Michael Barber
218 Dudala Way
Loudon, TN 37774
MBarber218@aol.com
1635 words
Wild Blue Yonder
By
Michael Barber
“Flight one seventy-four to Chicago is now ready for boarding,” the hostess says.
She is wearing a royal blue airline cap, placed at a jaunty angle above the perfect
symmetry of her face. She is undeniably beautiful; Harry thinks that she belongs on the
silver screen or, at least, on the cover of a fashion magazine – not taking tickets from an
indifferent public. She is holding a microphone, calling people to her small podium.
“Please have your boarding tickets ready. Thank you.”
Harry gets in line with his wife, Irene, still watching and admiring the poise and
beauty of the boarding hostess – oh, to be thirty again. When it is their turn, he is able to
sneak a long look at her as Irene fusses with the tickets in front of him. Harry is startled
by the ice-blue eyes, the lips that seem to swell with invitation. She is looking directly at
him as they pass, offering a slight, enigmatic smile that seems destined for his eyes only,
and says “Have a nice flight, now.” Harry wonders if she practices such a smile in front
of a mirror.
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“Come along, Harry,” his wife is saying with a sigh of exasperation. She knows that
her husband of thirty-five years has always had a rogue eye for the ladies, and she tugs at
his sleeve toward the canopied entrance ramp. The hostess is only a memory now, and
Harry becomes suddenly aware that he will be flying. The thought is disconcerting; he
has always had a fear of flying, and today is no different as he feels the knots tighten in
his stomach and his hands get cold and clammy.
Once aboard, Irene has been gracious enough to have arranged for him to have the
window seat. Harry mumbles a thank you; he is getting quite nervous now. Despite her
good intentions, the window seat is still located on a plane that will soon take-off and
climb to dizzying heights.
Once seated, Irene takes his hand in mock comfort. “Now let’s be a big boy now,
Harry.” She has never understood his fear, never understood the near-panic that
envelopes him. The plane is packed full and adds to his discomfort; in an emergency, his
chances of escape have been severely diminished.
The plane taxis. Harry and Irene are flying from Knoxville to Chicago, and then on
to Denver where his sister-in-law, Beverly, is getting married for the third time. She is
only forty-five and Harry is quite certain that Number Three will not be her last. He has
thought of every possible excuse to delay this day, but Irene is wise to his ways; Harry
feels like a rat in a maze with no hope of finding an exit. He is going.
Harry hears the deafening roar of the engines; G-forces pin him back against his seat.
The takeoff seems endless – surely they will run out of runway – but then, at last, the
plane leaves the ground and is going straight up into the air; bravely, he takes a quick
look at the earth falling away.
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Irene pats his hand. “There now, that wasn’t so bad now, was it dear?”
Harry is still speechless with fear, unable to answer coherently at the moment. He
gives Irene a doubtful little smile. Harry knows that his wife thinks this phobia of his is
ridiculous; he can tell that she is inwardly amused but is too considerate to show it.
“Look outside, Harry. Have you ever seen such a gorgeous day?”
He manages to sustain a look out the window. There is a dusting of snow on top of
the Smoky Mountains; it is indeed beautiful but, just then, the right wing abruptly dips at
an alarming angle, revealing a vast section of downtown Knoxville.
Irene, ever the travel guide, points out the window. “Look, Harry, there’s Neyland
Stadium.”
“Where?”
“Over there.”
He looks to where she’s been pointing but he’s more concerned with the pilot
stabilizing the plane back to the horizontal. “Oh yeah, I see it,” Harry says even though
he doesn’t. Harry and Irene have attended numerous football games there but, today, the
stadium holds no allure for him.
The plane finally rights itself and Harry allows himself to breathe again. He gives
himself a stern talking-to, telling himself to just keep breathing and relax. It begins to
work. Harry looks out the window with a new eye. Just above the mountains, the sky is a
robin’s egg blue that merges at their current altitude into an impossible blue, an imperial
blue simply not reproducible down on terra firma. Harry is remembering the side-trip that
he and Irene took last year with Beverly to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.
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It was there when he had heard their marching band belting out the stirring stanzas of the
traditional Air Force song:
Off we go into the wild blue yonder,
Climbing high into the sun.
Harry understands now what those words were trying to convey, the promise of
exhilaration that this rarified air offers. He is just beginning to relax, temporarily
absorbed by the moving postcard outside, when – without warning – there is a
pronounced thump that shakes the plane. It is soon gone but a few nervous titters here
and there remain. All seems well again until another gut-wrenching thump occurs two
minutes later – this time louder, stronger. There are now increased murmurs of concern
throughout the plane. What was that?
The pilot comes on the intercom with a calm, reassuring voice. “This is your captain
speaking. We are currently experiencing some turbulence and it would be a good idea to
fasten your seat belts. We should be flying through this momentarily. Thank you.”
With swift efficiency, a stewardess is walking up and down the aisle making sure
everyone is buckled in properly.
A third shudder comes – a thunderous vibration that Harry can feel down to his toes.
Even the experienced air travelers aboard realize something is terribly amiss. “What’s
happening,” he asks his wife shakily.
“Maybe a problem with the landing gear. It’s probably nothing, Harry.”
Right. Harry is working up a resentment that planes do not carry obligatory
parachutes for their passengers.
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There is a brief crackling of the intercom again; everyone is anxiously waiting for
the pilot to came back on again with additional assurances, but the intercom remains
silent. The plane begins to lurch wildly. There is a loud BANG! somewhere else;
everyone is looking all over, trying to determine its origin. Harry looks out the window
and wishes he hadn’t. There is fire streaming out the outboard engine; he hopes
(absurdly) that the rush of air outside will blow it out.
Most everyone now have their eyes glued to the right wing. The fire is spreading like
a brush fire onto the top of the wing itself, covering it with bright, orange flames. Harry is
beyond scared, beyond comprehensible fear, in a place where reason has been
abandoned.
Finally, everyone hears the captain’s voice again; it is the only sound that rescues
Harry from insanity. “Folks, we are obviously experiencing an engine problem. We have
decided to return to Knoxville immediately to make an emergency landing. Please try to
remain calm and tighten your seat belts please.”
Even Irene has gone pale, grabbing Harry’s hand in earnest, a prayer on her lips. She
looks at him and tries a smile, but it fails miserably.
A woman screams from two seats ahead of him. He looks out the window again to
witness the inboard engine now, bursting into flames; they grow more ominous, the
tongues of fire licking at his window, searching for a crack they can get through.
The plane begins a sickening roll to the left – this may be it. Everything is a blur now
as nearly everyone is calling, screaming, hollering out to one another, to no one, to
people who are not there. The plane has rolled over completely and Harry can’t tell up
from down. The plane spins with deadly finality, winding its way back down to earth.
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There is no further word from the pilot; everyone knows that they will be dead shortly.
The last thing Harry remembers is the farewell clutch of Irene’s hand, the shaking of his
shoulders.
“Come on, Harry, let’s go,” his wife is saying, shaking him again. We don’t want to
miss our plane.”
Dazed and disoriented, Harry blinks up at her. “Whatsa, who, where are –”
Irene grabs his right arm and tugs sharply. “Come on, Harry. Now!”
She half-drags him into line. Still punchy, Harry shakes his head, hoping to throw off
the residue of a bad dream he thinks he might have been having. He looks around
blankly. His eyes soon rest on the pretty ticket hostess. She picks up her microphone.
“Flight one-seventy-four to Chicago is now ready for boarding. Please have your
boarding tickets ready. Thank you.”
“Wake up, Harry,” Irene commands. She gives him a snort of exasperation. “Here,
give me the tickets. I’ll take care of it.”
Harry knows that something is wrong – but what? Something is gnawing at his
insides, something he can’t name. As he looks around, everything seems oddly familiar.
His eyes rest on the dazzling beauty behind the podium with her cute little cap. The line
moves forward and, soon, it is their turn. With Irene busy with the tickets, Harry is able
to sneak a long look at the pretty hostess. He is startled by the ice-blue eyes, the lips that
seem to swell with invitation. She is looking directly at him as they pass, offering a
slight, enigmatic smile that seems destined for his eyes only, and says, “Have a nice flight
now.”
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