06.12.02 - 11:23 am

i remember looking out the tiny oval window and seeing the ground crews pacing slowly around the bowels of the plane. their earplugs were more like helmets. they moved so comfortably. i pulled down the sunvisor over the window and i could still hear the steady whine of the engines, so i raised it back. the sun was somewhere just below the horizon on its way up. blue washed over the sky like spilt paint. slowly expanding in intensity. oil stained the cement in cloudlike formations, but the ground crews didnt pay any attention to them. maybe people in boston have all seen the ground too much enough to notice subtle color differences in pools of oil at their feet. breathing was at best tolerable. the air was thick with the taste of recycled breath of hundreds of other passengers before me. i thumbed through the magazines infront of me. if i had money i could buy what they were selling, but i didnt even care to look. the seat i found myself in was soft and comfortable, with a dentist chair like security. but the arm rests were metal, and stung my elbows. i had been spending time trying to find excuses not to look over at the fellow sitting next to me. i wasnt ready to break the ice for a flurry of small talk and easily forgotten information and obviously he wasnt either. he was staring at the back of the seat in front of him intentively, awaiting what it had to say next with apathetic interest. his arms were softly laid on the arm rests with his head tilted slightly back. his lips were like two lines pressed together. i was in the process of looking at his hair when his eyes shot over and attached themselves to my own. i panicked and looked elsewhere. i began drumming my fingers on my knees. i rocked back and forth to an silent rock beat. i could still hear the engines and they were drowning my imaginary music. i stopped drumming my fingers. i stopped rocking. i blurted out a stupid question.

"whats in los angeles for you?" his answer took longer to escape his lips than would have been cordial. he muttered with discontent that he had the luxery of such a painful seating arrangement. but what he really meant to say was "family". he was annoyed and impatient. but continued to sit stiffly and without concern for any stimulus that wasnt directly infront of him. so feeling precocious, i asked, "do your palms sweat when you get nervous? like, when you see the towers poking up through the skyline, do you think youll get sort of uncomfortable? do you think as much as you want to, a little voice right in your ear is gonna want to say, 'hey, just...ease the plane a r o u n d the building, no need to go right through it....?"