Under Control

Anyone who has ever been to an airport has experienced this.

            “This is a common sense safety announcement…” Jonathan rolled his eyes. People were dumb, but airport safety announcements were dumber. “…Please keep your luggage under control…” As if it would just walk away if you did not hold it down. “…Do not leave your luggage unattended or with a stranger at anytime. If you see suspicious luggage, please report it to airport security…” Shouldn’t they have already apprehended anything suspicious at the security checkpoint? Wasn’t that their job—their only job?

            Jonathan sighed and turned his attention back to his crossword. Alluringly plump, six letters. What a horrible clue. F and T were in the middle, but that did not help Jonathan much. Islamic genies, also six letters. This one Jonathan knew! It was on the tip of his tongue. He concentrated.

Nearby, a baby began bawling. The weatherman on the television overhead was predicting mild thunderstorms. Aerosmith blasted from the headphones of the teenager sitting next to him. Jonathan realized that he was no longer trying to remember what Islamic genies were called. Instead his mind was blank, simply absorbing everything around him.

A flight for Japan was called: Tokyo, flight number 5591. The teenager rose. Jonathan did not know how the kid had heard the announcement over his music.

A second baby broke into a wail. Jonathan had noticed that no matter where one sat in an airport, or on an airplane for that matter, one was guaranteed to be within earshot of at least half a dozen children aged three or younger.

Suddenly a shadow fell upon Jonathan. “Excuse me,” a voice like chocolate said. Jonathan looked up to see a man that matched. Skin as dark as crude oil, as smooth as melted dark chocolate, the man was striking in his impeccably sharp suit.

Jonathan had long been jealous of such men. They could wear nearly anything and the color of their skin allowed them to look suave and debonair. Someone of Jonathan’s pigmentation, dressed similarly, would be taken for a lothario.

“Sorry to be a bother, but I wonder if I might beg a favor.” The man’s voice was deep enough that it rumbled through Jonathan’s chest as well as his ears. In that moment, knowing nothing further about the man beyond the way he looked and spoke, Jonathan was filled with respect and the desire to please.

“No bother at all. I was just giving up on my puzzle.” Jonathan held up the crossword.

“Perhaps I could help you as well. Any clues in particular that have you stumped?”

“As a matter of fact, yes: Islamic genies…and alluringly plump. Both six letters. I know the word for Islamic genies, but I can’t quite come up with it.”

“Djinns, I believe.”

“Yes! That’s it!”

“Any letters for the other clue?

“Yes. F and T are the two center letters.”

“Out of six?”
            “That’s right.”

“Would you mind watching my bag for a moment? I need to visit the WC.”

“No problem. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Thank you so much. And I’ll think about that clue while I’m gone.” With a wink the man turned and made his way toward the nearest restroom.

Jonathan glanced down to make sure that the bag was close enough that no one would mistakenly think it was unattended. It was a normal carry-on bag: it stood upright with two wheels and an extendable handle. It almost looked brand new, but the nametag attached to the handle was wrinkled and worn. Somehow the smooth man had managed to keep his bag in supremely good condition. Jonathan smiled. The bag was clearly under control.

Often, when seated for a long time, Jonathan’s back developed aches and sometimes even shooting pains. One such pang jolted through him and a dull ache grew in the aftermath of the strike. He had learned years before that the only way to alleviate the pain was to get his feet up. Unfortunately, he carried a backpack when flying, which was not helpful when he needed a footrest. He eyed the solid, erect bag in front of him.

A moment’s hesitation, then Jonathan slipped his shoes off and propped his feet up on the kind man’s bag. Surely he would understand when Jonathan explained. The pain began to subside almost immediately. Someday, Jonathan would have to visit a doctor and find a more permanent solution.

Looking back at his crossword, Jonathan heaved a sigh. Still stumped. The bag shifted beneath his feet. Wheels must have slipped, he thought, and slouched a bit more in his seat to accommodate the new position.

Alluringly plumped, he mused. A woman waddled by who was certainly plump, but did not qualify as alluring, at least, not in Jonathan’s mind.

The bag slammed to the floor with a resounding clack. Jonathan was slouching so far that he nearly slipped off his seat completely with the loss of his foot support. A jab of pain went up his spine.

Somewhat embarrassed, Jonathan shot a look in the direction of the restroom. The owner of the bag was not in sight. Jonathan stood. The extendable handle had popped out. He bent down and grabbed the handle to right the bag.

As soon as Jonathan’s hand grasped the grip, it slid back into place. In the process, the tips of all of Jonathan’s fingers were pinched. A gasp of disbelief was all he could manage before the handle whipped back out to its extended position.

For a moment Jonathan was sure that he had only imagined that the bag had acted strangely. His fingers began to smart. Nope, it definitely had happened. His back was also sending unhappy messages to his brain as he was still bent over.

Jonathan straightened up, bringing the bag with him. They both stood still. Jonathan stared at the bag. Now that he focused more closely on the carry-on he noticed that it was not in as mint of condition as he had first thought. The little black wheels were worn and the deep blue fabric obscured several long scratches that traversed the sides from top to bottom. The inside of the well where the handle retracted to also showed usage.

Scrutinizing the bag as hard as he was it is not surprising that Jonathan noticed the movement the exact second it began. The bag was slowly but steadily scooting away from Jonathan’s seat. He put his free hand on top of the bag and pushed down to keep it stationary. It slowed and stopped.

Breathing a bit heavily, Jonathan stared at the luggage and wondered what was happening. His eyes widened even further when it resumed sliding across the floor. He pushed down as hard as he could. The bag was as hard as a marble pillar.

Bent over with one hand on the handle and the other pressing down on top of the bag, Jonathan looked like he was merely trying to get the handle down. Not that he was worried what he looked like. The crossword lay forgotten on the floor. Jonathan had a new puzzle to occupy his mind.

The bag seemed to be gradually moving faster as Jonathan applied more pressure with his hand. On a hunch he jumped onto the luggage in the seated position. The bag kicked into high gear.

Instead of halting the progress of the carry-on, Jonathan was racing across the airport floor, riding the bag like a segway. The handle, which he gripped firmly with both hands, split his legs, which were extended out in front.

He sped past the bathroom where the owner of the bag had disappeared only moments before, and then went blazing past the food court. He tried to bring his heels down to slow his momentum, but his socks merely slid along the floor quickly creating heat. He picked his feet back up.

He blew by a couple shops and then found himself hurtling down a deserted hallway. Jonathan quickly saw that the hallway ended where there was a door that read “Airport Employees Only.”

Traveling at what felt like 40 miles per hour a mere two feet off the ground, Jonathan had only a moment after reading that sign to experience a twinge of dread that despite not being an employee he was going through that door. Unfortunately, that door also looked locked.

Without slowing even a smidge, the bag hurled Jonathan into the door. In anticipation of the collision, he leaned back, which threw his feet up to the level of the push bar. Fantastic crashes resounded down the empty hallway as Jonathan’s sock-adorned feet broke the lock and lead the way into airport employee territory.

Tears were streaming down Jonathan’s cheeks. He was not sure if they were from pain or pure terror. He wanted desperately to let go, but his fingers were curled so tightly around the handle that he did not feel that he could persuade them to let go. Plus there was a part of his brain that quite convincingly painted a picture of him sliding across the floor on the seat of his pants for a long time.

Suddenly the floor ahead seemed to drop away. Before Jonathan had time to process what caused the phenomenon of the disappearing horizon, he was jouncing down a metal staircase. His teeth clattered and he bit harshly into his tongue, which been previously flapping around his open mouth.

The unpleasant experience of riding the stairs was mercifully over quickly. Before Jonathan could be thankful, the bag took its first turn. It did not slow down in the slightest. The result was a subjective increase in speed for Jonathan. The bag rolled up onto the left wheel and careened to the right. Jonathan’s stomach shoved its way up the left wall of his body and tried to give a high five to his left lung. He simultaneously felt like he was drowning and like he had to vomit.

The right wheel thumped back onto the floor and the luggage straightened. To his horror, Jonathan saw that there was another turn ahead. He quickly discovered that underneath the normal airport, where civilians walked everyday, was a maze of corridors lined with pipes where only employees were authorized to go, although they apparently did not take advantage of the privilege because Jonathan did not see another soul.

Jonathan also developed a jealousy of NASCAR drivers. When he first entered the labyrinth of hallways he was forunate enough to take two right turns in a row. The second turn had a much lesser effect on his organs than the first. Doubtless turning in the same direction continuously caused the digestive and respiratory systems of the drivers to be predisposed to being lodged off center and therefore rendered the experience less wrenching and nauseating. Unfortunately, after that initial repetition of turn directions Jonathan was not so lucky. Every turn seemed to be seeking a different destination. Once Jonathan even felt as though he had been turned upside down.

Just as he felt as though his intestines were going to attempt to escape from the confused madness of his insides, the bag squealed to a halt. Jonathan was immediately hit by an enormous wave of dizziness and was sure that he would fall to the floor.

He heard a ding. He struggled to focus his eyes. He could just make out the elevators doors as they slid open. The bag scooted into the car. The initial rise of elevation caused Jonathan’s stomach to seek refuge with his intestines, a different, but not a more desirable effect than had been exacted on him by the maze fiasco.

The elevator came to a halt and Jonathan heard anther ding behind him. Then the worst possible thing happened. The bag immediately jumped to speed, backwards. Jonathan exited the elevator car without the contents of his stomach, which resolutely decided they were better off on the floor of the elevator than inside him. Jonathan was momentarily disgusted to find he was jealous of a pile of vomit; his jealously soon expanded to include everyone around him who had the distinct privilege to not be riding a rolling carry-on.

Wide-eyed stares followed Jonathan as he blazed across the smooth floor. Several children burst into happy laughter as they caught sight of him. Jonathan had given up being surprised by the devious new ways the luggage created to torture him when he was startled by the bag’s sudden stop. Jonathan, however, maintained his momentum.

By some miracle the bag had found its way back to Jonathan’s seat. His rear end collided into its previous position when Jonathan had been slouching. His feet found themselves atop the carry-on once again. Anyone who hadn’t seen his fantastic ride to his seat did not give Jonathan a second glance so normal was his appearance.

“Zaftig,” someone said. Dazed, Jonathan turned his head to see the sharply dressed man sitting next to him holding his crossword puzzle. Jonathan’s voice had apparently been left behind during the ride, no doubt keeping his stomach contents company in the elevator. His mouth, however, jawed open and shut.

“It seems there was an extremely literate vandal in the particular stall that I attended. Zaftig was written on door.” Jonathan stopped moving his useless mouth and just left it hanging as he stared at the man. “A mighty fine clue, I say.”

The loudspeaker rang out in a female tone. It must have been a departure announcement because the man then said, “That’s my flight. Thank you for watching my bag. Have a good day.”

Jonathan was stunned. He watched the man walk away as if the strangest thing he had witnessed that day was the result of someone with a large vocabulary and a permanent ink marker. The sounds coming out of the overhead speak became words and Jonathan listened.

“This is a common sense safety announcement. We would like to ask you to please keep your luggage under control…”

Octopied Mind

I had this dream maybe eight months ago. There was very little I had to add to make a story out of it. This is what happens to me when I sleep. As a side note, octopi (octopussies) are awesome.

Giant octopus bodies lie in a huge field of mud. Some lay out lengthwise, tentacles stretched flat, unmoving. Some twitch. Some have missing tentacles, chopped short by the fishermen who caught them. Still others remain completely active, competing with neighbors for space. Colorful, even in the vague mist of the morning. Red, blues, turquoise, thin striping highlights on the edge of where the suction cups hide.

            From a distance I see a woman, a girl, really, weave her way between the seemingly occupied octopi. As she starts to move away from a particular pair, one breaks away from its posturing. It raises its body up, powerful tentacles able to support its body. The impending shadow looms before her, she swiftly turns, screams, and is bodily lifted into the air, utterly helpless. It seems so surreal that I chuckle to myself, “Ha, got her.”

            She is carried toward the main path next to the mud field and hurled down into a massive puddle, facedown. She doesn’t move. I lose interest in her fate as the path brings me very close to a particularly massive specimen. A deep midnight violet color with banana slug yellow piping with enough mud spattering to convince passerby that it hasn’t made any significant movement for a long interval, long enough that it’s probably safe. The giant body still shudders and heaves as it struggles to draw breath. A profound sense of foreboding takes root in my chest.

            Unable to halt my progress, my feet carried me ever closer. It was impossible to tell whether my brain wouldn’t allow my lungs to draw breath, instinctively trying to eliminate all telltale signs of prey, or if I had simply lost the capability. The entire body heaved once. I ran.

            Without a second thought I made for the old abandoned market stalls along the opposite of the path. The first one I reached was nothing more than the standard; a doorway large enough for a Mack truck, the ceiling two stories high, the open rectangular window where the numerous tables and stands used to display countless sea-found objects. There was one door to the left of the entrance. I dove through it, slamming it shut behind me.

            A small window about eight feet up provided a view of the path directly outside. I jumped up a peered out. I saw nothing but the recently churned path. I heard nothing but the distance and omnipresent cry of seagulls. I slid back down to the floor.

            My gaze drifted to the door as I gulped down air in an effort to calm my heart. The door appeared rather flimsy, clearly made of another piece of flotsam. It did not meet flush with the floor, leaving a gap large enough for mice to scamper under if only there was something to draw them in. I looked around. The Lyceem pirate raid had left nothing behind but ash and dust. A shadow appeared under the door.

            The tentacle slid under the door silently. Probing, searching for flesh, my flesh. I unconsciously jerked away. It froze immediately. Again I felt my entire body seize up. My mind raced, the only part of me determined to escape. Unfortunately my only the option, the window, was only large enough for my head. Without the rest of my body, though, my head would have considerable difficulty making good on its getaway. I knew depending on passerby was not viable. My own response to the girl only moments ago was example enough of what I could expect. As I began to acknowledge the hopelessness of my situation the tentacle retreated. Expecting the entire door to be ripped away, I was surprised when the shadow lifted.

            After a moment, unbelieving, I jumped back up to the window and looked out. I was just in time to see the octopus cross the path. It settled amongst its brethren, bespattering itself in mud. Seconds later it was indistinguishable from those that surrounded it. If I hadn’t watched the process I would have had no way of knowing that it had moved at all. As I contemplated my next move, two basgams trod into my view. The emerald bodies of the reptiles rippled with muscles, their movements reminded me of the lions I had once seen in the menagerie of the sea gypsys.

            Without dropping back to the floor I glanced over at the door just as the first of the predators began scrabbling at the crack along the floor. I decided my imaginary mouse wouldn’t enter because of what lay within, but because of what lay without. Deep growls menaced as the sturdiness of the door prevailed. Short, guttural barks called out in the emptiness of the former market stall. Claws clicked on the hard coral floor and then there was silence. I turned my head just in time to glimpse the short tail of a basgam as it trotted down the path in the direction I had come from. Had they been following me all along, or did they have some way of communicating with the cephalopods? Such interspecies cooperation seemed eerily possible, especially given my current situation. I sank to the floor. I did not like my chances at all. I had only seen one basgam retreating. Despair began to take hold.

            I’m not sure if I nodded off or not. It seemed as though my mind was working the entire time, but a long interval clearly had passed. Through the window I could see the sun had shifted directly overhead. The afternoon heat seemed magnified rather than tempered in my closet.

            Uncertain if the intervening time had given me courage or if nihilism had taken hold. I slowly opened the door. I committed fully right from the start and took several steps before opening my eyes. When I did I saw the other basgam. Curled up and sleeping, it lay only feet from the door. I tiptoed maybe a dozen feet before I could no longer contain my fear. I broke into a run. The moment my foot hit the path, my heart jumped into my mouth. In my worry about the missing basgam, I had completely forgotten the octopus. It had not forgotten me.

            It rose from the mud. Tentacles seemed to be everywhere. The forty-foot width of the path was all that separated us. I could see one of its eyes. The square pupil stared back at me, completely devoid of emotion yet emanating a sense of hate. In that moment my mind gave up. Fortunately, my feet did not. I ran. Again.

            My ears were full of the pounding efforts of my heart, the dull thud of my bare feet on the dirt path, and the otherworldly shrieks of the octopus, joined by the baying of basgams on the hunt. Apparently my oh-so-subtle plan had fooled precisely no one.

            An older gentlemen seemed to appear out of nowhere on the path ahead of me. I saw his eyes attempt to escape his head before he turned to run. His beard was long enough that it trailed behind as he ran. Surprisingly fleet of foot, the old man darted into an opening in the market. Without regard for my previous predicament precipitated by this very same strategy, I followed. We plunged into what seemed to be a sort of promenade, lined with thick pillars that only had a few inches space between them. Light at the far end gave the sense that it was open. We tore down the corridor.

I drew abreast of the old man. As we ran step in step, my synapses began to fire again. Slowly. If I could get in front of the old man and stay there, the fearsome monsters chasing me would encounter him first. That would give me a better chance of escaping. Okay. I had a plan. I stole a glance at the old man. By chance, perhaps, he glanced at me at the same moment. He winked.

My brain kicked into overdrive. That wink. Clearly the old man was plotting exactly what I was plotting. Only seconds separated us from the end of the promenade. Ahead the pillars ended, replaced by chain link fence for maybe thirty feet before there was a gap where we could egress. With a prodigious effort my brain beheld the entire situation. While busy worrying about the old man’s scheming, I had neglected the central problem. The octopus is a clever beast. In a flash I knew it would cut us off at the exit. As we flew past the last pillar I threw myself to the ground.

Seemingly out of nowhere the octopus appeared, looming before the exit. Supported by half of its tentacles, the rest were free the writhe with menace in the air, framing its gnashing beak, silhouetted by the late afternoon sunlight. I knew I was looking at death. Several yards ahead of me the old man stood with his hands on his hips, chest heaving only slightly, as if he had jogged the promenade rather than fled for his life. A basgam skittered past the fearsome cephalopod, its claws struggling to find purchase on the path.

Tentacles grasped the chain link, suction cups fit in the square gaps of the fence. With one brutal movement the octopus ripped the entire thirty-foot length of fencing away, the screech of mangled metal only a grace note in the cacophonous symphony of screams emanating from the enraged predator.

The old man stood calm. His mouth moved, but I could hear no words. He raised one arm as tentacles stretched toward him, pointing back down the promenade. The din shrank to a dull roar, then a mere rumbling. Suddenly the octopus retracted its tentacles. The basgam fled back in the direction it had come, the cephalopod swiftly followed.

Stretched out on my stomach I looked at the old man in disbelief. Hand replaced on his hip, he held my eyes. A smile might have hid beneath his exceptional beard

Giant Squid Spotted!

Not everyone is hip on the lifestyle of the squid. It is a little known fact, for instance, that squid hibernate. Following the example of this mysterious creature, Squid Stories has been dormant for some time. But due to popular demand, new stories will be delivered. Several completed stories have been found stranded on the beaches of my mind. A few nebulous dreams have been recorded that will soon be transformed into entertaining stories (think, "I'm a Flower"). The dusty and cobweb clogged recesses of my under- and misused Mac will be plundered. New ideas and dreams have hatched and will be nurtured.
To get you in the mood, I present you with Rudyard Kipling's "If."

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!