough. Maybe they were just ticking their duty of care box, with their futile modification. On the edge, I wait for someone to stop me. Nobody sees a thing. I step off. I am falling fast. I close my eyes tight as
their air rips violently at my clothes. Nothing.
My hallucination sees people on the street screaming, clawing at the cell phones, trying with difficulty to punch in what should be the simple 9-1-1 digits. The yellow cab is crushed under the sheer tonnage force of stopping my mass in a split second.
Who is she? They ask. Why did she do it? She's so young. She's pretty too. I was like the beautiful bride to be, Evelyn McHale. A half century earlier she jumped from the Empire State Building, ending up on Life magazine. I would likewise be a mystery to the onlookers. A puzzle. Such a young waste. Either way I didn't care because I would never know. From atop the building, it appears a crowd is gathering around something on the street. Mags is finished with her indoor exhibition and steps out into the cold air looking for her friend. Word spreads that someone might have just jumped over the barrier. The tourists emit gasps, and 'oh my gods.' Hands instinctively rise and cover the mouth. Mags searches the entire observation deck. Where the hell is she?! She is frustrated. It appears certain someone has indeed jumped. Now everyone is talking about the jumper. Yet nobody saw it happen. Damn, where is she? She circles the deck again. Frustration has turned into desperation. Please, Liz, please, please, please. She knows what has happened. I have left Mags alone, at the top of the world.
“Hey girl! Did you check out that light thing inside. Its pretty awesome.” Mags said, punching me lightly in the arm through my thick coat. I was back behind the barrier. Her smile was huge. She seemed euphoric up there in the night air looking down on the capital of the world.
“No, but ahhh.,, the view here is spectacular.” I had hardly noticed it.
She turned her head toward the view. “Mmmmm.” She let out a satisfied moan. She was happy to be there; at that particular point in time; in that precise part of the world; with me.