Je suis un aerogard

I know that I'm on a direct flight to Saskatoon when Gold Star members are invited to board the plane and one older gentleman ambles towards the desk. Why this tiny jet even has a first class I can't answer from my lowly position in economy. General boarding is announced for rows 7 and up and we don't even form a proper line-up, but check to make sure we don't know anyone, because usually we do.

For some reason I am shoved by myself at the back of the airplane. Across from me is the lavatory whose door doesn't stand out much from the wall but whose handle - like a toilet flusher - invites me to PULL or TIRER. Because I'm alone I can flirt with the young Spanish attendant when he comes to wash his hands. "You can take your shot of whiskey; I'm not looking." He stares at me until the sarcasm journeys the length of English and into Spanish and out again.

I stare at a broken cigarette label under what looks like an ashtray next to the bathroom. Then I wonder about the mechanics of being a rock star. Flying across the country each day. I've done my share of traveling. To travel in any sort of style and comfort would require an entire staff to look after just you. So who looks after the staff?

Satan?

Satan pours me a drink in a plastic cup, like a thimble of medicine -- on ice, s'il vous plait. Each of us swallows our ration cup and bites the edge as though the edge is a soother, and there could be anything in this ice and drink but the dullness kills the superstition.

There's nothing exciting about sitting on this leather seat, except for imagining the world will end in 20 minutes.

As an exercise, believe this. There are fighter planes from a hostile armed faction on their way to flatten the countryside, open the mountains and split open the mines like two hands after prayer. In a moment you'll be blown away. Nothing will matter, because no one will be alive.

Check your watch: 19 minutes.

On this plane, still. The ice is melting but not the chill from the vents and the insinuation of bleach from the lavatory. I need to shower. But there'll be no time to shower. Maybe we'll hit another plane. The world is ending in 18 minutes.

Satan has not come back. He is conversing with the old man in first class. They are conversing. Exchanging nothing but words, sounds. I can remember nothing. My memory is totally gone. I can only think in terms of things on this airplane. Grey leather that's comfort. Dim lighting, calm.

15 minutes.

Fortunately I realize my freedom. The same freedom that exists in a dream, where consequences are inconsequential, or simply nonexistent. My true impulse is to make a scene. To be dangerous, taboo, or irrationally kind. I sit in my chair with my thimble of ice and tell myself stories of what I'd do if this freedom really did exist once in a while.

I've lost count of the minutes. My timing for the scene will clearly be off now.

When does the end come?

Satan is still talking up front. Not to me.

It won't matter that everyone is gone; no one will be there to miss them. Maybe 10 minutes left and I have received no enlightenment. I am about to go and what is there but this half-cooked notion of freedom.

These are my thoughts : 3 - 2 - 1.