Into the Unknown

James Herman - October 7, 2019

The streets of New York are bustling with busy business lives, the sound of constant cars honking, and the scent of freshly baked greasy pizza. Sidewalks are crowded with workers, families, homeless ones, children, pets, and even vile rodents, as they make their way to their destinations, wherever they may be inside or outside of the city.

I, on the other hand, know my destination and I'm well within the safety of the back of a limo. A glass of bubbling champagne in hand and jazz music playing faintly, I gaze over the lit metropolitan streets as I'm chauffeured to the airport. Already, the sky is beginning to darken, making my circadian rhythm start to kick in. A yawn escapes my mouth, eyes watering, and I think about coming home to see my family. The thought of seeing my son after so long makes me anticipate my imminent arrival even more so.

My private jet, a beautifully luxurious Boeing 757, is piloted by the most trusted fellow I know. A former United States Air Force pilot, I hired the man trusting in him that he would fly me to wherever I was needed, wherever it was in the world. For 15 years he's been loyal to me. Never am I going to find a pilot as worthy as he.

As we pull up to the massive side of the plane, there he is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs that lead into the insides of the body. Accustomed with a white uniform, his name badge, and a pilot's hat, he greets me with a smile.

"Good evening, Mr. Herman." He tips his head forward slightly.

I shake his hand once out of the limo. The man has a firm grip. "Evening to you as well, Mac."

Mac looks at the plane, hand over his eyes. "Looks like a great evening for a flight. So far, the winds haven't been too rough. I'd say you're going to have a smooth flight back to London, sir."

"Good man, you are. Always getting me everywhere safely. You don't know how much I appreciate it," I say as I stealthily pull out an American $100 bill and slip it into his hand. A generous tip for my generous pilot.

Mac looks down at the bill in his hand, the excitement filling his voice. "Thank you, sir . . . You don't know how much this means to me."

"Ah, anything for my man Mac. Now, don't we have somewhere to be?" I make my way up the steps, with my porter following behind me with my few luggage bags. The porter is a silent fellow, only speaking when he's asked to, but he's obedient and does what I say.

Inside the private luxury of the jet, there are lights on the floor that lead me to the cabin of the plane. In the center of the cabin is my personal seat, all set up with accommodations that the flight attendants have learned to adapt to and prepare whenever I'm aboard a flight. I set myself down in my recliner that's been enhanced with memory foam body sensing adjustments, allowing itself to morph to the shape of my body, creating the most comfortable place for me to relax through the seven-hour flight across the massive body of the Atlantic. A television screen lowers from the ceiling of the plane, a remote popping out from the left side of my chair. At the moment, television doesn't sound interesting, so I leave the remote as it is.

With my eyes closed, I feel that my mouth is dry. "Excuse me, could you get me a drink?" The flight attendant, a woman named Ann, nods and walks to the back of the plane. I hear faint clinking noises and the sound of liquid flowing into a glass. As Ann makes her way back, the squeaking of the cart indicates how close she's approaching me.

"Here you are, Mr. Herman." She hands me a crystalline glass filled with red wine, leaving the bottle on the table that's beside me. "Would you like anything else before we take off?"

"Not at the moment, sweetie."

Ann goes once again to the back of the cabin with the cart squeaking in front of her. She pulls the cart behind a curtain into the galley, where she leaves it for the duration of the flight. Without looking back, she sits herself down in her seat. I hear the click of her putting her seatbelt on.