Airborne
I've hated airports for as long as I remember. To me, they smell of efficiency and musty carpets, last-minute gifts bought by forgetful travellers. When I dislike something, I normally try to avoid it, like peanuts. I recoil at the sight of peanut butter, or innocuous shells strewn on the ground like birdseed.
My father worked with Mitsubishi. He ironed his own suits and bought a variety of neckties. Because he flew to Japan regularly, my mother and I had to welcome him back every month. It wasn't so much a welcome as a solemn greeting. We stood beside excited Americans, expectant lovers, waving rhythmically; he would embrace us both without emotion.
He wouldn't call unless he had business matters to complain about. At first, I idolised his authoritative stride and designer glasses, lightweight luggage trailing behind like a dog. Then I grew old enough to use words like neglectful, estranged and absent. My mother kept silent, but expressed her agreement by having an affair with a postman.
Our airport trips never ceased. I was always bored, fiddling with the hem of my skirt, while my mother searched her bag for a mirror. I half-expected her to emanate wantonness, a careless carnality, but the postman appeared to have no discernible effect on her. She did not kiss my father on the cheek, and I searched his eyes for a hint of understanding. Nothing.
*
After a while, every passenger looks the same. I give them generic names; Melissa, Andrew, Susan. They slouch and snore in their chairs, clutching the complimentary cushions. Babies emit the same high-pitched cry, programmed to startle stewardesses as they walk down the aisle, and I shudder at their drooling mouths.
My trolley rolls steadily amidst turbulence; I pour out orange juice and coffee, the occasional beer. My leather shoes are giving me blisters, but I force a smile and politely ask a harried mother if she needs a drink, maybe some warm towels. Outside, clouds shape-shift, and snowflakes condense on the windows.
My only friend on this flight is Andrea. She is a part-time model and speaks with an Australian accent, even though she was born and raised in Singapore. Her fingernails are always perfectly manicured, and like me, she went to a good college. We sit beside each other during landing and take-off.
Men pick on her constantly, pressuring her for phone numbers, whispering lasciviously in her ear. Once, a middle-aged passenger seized her around the waist and refused to let go. She tried her best not to scream, and slowly pried his fingers off, one by one. I admire her calmness and resolve to act the same way, but the opportunity never rises.
*
During school holidays, we visited my father in his Tokyo apartment. It was fashionably cramped and harboured no trace of us. He favoured primary colours and sparse ornamentation; a modern vase, the occasional painting. His bedroom was an office, and I could tell our presence, a hint of forbidden leisure, irked him slightly.
Every day we were given crisp money, carefully folded in a milk-white envelope, to eat and make purchases. I was ambivalent towards the city, so beloved by other foreigners. Sushi gave us food poisoning; my mother managed to befriend the neighbours, two bespectacled, kindly sisters, who'd take us out regularly. Mostly, however, I was looking forward to our flight back home. I enjoyed the compact meals we were served, and learnt to love the engine's steady hum.
I was talked into being an air stewardess, even though I felt no affinity with the girls I'd met before. My category was obvious. I was tall and thin enough, with good posture and a face rendered acceptable by make-up. I didn't suffer from travel sickness of any sort; while my mother went pale and popped Dramamine throughout journeys, I was reading magazines and playing video games.
I went for the interviews alone and filled in application forms with cursive writing. Later, I received both a phone call and a letter. That was all. Before I realised it, I'd signed myself up for a lifetime of airports.
*
Airline staff undergo the same rigorous checks as passengers. Depending on the country, your bag may be forced open, emptied of its contents. Safety knows neither privacy, nor sentiment; I had a bottle of perfume confiscated once. I nearly burst into tears, as its absence meant the loss of a beloved morning ritual. I liked to towel-dry my hair, then spray the concentrated liquid onto my collarbones and the back of my knees.
These days, my passion lies in metal detectors. The sturdy plastic frames are a crucial checkpoint, a gateway to the heavens. While everyone locks their jewellery in portable boxes, I retain a thin silver necklace. The ensuing beep, an alarm to ignorant ears, seems like a greeting, an affirmation of my presence.
The security guard commands me to lift my arms and I eagerly obey, excited by her suspicion. She runs her sensor over my torso; I wonder if it picks up the rasp of my uniform, my childishly throbbing heart beneath. Nobody has touched me in years, the closest are these roving palms that stop short of my ankles.
I want more than an inspection. I want someone to pinch my sides and squeeze warmth into my chest. "Go," she says dismissively, and I dare not linger.
*
Eventually, my father returned with a Japanese girlfriend. Her name was Emiko and she was barely older than me. Unexpectedly, I liked her immediately; it was her lilting voice and plain, cheerful face. She had an English vocabulary of less than two hundred words. By then, my mother was done with the postman and had moved on to the grocer.
I still saw my father off, on my own; somehow, I felt it was my duty, and didn't expect him to return the favour. He was tired now, old, numbers and figures taking a toll on his appearance. Emiko helped him dye the grey streaks in his hair and ruined two expensive towels. "He'll be furious, won't he?" she said, wide-eyed and worried, fear halting her already awkward English.
He wasn't. He laughed and mussed up her ponytail, caught her in an embrace. She wriggled playfully and I left the room hastily, explaining I needed to cook dinner. Once I worked on the same flight as both of them. Emiko patted my arm whenever I walked past; not before long, I found them fast asleep, her head resting peacefully on his shoulder, their hands entwined.
My father was wearing a polo shirt for once, and the corners of his mouth curved upwards. His chest rose and fell contentedly, and I wanted to shout, why were you so cold, why did you never do that for us. Instead, I kept on rolling.
*
Somebody died on an aeroplane, once. She was an old lady whose liver spots betrayed the flawless translucency of her skin. While everyone else was bound for a popular holiday destination, having packed garish caps and honey-scented lotion, she was seeking critical medical treatment.
She stopped breathing before we were completely airborne. Her family sounded the alarm and we were forced to land, then bear witness to her limp, tube-invaded body being carried out. It seemed like a procession of sorts. The other passengers were sympathetic. Some prayed, murmuring amen under their breath; others wept. Still, after the announcement that our flight would be delayed by three hours, a flurry of impatient voices rose above the mourning.
It wasn't a big deal, I thought, as I patrolled the business-class aisles, catching Andrea's eye. People die all the time. People die in aeroplanes all the time. In the event of an accident, I wouldn't have the luxury of ruminating upon the complexities of my existence; no faces would flash across my mind. I would be aiding the dispatchment of life jackets, or monitoring the oxygen supply.
If I could choose, I'd prefer an explosion. I want to dissolve in a burst of brilliant flame, my ashes scattered into the ocean. My body, instantly reduced to carbon compounds, will not be excavated by experts. I'll never reach the airport, sealed and boxed; ready for collection like familiar baggage.
I've hated airports for as long as I remember. To me, they smell of efficiency and musty carpets, last-minute gifts bought by forgetful travellers. When I dislike something, I normally try to avoid it, like peanuts. I recoil at the sight of peanut butter, or innocuous shells strewn on the ground like birdseed.
My father worked with Mitsubishi. He ironed his own suits and bought a variety of neckties. Because he flew to Japan regularly, my mother and I had to welcome him back every month. It wasn't so much a welcome as a solemn greeting. We stood beside excited Americans, expectant lovers, waving rhythmically; he would embrace us both without emotion.
He wouldn't call unless he had business matters to complain about. At first, I idolised his authoritative stride and designer glasses, lightweight luggage trailing behind like a dog. Then I grew old enough to use words like neglectful, estranged and absent. My mother kept silent, but expressed her agreement by having an affair with a postman.
Our airport trips never ceased. I was always bored, fiddling with the hem of my skirt, while my mother searched her bag for a mirror. I half-expected her to emanate wantonness, a careless carnality, but the postman appeared to have no discernible effect on her. She did not kiss my father on the cheek, and I searched his eyes for a hint of understanding. Nothing.
*
After a while, every passenger looks the same. I give them generic names; Melissa, Andrew, Susan. They slouch and snore in their chairs, clutching the complimentary cushions. Babies emit the same high-pitched cry, programmed to startle stewardesses as they walk down the aisle, and I shudder at their drooling mouths.
My trolley rolls steadily amidst turbulence; I pour out orange juice and coffee, the occasional beer. My leather shoes are giving me blisters, but I force a smile and politely ask a harried mother if she needs a drink, maybe some warm towels. Outside, clouds shape-shift, and snowflakes condense on the windows.
My only friend on this flight is Andrea. She is a part-time model and speaks with an Australian accent, even though she was born and raised in Singapore. Her fingernails are always perfectly manicured, and like me, she went to a good college. We sit beside each other during landing and take-off.
Men pick on her constantly, pressuring her for phone numbers, whispering lasciviously in her ear. Once, a middle-aged passenger seized her around the waist and refused to let go. She tried her best not to scream, and slowly pried his fingers off, one by one. I admire her calmness and resolve to act the same way, but the opportunity never rises.
*
During school holidays, we visited my father in his Tokyo apartment. It was fashionably cramped and harboured no trace of us. He favoured primary colours and sparse ornamentation; a modern vase, the occasional painting. His bedroom was an office, and I could tell our presence, a hint of forbidden leisure, irked him slightly.
Every day we were given crisp money, carefully folded in a milk-white envelope, to eat and make purchases. I was ambivalent towards the city, so beloved by other foreigners. Sushi gave us food poisoning; my mother managed to befriend the neighbours, two bespectacled, kindly sisters, who'd take us out regularly. Mostly, however, I was looking forward to our flight back home. I enjoyed the compact meals we were served, and learnt to love the engine's steady hum.
I was talked into being an air stewardess, even though I felt no affinity with the girls I'd met before. My category was obvious. I was tall and thin enough, with good posture and a face rendered acceptable by make-up. I didn't suffer from travel sickness of any sort; while my mother went pale and popped Dramamine throughout journeys, I was reading magazines and playing video games.
I went for the interviews alone and filled in application forms with cursive writing. Later, I received both a phone call and a letter. That was all. Before I realised it, I'd signed myself up for a lifetime of airports.
*
Airline staff undergo the same rigorous checks as passengers. Depending on the country, your bag may be forced open, emptied of its contents. Safety knows neither privacy, nor sentiment; I had a bottle of perfume confiscated once. I nearly burst into tears, as its absence meant the loss of a beloved morning ritual. I liked to towel-dry my hair, then spray the concentrated liquid onto my collarbones and the back of my knees.
These days, my passion lies in metal detectors. The sturdy plastic frames are a crucial checkpoint, a gateway to the heavens. While everyone locks their jewellery in portable boxes, I retain a thin silver necklace. The ensuing beep, an alarm to ignorant ears, seems like a greeting, an affirmation of my presence.
The security guard commands me to lift my arms and I eagerly obey, excited by her suspicion. She runs her sensor over my torso; I wonder if it picks up the rasp of my uniform, my childishly throbbing heart beneath. Nobody has touched me in years, the closest are these roving palms that stop short of my ankles.
I want more than an inspection. I want someone to pinch my sides and squeeze warmth into my chest. "Go," she says dismissively, and I dare not linger.
*
Eventually, my father returned with a Japanese girlfriend. Her name was Emiko and she was barely older than me. Unexpectedly, I liked her immediately; it was her lilting voice and plain, cheerful face. She had an English vocabulary of less than two hundred words. By then, my mother was done with the postman and had moved on to the grocer.
I still saw my father off, on my own; somehow, I felt it was my duty, and didn't expect him to return the favour. He was tired now, old, numbers and figures taking a toll on his appearance. Emiko helped him dye the grey streaks in his hair and ruined two expensive towels. "He'll be furious, won't he?" she said, wide-eyed and worried, fear halting her already awkward English.
He wasn't. He laughed and mussed up her ponytail, caught her in an embrace. She wriggled playfully and I left the room hastily, explaining I needed to cook dinner. Once I worked on the same flight as both of them. Emiko patted my arm whenever I walked past; not before long, I found them fast asleep, her head resting peacefully on his shoulder, their hands entwined.
My father was wearing a polo shirt for once, and the corners of his mouth curved upwards. His chest rose and fell contentedly, and I wanted to shout, why were you so cold, why did you never do that for us. Instead, I kept on rolling.
*
Somebody died on an aeroplane, once. She was an old lady whose liver spots betrayed the flawless translucency of her skin. While everyone else was bound for a popular holiday destination, having packed garish caps and honey-scented lotion, she was seeking critical medical treatment.
She stopped breathing before we were completely airborne. Her family sounded the alarm and we were forced to land, then bear witness to her limp, tube-invaded body being carried out. It seemed like a procession of sorts. The other passengers were sympathetic. Some prayed, murmuring amen under their breath; others wept. Still, after the announcement that our flight would be delayed by three hours, a flurry of impatient voices rose above the mourning.
It wasn't a big deal, I thought, as I patrolled the business-class aisles, catching Andrea's eye. People die all the time. People die in aeroplanes all the time. In the event of an accident, I wouldn't have the luxury of ruminating upon the complexities of my existence; no faces would flash across my mind. I would be aiding the dispatchment of life jackets, or monitoring the oxygen supply.
If I could choose, I'd prefer an explosion. I want to dissolve in a burst of brilliant flame, my ashes scattered into the ocean. My body, instantly reduced to carbon compounds, will not be excavated by experts. I'll never reach the airport, sealed and boxed; ready for collection like familiar baggage.
