The plane groaned like a whale, and it was in the air. Everyone mulled about, coyly passing time in anticipation of the Ding Of Approved Electronic Devices.
Not one to observe man’s crippling addiction to technology or even be engaged in airborne chitchat, Greg Wilson merely waited, thumbing a book he had kept stashed in his satchel for much longer than the appropriate allotted time.
“So what do you do?” the woman in Seat 34 G asked.
An awkward moment passed before Wilson even realized he was being addressed – more a reaction than a response – “Pardon?”
The dyed-brunette took a breath. “How do you make your living?”
Cocktail Party Greg woke up from whatever mental parlor from which he was lost. “Oh, this and that, ma’am.” He shifted in the seat, shoulders sore from carrying his bags through the gauntlet of the international airport. “I guess you could say I’m self-employed. Do whatever anyone wants, as long as they’ll pay me. Writing, mostly.”
“Ooooo. A writer, huh? Are you writing a novel?”
This was why he stayed away from the question of employment in the first place. It always came up, though, no matter how much he shrugged his shoulders.
“Not now. No time. No inspiration,” Wilson spoke from rote memory. A flash card’s worth of recited lines. “It’ll come, but I’m not forcing it. For now, just taking gigs to keep my brain working. Still trying to find my niche – my ‘raison d’etre,’ so to speak.” That ought to trip her up.
“So what’s your novel going to be about??” she shrieked, chuckling.
Greg got his headphones out of his bag, the universal sign for Please Leave Me Alone. “Oh, you know, growing up, facing the realities of adulthood. Dealing with the notion that everything has already been written and has come before us and we’re doomed to deconstruct it forever, so to speak. That, or a book about baseball.”
“My son played baseball – shortstop – in high school. Pretty good, too. I used to love going to his games.”
“Mhm,” Wilson said, turning on his Portable Electronic Device. A wall of guitar chords cradled him back into the train of thought he had left before the Ding flooded the cabin.
Call and response.
When placed into an airplane setting, the Pavlovian nature of man magnifies. Bell rings, computers turn on. Bell rings, riders head for the bathroom. Coffee or soft drink? Chicken or pasta? We are experiencing turbulence – seat belts snap – remain calm.
If humans are meant to rule themselves, they certainly aren’t going to do so from 30,000 feet in the air.
Wilson was no stranger to this.
He spent his days observing, asking questions and getting the expected response. He was a writer – sure – but a journalist, which is a different kind of writer entirely.
Stories were already being told; he was just the one capturing them. Every event had a beginning, middle and end. A fire destroyed a Tudor on 23rd St. on Saturday. Councilman Matthew Flannery has pled guilty to embezzlement. A three-legged dog was found alive in Montrose after two weeks of searching by its 10-year-old owner, Jenny Lawrence.
Greg never had to write about motivations or insinuations. What he was doing was the equivalent of talking about the weather. Maybe that’s why he was having such a hard time getting this book written in the first place. He couldn’t create for himself. He was unable to connect his own experience with those of the characters he was trying to write about. Everything came off as mindless, or even worse, soulless.
He thought about writing this all down, but instead put his tray table up and closed his eyes. It could wait.
***
