"Cool, cool," I replied. "Where do I FTP it to?"

"The normal station IP. Use the upload login. But you better abide by the rules if you want any of your Indelibles shit to see the light of day." He ended his sentence with a groan like he was already regretting his decision. I thanked him and quickly hung up.

___________________________________________________________________

My drive across town took forever. It was slow and dragging. My attitude didn’t help it either. I was sad that this was going to be the last day I’d see my dog for eight to twelve weeks.

My parents were kind enough to take Sophia in during my absence. They loved her – my mother especially – and their home had a large enough yard for my ugly dog to feel at home in.

The dog sensed my apprehension and was herself nervous. She knew something was afoot. It wasn’t every day I loaded up her crate, food and water dishes, food, and chew toys. And I never drove the dog around in my car. I lowered the window so she could partake in the dog-in-the-car ritual of sticking her face in the breeze. Strange how whenever I’d blow softly in her face she’d freak out, but the first thing she wanted to do once in the car was shove her head out the window and let the wind blow upon her face. I watched as the breeze blew back the wrinkles of her skin. I was going to miss her.

I unloaded her things at my parents’ house and gave them a few important phone numbers. Then I knelt down and took the dog’s head in my hands. “Okay girl,” I began, “I know we’ve never been apart since the day I brought you home, but things are going to be different around here for a little while.” Sophia cocked her head as I rubbed her ears. “I’m not going to be around, but that doesn’t mean you’re not going to have a job to do. My parents – my mom and dad – you’re going to have to protect them now, Sophia.” She looked up when she heard her name. Remembering what I’d read about the Sharpei breed and what they were raised by the Chinese to do, I continued. “This is now your imperial city, and my parents are the royal family. Watch over them until I return. Can you do that?”

Sophia raised her head and licked my cheek before trotting off to stand next to my mother. I wondered who would be in better hands, Sophia or my parents.
___________________________________________________________________

In my mad rush to wrap up everything I needed to take care of before leaving, I’d forgotten to cancel my appointment with Doc Rivers. Now it was too late and I really didn’t want to pay the no-show charge. Besides, I had plenty of time before my plane left. I was due to meet Doug at the airport for drinks beforehand – Doug was taking a flight out of the same terminal to Chicago and I convinced him I’d need to get liquored up in order to ease my apprehensions about flying – but I’d be able to swing by the psychologist’s office without shaving any time off my arrival at the airport. I pulled into the medical center parking lot, parked, and made a mad dash to his office.

My first visit was a complete joke, a way of appeasing my sister’s concerns that there was something emotionally missing in my dating life. By the second and third visits we’d made some headway; Rivers had presented some ideas and conclusions based upon what we’d talked about, and they weren’t so half-assed. I was almost sad this was going to be my last visit, because I felt I’d finally found someone to talk with on the level and man-to-man, in a non-judgmental way. People are always waiting to hear about ulterior motives and read into things below the surface before filling your ears with judgmental crap that’s not remotely close to being accurate. Sometimes there is no “below the surface.” Sometimes things are as they appear. Doctor Rivers had a unique way of listening and offering advice without appearing like he was analyzing me, although I knew he was, that was his job. In my first visit I felt like I was being treated as somebody who required help, some neurotic social retard with neither the skills nor the motivation to keep a successful relationship. But the climate improved. Where the first visit left a bad taste in my mouth, the subsequent visits had been much better.

“I think I discovered something big about my outlook on relationships today, Doc. It came to me as a random thought while I was brushing my teeth this morning.”

“Yes? What was it?”

“Remember when you were a teen, how any romantic heat you were feeling was a simmering horniness filled with frustration and clumsiness?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “This is your great revelation?”

“Not that. I think I’ve put my finger on the one thing that is missing from my relationship with women: The charge of spontaneity. I want the thrill of spontaneity and the emotional, sexual charge of the hot and horny encounters we had as high school-aged teens. Something just as frantic, but without the fumbling and awkwardness. Something unpredictable but filled with the pleasure that comes with age and experience.”

“So you want a raging, hormone-fueled whirlwind romance on par with your best teenage years. And you feel that component is missing?” the doctor asked.

“Of course! Haven’t you been paying attention? If anything the one thing I keep coming back to is that point. This might be the first time I’m articulating it in a concrete concept but it’s definitely missing!” I adjusted my hair and smoothed a wrinkle in my sleeve. “Today’s woman, the ‘modern woman’ has become so obsessed with her own success and becoming some kind of superwoman – educated, killer job, loads of money, gym-toned body – and flaunting it as the sole way of impressing us. They’ve done it at the expense of spontaneity. To them spontaneity has become synonymous with ‘unknown,’ or ‘unprepared.’ And that just won’t do in the world of today’s woman. They’ve totally disconnected themselves from it.”

“Isn’t that an area where you could get the ball rolling if needed? Why rely on them?” he asked.

“It’s not like I haven’t tried, doc. If I do it it’s childish and immature. It smacks of all things juvenile. Look, I’m all for growing up, but let’s not forget about the child in all of us. I want the responsibility to be on her for a change. ”

“Maybe that’s your take of the women you encounter, but I assure you that is only how they are on the surface. Maybe you are up here,” the doctor paused and moved his hand back and forth above his head on an imaginary plane, “when you really need to be down here. If you stop gravitating up here in the air and begin to scratch the surface I think you’ll find there are many, many women who can be just what you seek. But you’ll have to get your hands dirty, Reed. You have to do a lot of digging in the dirt first. Come down from up in the air and get below their surface.”

He stood and approached me. “While I am sad that you are leaving, I believe these visits haven’t been a waste. I think you have strong convictions, and you know what you want more than you believe. I’m confident you can walk out that door and live your life without any further help from me.”

“You mean we’re done?” I asked.

Doc Rivers grinned and held out his hand. “Tell your sister that you are just another normal person trying to make sense of this crazy world. You may better equipped than some, and not as well as others, but you’ll know when you meet the right person. And I admire your caution and skepticism when it comes to relationships. A healthy amount of skepticism is the best ally one can have in the arena of love. Good luck Reed.”
__________________________________________________________________

“Look at the way the skirt dances across her calf. It’s like it’s been choreographed. The wide, curved hem tracing the edges of the material, brushing across her bare skin. The skirt’s light hues pulling your eyes down, past the fabric and patterns that adorn it, towards her legs, accentuated and toned ever so slightly by the heel of her pumps. It’s a total package, an arrow driving your gaze down to the tips of her shoes before returning upward to her face, momentarily stopping to admire her sweater and the curvature of her breasts. It’s really like art.”

Doug coughed and a bit of his beer dripped out of his mouth. “God,” he started, patting his mouth and chin with the unused napkin, “I’d rather be gay, thank you very much. Having to concentrate that much on a woman to visualize her beauty is ridiculous. Too much fucking work.”

The woman in the skirt and crimson sweater moved closer to the security checkpoint and metal detectors we were seated across from. I’d love to give her a strip search.

“You have no idea how gratifying it can be to have a proper appreciation of the female form,” I scoffed.

“Whatever, breeder. I may be gay, but that diatribe about Chesty Mcbreast over there was super queer. Congratulations.” He laughed and took another swig of his beer. “Whatever happened to heteros getting away with a simple ‘she’s hot, I wanna hit it?’”

“Don’t group me with the cretins,” I replied. The waitress came by and we ordered two more boilermakers. It was still 90 minutes before my flight and I had gained absolutely no liquid fortitude from the drinks. I had no desire to board my flying death trap. The only thing that could put me at ease was combining beer and hard alcohol until I had to get on the plane. Maybe then I could zonk out for the entire flight and awake on the ground in Toronto. Doug was flying out to Chicago for a meeting with the Cubs baseball team about an image campaign for their 2005 season, and despite being the dead of winter in the Midwest he mentioned wanting to do some preliminary scouting of Wrigley Field, just in case. In the meantime we sat in a random bar on the concourse waiting for our flights.

“You ready for a Canadian winter?” asked Doug.

“I think so. Got a jacket. Got gloves and lots of warm stuff,” I responded.

“Just one jacket?” he asked. He started laughing.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said shaking his head, “you’ll figure it out.” Then changing the subject, “so how long do you give it before you strangle Anna?”

“Damn good question. She’s such a cunt.”

“The worst. I feel bad for you having to put up with her as the production manager. I understand the reasoning on Gloria’s part, but they could have sent somebody else with you. She’s going to have that office up there hating her within a week.”

“Good,” I responded, “maybe I’ll finally be able to round up some accomplices and do her in.”

“Dump the body in Lake Ontario,” Doug said, grinning. “Make sure you use cinder blocks.”

Forty-five minutes of drinking and commiserating went by before Doug hurriedly left to catch his plane. In the craze of our consumption he didn’t realize his flight was boarding, and by the time he checked his watch, United flight 1794 was announcing their final boarding call. Asshole. I think he just wanted to stick me with the bill.

I waited out the final half hour before my flight in a lonely, anonymous corner of gate 53. I took stock of my fellow passengers, gauging what kind of people were flying to Toronto: Scores of businessmen, dressed in matching boardroom navy blue suits, a few of them sporting camelhair black overcoats while others slung London Fog khaki colored raincoats over their arms. A few families, most round in the midsection with pale skin and nondescript features. I figured these were Canadian natives returning home from a vacation, but with California’s current demographics you really can’t be sure anymore. A few young mothers with babies tried their best to silence them and prepare for the next five hours of uncomfortable cabin pressure their babes would be subjected to. A few young ladies hung on the shoulder of their boyfriends, while others occupied themselves with books and magazines, everything from Turrow to Bushnell to issues of Cosmo guaranteeing to “fix your lovesick blues.” I had joined a random cross-section of Americana, ready to put our faith in a pilot I hoped hadn’t imbibed as much as I in the captain’s lounge. I put my head down and tried not to appear so nervous, while images of a Pan Am jet slamming into Lockerbie, a Northwest Airlines flight crashing in suburban Michigan, and a Swiss Air MD80 going down off the coast of Nova Scotia swam around my slightly buzzed head.

We began boarding and immediately I thought I should have ordered one more boilermaker. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to board. My neck and face began to get hot and I wanted nothing more than to head straight out the door and back to my apartment. But my feet somehow rebelled against the thought and trudged forward as the line moved closer and closer to the telescoping gate that connected the terminal to the plane. Before long a mid-40-something lady was taking my ticket, and with a smile passed it through the electronic scanner before handing it back to me. I barely heard her say “have a nice flight” as I took the ticket, robotic-like, and moved in step with the rest of the passengers.

When I got to my seat things took a turn for the worse.

“Hey Reed! Damn, you look like shit!” It was Anna. Her attempt to go a few days ahead of me didn’t pan out, and so we were stuck on the same flight together. At least we’d be separated by some 15 or so rows as she managed to cash in her frequent flier miles and get a first class bump.

“I feel hot. Is it hot in here Anna?”

“Ha! It’s a freezer in here. You’re probably feeling the after effects of seeing some hot babe in the terminal. Don’t worry, in five hours you’ll be freezing your ass off!” Anna turned to make her way back to first class. “Well, at least I can warm up with some complimentary scotch in first class. Enjoy the flight, kiddo!”

I stuffed my carry on into the overhead compartment, then removed my jacket and shoved it in above the bag. I loosened my shirt and sat down next to the window. I leaned my forehead against the shiny white metal around the window. Anna was right, everything was cool to the touch. I was boiling. I fastened my seat belt and tightened it as much as it would go, then checked the pouch on the seat in front of me for a fresh supply of airsickness bags. Check. I bent forward and put my head down in silence, trying to calm myself and remain at ease until we were in the air and the flight attendants brought around the beverage cart.

I was bent over in this position, eyes closed, for maybe 30 seconds. That’s when I heard it.

Click!

What the hell was that? I opened my eyes but remained bent over. I looked in front of me for any danger signs – seat bolts broken free of the floor, rivets coming loose on the interior fuselage, broken wing dangling on the ground. Nothing.

Click!

I looked across the aisle and saw a guy perhaps a few years older than myself taking a photo of me. He looked up from his camera, smiled, and then snapped another of a random person walking down the aisle.

“Sorry, hope I didn’t disturb you,” he started. “You looked deep in thought or was it meditation? You made for a good photo subject.”

“Oh. Sorry to let you down, but I was doing neither. I was trying to calm myself. I’m not fond of flying,” I responded.

“Is that so?”

”Yes, so if William Shatner ends up sitting next to me and something’s out on the wing randomly tearing out electrical parts, it won’t be a good sign,” I said.

The guy laughed and got up, making his way across his aisle of seats and into mine. “Well I hope I didn’t freak you out, you know, some random person taking pictures of strangers. It’s what I do – not take random pictures of strangers I mean – I’m a photographer. Name’s Daniel.” He put out his hand.

“Reed,” I replied, shaking his hand. “So I’m a good photo subject?”

“Fuck yeah! It’s all about the mood you were projecting just now. It was serene. It was calming but disturbing at the same time. I couldn’t tell if you were in a moment of reflection, or sad.”

“You could read all that?”

“The lens can. With this piss-poor lighting in here and the sun outside, you make for an excellent silhouette. The best part is that the entire mood still comes through even though the features of your face do not.”

“So can I see it?” I asked.

“No. Well, not right now. It’s a 35mm camera, not digital, so we have to wait until the roll of film is developed. Sorry. It’s not instantaneous like a digital camera. But I can scan and email you the resulting print if you want to give me your email address.”

“Deal,” I replied, pulling out my wallet to remove a business card.

He took a quick look at the card before slipping it into his jacket pocket. “Advertising, huh? Very slick.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I started looking around.

“Looking for somebody?” he asked.

“Yeah. Do they come around with drinks before the flight or do I have to wait until we’re off the ground?”

Daniel laughed. “Not unless you are in first class. Wow, you must be really nervous about flying.”

“Yeah, thanks for that reminder,” I replied.

Daniel got up and made his way back to his seat. “Don’t worry, once we’ve touched off from the ground and are in the air all your problems will be behind you. It won’t feel any different than being on the ground.”

I grimaced. “Except I can look out the window and notice we’re thirty thousand feet in the air. That’s not reassuring.”

“Then close it. Don’t worry about the surface. Things are much easier to deal with when you are up in the air.” Daniel sat in his seat, carefully stowed his camera, and got interested in a magazine.

I sank back in my seat and tried to remain calm. Within minutes, the engines were blaring and the plane slowly began to move. I looked outside and saw the ground crew with their ugly orange reflective vests and mini light wands guiding the plane until the brakes locked and the plane heaved forward. One lap, turn, two laps, turn, and then the plane stopped, waiting for the go-ahead to launch itself forward and into the wild blue yonder. I sat on the edge of my seat, wondering where I was heading, where the launch into the next stage of my life was leading. I closed my eyes one final time, and the engines quickly revved with a high-pitched whine before the plane shot forward at full speed.

Into the distance, a ribbon of black
Stretched to the point of no turning back