At Least They're Committed

There’s a halo around the shadow of the plane right before it plunges through the clouds: the red and gold ring an ethereal contrast to white cotton pillars and the gray silhouette of the jet. The blue sky above gives way to a curtain of mist that opens to Chicago: a quilt of yellow, brown, gold, green, orange and brilliant mauve land broken up only by the rich, mossy lakes with tidy white docks. I’m too far away to see if any boats are out there save for the wake of one or two as they motor through the icy water. From up here, I can see into the murky depths; to things that lie beneath. Over one, I see a mass longer than wide, a snaking, lizardous figure the size of two or three houses or maybe a whole subdivision. I wait for it to move, like, Bessie. But it doesn’t and soon the wheels strike ground with a thud and I’m at my connecting gate and a man sitting too close to me is talking to me and screws up my efforts to clean out my phone as I try to be polite and removed all at once.

I like Chicago. I like O’Hare despite it being old and gross. I can’t remember if I’ve been here before, but it doesn’t seem familiar, and I’m shocked because the time illuminated on my phone is only one hour different than where I’ve been. I don’t know anyone here and nobody in Chicago knows me. Nobody here loves me or needs me and I don’t get to stay here long. If I’d had just a bit more time I could explore: check out the Cubs stuff and grab a beer at one of the 40 Old Chicagos in the airport.

I don’t and I’m boarding my flight to Detroit and this plane is smaller and I sit on the single-seat side but the man setting his wife up across the skinny isle is bending over, his ass dangerously close to my face, and he’s wearing thin, light tan pants and flowered underwear beneath. I look away, out the oblong, double paned glass and bite back a laugh, quickly texting the scenario my 17-year-old because I know he’s the only one with humor as dark as mine.

It’s too dark to see the colors of fall as Detroit draws near, but there is no question of where I’m at. The gold, dotted lights are beautiful, not like stars, not like pinholes, not like anything out there except the lights of Detroit. I’m descending again and I smirk. People are waiting for me. Not even on the ground yet, it’s good to be back.