There Is a Plane

Sophia Hyland-Wolzak

Vince’s mother refused the help of a wheelchair, preferring the stability of his forearm. She required little in the way of support regardless but seemed to like Vince close to her. 

The line to board the Charleston to Washington DC flight was short. It was a smaller airport than what Vince was used to. With few gates, it all felt a little casual. Most passengers sat or hovered around the gate, waiting for their group to be called over the intercom. Vince assessed the other premium passengers, passively, to determine if they met the requirements of this privilege. 

The two airline attendants spoke to each other. From their smirking, the topic was unlikely to do with work, or they spoke about an aspect of work that was indefensible but ultimately only interesting to them and not outsiders. They waited for the signal to allow passengers to board the plane. 

Vince watched a flight take off. An airplane quickened speed and, in barely any time, flew up and into the air. There were the tonnes of weight lifted, the mass of people and their luggage and the animals that were held in a compartment most passengers willed out of their minds. 

People busied themselves with music or screens, or the sharp squeaks of their children’s imaginations. Vince’s mother held her breath. She attempted longer stretches, avoiding the air that held sickness around her. All others could be sick with death, but at least she knew she was clean. 

A voice came through the localized intercom. The two attendants fixed themselves, their postures straightened, gently patting down loose hairs that were otherwise slicked back into a tight bun. The voice announced they would commence boarding, beginning with the premium category. Vince lifted his backpack from resting beside his ankle and looped the strap around his shoulders, when a voice called out.

There’s no plane, 31C said.  

The first in line handed their bent passes, though they checked over their shoulders, however tentatively, at 31C.

Excuse me, 31C said. There’s no plane there. 

Those who could hear the commotion looked out the windows, including the attendants. There was no plane at the end of the jet bridge. Instead, there was the covered walkway and then a steep plummet to the tarmac. Vince was reminded of the second-last episode of his favorite television show Grab Until It’s Gone, which had not seen a rerun on mainstream channels since the early 1980s. He felt his care for those characters was singular, as if he were the only one capable of appreciating its unique messages, burdened by the decisions made by Leslie, a wife at the edge of a possible divorce or lifelong commitment to mediocrity. He was not certain if this memory emerged from the details of his current circumstances, or some replicated feeling within his nervous system that he recognized in the once-was, could-be love story while watching the most captivating fictional couple in television history. 

We’re probably taking a bus, 20F said. 

To where? 31C asked. 

Are we taking a bus? 20F asked the attendant.

We’ve been told that passengers can embark this plane, Attendant One said. 

31C jogged toward the large windows, a messenger bag slapping his hip and riding up the bottom of a thin parka. He knocked on the glass. 

Show me where the plane is, 31C said. 

Though he was projecting for the crowd to hear, Vince doubted how far 31C’s voice reached farther down the line. The white noise of the airport was that bit louder, a mad layering of competing announcements, the pleasurable tone before the announcements themselves, the rolling of hand luggage, a semiprofessional basketball team in teal sweatsuits, a cash register at the pretzel counter shutting closed after accepting its first twenty-dollar bill for the day. 31C’s anxious gesticulating, however, finally attracted those at the back, beside a donut shop kiosk, to move closer to the scanners, a little semicircle forming around the airline staff. 

Did anyone see the pilots board the plane? 12B asked. 

12B’s baby was strapped to her chest in a baby carrier. She petted her infant’s head, dark hair upright from static. Her voice was steady while speaking to the crowd. Her contribution to the discussion gave away no deficiencies, as she simultaneously spoke to a flock of strangers while wiping the spittle off her child’s face. Her agenda, in this regard, was an answer of some kind, based in reality, which Vince could not say for the attendants, whose primary concern was to direct paying passengers onto the plane. Vince took her the most seriously. There was a dull mumble among them as they deliberated on whether they saw the pilots. 

I think so, said 28A.

Everyone’s got something to say, don’t they, Vince’s mother said. 

Why would they lie about the plane? 3A asked. 

3A was beautiful, much in the way Leslie was in Grab Until It’s Gone, who herself was too young to play the part of a dejected wife. The highest part of 3A’s cheekbones were pearlescent with something artificial, which caught marvelously in the grim overhead light. He was nearly gaping at her. Vince closed his mouth but did not believe he could sustain it, now that he knew she existed, where she was located, his need to look at her at the first blink of a disorder. If they stood farther away from 3A, and if there wasn’t such a preoccupation with the plane, Vince would have asked his mother if 3A reminded her of a particular someone. His mother once loved the show, though they disagreed on its value. 

Attendant One walked to the front desk and picked up the phone. She made a short call, nodding at whatever was spoken into her ear, then hung up and returned to the scanner. Someone coughed nearby and Vince’s mother put a hand over her mouth. 

There is no bus, Attendant One said. There’s that walkway there, and there is a plane, which we are told, you can board. It’s difficult to make this any clearer than we have. 

The sun was a burnt face on the horizon. A young boy at a neighboring gate watched, transfixed, standing on his father’s lap, light-up shoes glimmering, at the sun bloodletting into the sky. 

They’re saying there’s a plane, so there’s a plane, 1B said.

1B was one of the first in line to have a pass scanned by the attendants. Though she was in casual wear, white capri pants that appeared to be ironed, 1B had the bored expression of those who commuted weekly by flying. She entered the jet bridge, carry-on suitcase trailing behind her. 1B did not look back and continued down, turning left and disappearing from view.

Vince looked at the waiting area longingly. If he was feeling the smallest bit of fatigue, his mother especially deserved the early access to her allocated seat on the plane. The flight had been delayed by an hour already. Any longer, and it would have defeated the purpose of the flight, driving a more affordable and practical option to the fares. 

Watch the bridge, 19A said. 

The group readied themselves for 1B’s foot stepping out at the end of the bridge. The most concentrated viewers hushed those that betrayed the atmosphere, pressuring them all into silence. Blinking was their shared adversary, as they were determined to be present for what might happen next. Attendant Two, forgoing the professional manner of certainty and calm that was expected of her, squawked out a hello to the vanished 1B, voice breaking, at the entry. 

Hello? Attendant Two called out to 1B. 

The would-be passengers anticipated a reply, listening for 1B calling out from the end of the tunnel. 1B was gone, however. There was no dangling appendage at the end, and she had not returned to the gate. They did not experience the relief from fulfilling their expectations, so this agitated the passengers, as they made passing comments to one another with a mixture of horror and confusion.  

Go down there and check, Attendant One said.

No, Attendant Two said. 

Go, Attendant One said.

Attendant One placed a hand on her coworker’s back to guide her through the door, but Attendant Two pulled away, backstepping toward the scanners as if it were an island.

No, Attendant Two said. I won’t. 

Attendant One left her station again for the front desk. She picked up the telephone. Vince made out the words: a little assistance, and, uncooperative. He found it difficult to hear a sentence in its entirety from Attendant One, the rest of the passengers talking to each other in a tired, or infuriated manner, not one of their tones pleased. 

This is taking awful long, Vince’s mother said. 

The penultimate episode of the show, some argued, was better than the finale. His mother said as much after it aired, their having a small viewing party. Leslie dresses in a fitted plaid shirt and jeans in the morning, takes their six-year-old daughter to school, and then drives to the train station in Bryn Mawr. She parks and stays there by the road for long enough to seem as though she may drive home, but she takes the train into Philadelphia, with no apparent plans in mind. She treats herself to a tuna sandwich at a small shop, a few tables by the counter, whose only aesthetic is white, as if this simplifies their cleaning, pouring bleach in the grout of the tiled floor. Vince remembers this static shot, straight on, watching Leslie eat over a cream dish, and every so often the aproned staff passing behind her with nondescript buckets or used cookware pushing a swing door. It was not the episode that he thought his mother appreciated, but instead what follows Leslie’s lunch. Leslie wanders into an appliance store, a memory of her domestic life, reminding viewers that perhaps this trip to Philadelphia was merely an errand. What transpires is an immediate connection with the balding shop owner, cramped in an oversupplied store, much too many microwaves and toasters, as he looks at Leslie as everyone in the audience looks at Leslie. As if she were made of honey and marble. 

30A and 30B stepped forward, a couple, knitted sweaters up to their chins, a red ring around their necks from the itch of wool. On their twin backpacks was the name of a Rhine River cruise liner embroidered onto the front pocket. 

We’ll board the plane, 30A said. It’s just too expensive to buy tickets for another flight. And we’ll come right back if it isn’t there. 

Attendant Two refused their tickets, hands on the small kiosk with the scanner. 

Maybe we should wait for the other passenger to return, Attendant Two said. 

30A and 30B nodded, less forthright than 1B had been. 

People at the adjacent gate formed a line, boarding their very present, real plane which waited for them on the other side of the window. Coming around from the gate desk with a renewed confidence, having finished her phone call, Attendant One plucked the boarding passes out of the hands of 30A and 30B, then held them under the red glow until the machine gave out a gentle honk. 

Enjoy your flight to Washington, DC, said Attendant One. 

30A and 30B each grabbed headphones from a container, then left into the snaking jet bridge. 

I guess if something were to happen to one of them, the other could run, 12B said. 

12B’s baby was awake, gurgling, kicking its feet in a galactic sleepsuit. 

The side of 31C’s face, their original whistleblower, was pressed against the glass. It bothered Vince before, but he was glad to have 31C as the dutiful watcher. It was a thankless, essential job as they searched for certainty. The sun was making its final plunge beneath the horizon, seeding itself into the earth. Vince was convinced he had never watched the sun set. His mother, too, was moved. Cataracts gave her the appearance of being possessed by the day’s ritual into night. 

Where did they go? 31C asked. 

Attendant One waved over the would-be passengers’ heads to two airport security officers. They walked through the crowd with polite pardons and throat clearing. 

We require your cooperation, Attendant One said to the crowd, emboldened by security flanked on either side of her. We will begin boarding, so please form an orderly line. 

You can’t force us to board, 31C said. 

Vince was intimidated by the sight of security, knowing he would buckle from a tug of his shirtsleeve. Those at the front of the group backed away a couple of steps. 31C, cheek pink from contact with the cool glass, signaled for the security officers to join him by the window. While 31C explained their predicament, Vince overheard someone behind him say, I wonder if this is a prank. After pacing the length of their gate’s floor-to-ceiling windows, one of the officers returned to Attendant One, whispering something in her ear. Attendant One was insistent they stay, but the two officers left the gate, seeming a little relieved that the complexity of this issue was off their hands. They gave up quickly. 

Let’s try and be rational, 3A said. 

Beauty, there was a melodic quality to the way she spoke. Vince considered that 3A might be a singer or performer of some kind, casual as she was when speaking, projecting, in front of the crowd. He determined that 3A really was from a paradise, not of this world, what with her syrupy voice and her face in a near perfect symmetry. 

You should check on them, Vince said to the attendants. Then we can move on.

He felt 3A’s gaze on him. It was short-lived but lingering enough to feel kismetic. 

Yeah, isn’t that your job? 31C asked.

Attendant One did not agree to the terms. She did not check the alleged plane at the end of the walkway, which only deepened the unrest surrounding her. 

A flight is nonrefundable if the plane is ready to board and passengers are refusing to, Attendant One said. You’ll lose your fare and have to book a new flight for tomorrow. No guarantees of availability. 

This caused a schism in the group. Some outright picked up or rolled their bags and left the gate. They were unconvinced by how clear the presence of the plane was. Vince was moved by their shared sense of will, how easily it came to them to leave instead of wait for a more certain outcome. Vince could not move from his place. When the credits ran after the Philadelphia episode, leaving Leslie and the store owner together, their conversation no longer audible from the camera’s vantage point on the street, peering through the front window, cluttered with display devices, Vince’s mother was transfixed, her hand over her mouth as she watched full names she was destined to lose. She might never go back, Vince’s mother said. She said this as if this were a righteous act.

I’m going to the main desk, 31C said. This is a management issue. 

31C received nods of agreement from a few people, who followed him, discussing how they experienced repeated issues with this airline in the past, and how despite extensive training the attendants were not taught basic manners. In numbers, they bet a manager, higher up in the organization, would take their complaints seriously.

3A started a cue for boarding, which Vince joined next with his mother. 3A’s hair reached the middle of her back and swayed as if in slow motion when she turned her head just so. Vince’s mother woke him from his staring, patting his arm. Though the line behind him was modest, he could hardly stand to look at those who stood around, undecided. They committed to no path, their eyes darting around, waiting for their intuition to kick in. They were stuck. One of the undecided passengers, 17D, tapped Vince on the shoulder. 17D was young, in his early twenties. 

How do you know? 17D asked. How do you know there’s a plane? 

17D had a hand on his own stomach to comfort himself. 

I don’t, Vince said. I want to go home.

The line inched forward. 

You can’t just believe these people, 17D said. 

What do they gain from lying? Vince asked. 

17D walked away from the gate, either joining the chorus of 31C, writing his comments on a feedback card at the airline desk, or leaving the airport altogether. The attendants waited by their respective stations. Vince and his mother handed their passes to Attendant Two. 

You don’t have to do this, you know, Attendant Two said. You can wait until tomorrow. 

Her plea concerned Vince. It was unclear if his mother understood what was happening. If she did, she exhibited no sense of hesitation. In the worst case, if the plane was not there, he would walk back to the gate, or to wherever the other passengers were redirected. His thoughts were like an echo of those that left before. He checked his watch for the time, and it was correct, which was proof enough that he had agency. Time moved in its sequential order. This notion to board the plane, despite evidence to the contrary, was his. Attendant Two gave the tickets back to Vince’s hand and wished for a safe flight to Washington, DC. Vince could sense Attendant Two’s pity, her face in an unhappy smile. He avoided her sympathy, repositioned his mother’s hand to his inner elbow, and led her toward the promised plane. 

I would really appreciate some water, his mother said. 

For the show finale, Vince, his sister, and their mother watched the episode together on a Thursday evening in April. He and his sister waited on the couch, calling out to their mother, who was in her bedroom. A minute out to the start, they knocked on her door, reminding her of the time, but she insisted she would join them. Well into the first act, just before the first commercial break, their mother emerged in a plaid shirt and jeans, as Leslie had worn. By his mother’s grimace, exaggerated and frozen, whatever came next did not matter to her. 

The sound was dampened in the jet bridge. Vince dreaded the sharp turn, the bend, its potential view or gaping hole conjuring an excitement he retreated from for most of his life. He made a show of his absorption in the advertisements along the walls for a bank. Oh, he said aloud to their interest rates, which slowed him down by a few seconds. He continued at his normal pace, though his instinct was to turn around. What kept him on the path, walking forward, was the possibility of seeing 3A again. 

He thought his fear was hyperbole, a consequence of absorbing others’ worries. He considered this feeling, as if sweat were pumping directly out of his heart and flooding his insides, a product of his own fragile spirit. They reached the corner, his mother facing the end of the walkway first. He watched his mother before allowing himself to look down the end of the tunnel, and a familiar expression contorted her lips.