A larger business man shuffled towards the gate as the flight attendant called for all “Premium Members.” He coughed loudly, making himself as noticeable as possible. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about business status or quality of meat, but this fellow didn’t look like he could pass for either. As he was wheeling his behemoth carry-on right in front of me, my cell phone started to vibrate against my leg. Then it rang.
Mr. Premium thought it was his cell and started groping in his jacket with his free hand, but he just couldn’t seem to reach his phone. At that point I forgot all about my call—who could answer the phone at a time like this?—and just watched this guy spaz out.
He tried to switch hands, but he lost his grip, and his suitcase fell over, spilling out all over my feet. He cussed loudly, and the flight attendant responded with a: “Final call for all Premium Members.” He cussed loudly again, and started scrambling to pick up his stuff. I only saw one suit, but I noticed at least seven ties. I guess he could have been a tie salesman, but I guessed insecurity.
By that time, I felt sorry for Mr. Premium, so I answered the phone. Realizing it wasn’t his, he started picking up his clothes with more vigor, bumping my feet and shins often and deliberately. I no longer felt sorry for him, so I held the phone in front of him.
“It’s for you,” I said. “It’s corporate.”
Mr. Premium looked at me, stunned, as if I just pulled a tie out from behind his ear. “Really?” He had forgotten about the plane and his things, trying only to unravel the mystery of the magic cell phone.
“No. Not really.”
A scowl swept across his flabby cheeks, but it was soon forgotten when the flight attendant announced, “Now boarding rows 41-50.” By the time Mr. Premium had collected the rest of his things and made it to the gate, there were already passengers crowded around. It served him right.
“Hello? Chris? Hello?” My editor’s voice sounded metallic and drained. “Chris, are you there?”
“Hey, sorry about that, Sara. Some guy spilled his clothes and I was trying to help him pick them up.”
“Ah. Okay. There has been a change of plans.”
“You’d better hurry up—my rows are about to board.” I stood up and began sauntering to the gate.
“You aren’t going to
“Talla-what? Is that in
“
Fuck. I did not want to go to
“What’s in
Sara drew a long breath, as if proud of something she did, and said, “Why, only the first American wartime causality in the
Depfield?
“Negative, Chris. The crash almost killed a kid—Grayle Welsh. I want a full story of his account of the crash, and how he is recovering from this catastrophe.” Sara dropped her voice while saying “catastrophe,” making it seem more ominous than it really should have.
“Oh. Sure.”
A change-over in Huston and a taxi ride later, I found myself banging on a hollow wood door belonging to one, Grayle Welsh. No one answered, so I finally shouted, “Hello?” After another minute, I assumed no one was home, so I turned my back to the door and began walking down the patchy gravel driveway.
“Excuse me,” said a young voice behind me.
I turned around to see a cute girl, probably 19, leaning against the doorway, squinting at the morning sun. She had blond hair bundled in a loose ponytail that draped over her shoulder and stopping right at her armpit.
“Are you the reporter?” She spoke with a heavy accent, almost as if she was playing the stereotype.
“Yeah, I’m looking for Grayle Welsh. Does he live here?” I made my way back to the house.
“He does, but you just missed him.” She held out a piece of folded paper. “But, you might be interested in reading this.”
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