Brace Yourself - my LA fire plane ride

You bop your head, fingers lightly tapping the handle to the beat of the drums and trumpets whispering in your ears. Your thumb picks up the low-tempo drums, your pointer adding in up-tempo keys, while your pinky and big toe follow with light cymbals. A smooth saxophone takes over, leading your flexed middle to ride along the handle in tuned rhythm.

The dystopian lights above flicker on by, ghosts of people streaming on by both directions at unnatural speeds. Your feet walk to the beat of the chorus, suitcase humming behind in motion. The muted end of the belted path, your rhythm halts. You tighten your grip on the handle, bracing for the ground to shift.

You can’t help but pop a grin when the chorus comes whining in, drowning the sounds of families stressfully chatting around you. Oh, if only they could for a moment be on the planet you’re on! Be blessed with this youthful, independent bliss. Knowing you don’t need anyone but yourself and a good pair of headphones. You almost pity the dependents, those who you once were, while you and your riff move freely. The horns make you feel untouchable, like rhythm itself is what keeps you standing.

“Have you seen the news?” Siri reads out a text through your headphones, turning down your music. Your heart hitches a little, but you take a deep breath in. Everything is okay. The world wants you to stop but you won’t. You’ve made it this far. There is nothing to fear. You believe fate is on your side.

You keep walking down the cold tiles toward your gate.. No One Noticed by The Marias plays, the lyrics dancing in light familiarity as it loosens the grip on your handle. You have always had the cheesy knack to listen to songs with lyrics that match up with your life. “Fly to my city, excited to see your face-hold me, console me, and then I’ll leave without a trace” hum in through the padding on either side of your ears. The anticipation, the fear, the excitement—all the feelings that led you to here, whatever news he has for you, it can’t be that bad. God owes you a good time, and you’re going to hold Him to it. That unsaid promise ripples in anger as you look up for a split second mid step, making sure that thought was made known by whoever was listening.

You finally make it to your gate, a cascade of nervous ease leading your leg to a jittery frenzy next to your bag. An announcement in an intercom makes it through your zoned out state, flashes of words coming in through your song.

Maybe I, “Attention passengers on flight-” I’d kinda like it if you called me, “to Burbank. Due to increased high winds-” It’s not right, “rerouted to LAX after a two hour delay-” I’m so over being lonely, “tickets are still valid, if you have any questions-” Make you mine, “staff at the front with information on the-” I need a virtual connection.

“…it came out of nowhere. I heard it was a small fire that started in the mountains. Thankfully not where we’re going now, but Burbank is fucked.” A woman with a corgi neck pillow talks with a furrowed brow on the phone next to you. You move your headphones off your head, becoming aware of the slight panic bustling about. This is new. That pit of fear comes crawling back into your chest, so you take a big sip of cold water to make it cower back into your queue.

“Are you still flying into Burbank?” a text jumps down from the top of your phone, the ding heard faintly from the headphones now sitting heavily on your neck. The screen with the flight info that just previously displayed “DENVER TO BURBANK” now flashed “DENVER TO LAX”. Dots are connecting, and you clear your throat as you ask the woman next to you, now off the phone, what happened.

“Hon they delayed the flight. Two hours! Apparently there’s dis wind comin up through where we were supposed-ta be, and it’s takin a lil fire with-em! Crazy sonsabitches.” She shakes her head in southern disbelief, loudly opening up a nutrigrain bar that crumbles over her overfilled bag.

You ignore the mess, looking back up at her. “So we’re flying into LAX now—what’s the likelihood they cancel that?”

“High, dear. They almost cancelled this one. I’m surprised they’re even goin’ through wit it. If it weren’t fer me havin to be there for family, I would be relieved. I hate the city.”

“Crap, okay, thank you,” you say, matching her furrowed brow. You read the texts blowing up your phone. “Hey, did you get my message? Are you staying in Denver?” “I was about to leave for the airport but I don’t know if I should still go. They say it will be in LAX now, so if I leave now I’ll be able to make it.” “Read this.”

“Oh shit,” you whisper. You click on the link he sent and it’s to the weather in Burbank. A hazard symbol followed by a warning of Dangerously High Winds is put in bold at the top. Your senses heighten as small chatter of hotels and last minute plans are talked around you. The blinking cursor straightens in the replying textbox as you confidently text and say to yourself that everything will be fine, and that there’s just a delay and flight change.

“Two hours–okay. I’ll fill that time up somehow,” you think to yourself, looking around the side of the airport you’re on. You get up and wheel your bag over to the big windows, where you can make out the shadows of the Colorado mountains in the dark. You knew they were gorgeous, having seen them on the flight there, but the night has taken them in for the moment. You sigh in boredom, then walk down the brightly lit hallway lined with shops of merchandise and essentials. After getting a coffee, and a pep in your step, you start observing the different ways of advertising the cold state. You roll your eyes at the amount of skiing logos following the state name. “Skiing is overrated,” you mutter, thinking back to the times you barely made it past the bunny hills. The thought of the snow stuck in the boots, clinging to your wet wool socks makes you shiver. Some time passes, and you look down at your phone to see how much. The two hours are almost up! You rush back to your gate, taking a seat amidst the bustling travellers.

You find your seat, taking note of the bag holders above you. A grunt is made as you put into play your good posture for hoisting up such a heavy thing. Your old coach’s words at the front of your conscience saying, “feet apart, back straight, don’t strain.”

“You need help with that ma’am?” An older man beside you asks, watching you try to lift up your suitcase and fail.

“Yes sir, thank you.” You watch as he takes the bag, hearing the clunk of your life in that bag sliding to the back of the storage hold.

A man three times your size sits on the outer seat of your aisle, who tries to flatten his back to the seat as you shimmer by him to the window. A dissociation state takes you over as you watch the comings and goings of those on the runway. Flights departing, flights entering. The ominous looming of the dark snowy mountains.

The intercom crackles on as people start settling down into their seats. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are heading to LAX airport, not Burbank. This is your third and last reminder. When we are an hour out, we will begin to have expected turbulence. Please do not be alarmed, but be prepared. We will continue to warn and remind throughout the flight. Thank you.”

You sigh, moving your bags around and getting comfortable in your seat. A conversation of two women in front of you roll over into your aisle: “--heard it was because the Burbank runway was too short. The winds will make it impossible to land. But LAX has much longer ones, so it’ll be manageable.”

A mother in the seat behind you talks to her daughter, “The fires are small and contained, they’ll be extinguished by the time we get there. It’s good we’re going to LAX now.”

Your back relaxes to the cushion behind you, the plane begins to take off. The larger man at the end of your aisle has already fallen asleep, snores pushed out rhythmically. You grimace at the sound as you look through free movies on the display in front of you to drown it out. We Live In Time sticks out, leading you to shrug and click as you put in your wired earbuds. “Andrew Garfield and Florence Pugh-can’t go wrong there!” You think, cracking your jaw before propping up your feet.

Before you know it, a slow rumble vibrates your feet, and the view outside starts moving. A sort of weightlessness shifts in the air along with a pressure from above. Your mind can’t help but go back to the moment a few comforting words got you through these moments.

“Look, it’s just like a rollercoaster!” Your grandma would say, putting her hands up cheerfully. Your ten year old self would cower in embarrassment in the large airplane seat, but kept the notion stuck in mind as the plane took off to Florida.

Many years later, you’re tall enough to go on a ride. A green coaster, one from your dad’s childhood. Two loops, the first ever. “Keep your head back, or it’ll stay swung forward!” You hear him yell in your conscience, your head thrown forward before you hear his advice. The force of the pull leaves the neck strained the rest of the day, an old nostalgic feeling.

“Look, we did it!” A young boy in the seat in front of you exclaims, bringing you out of memory. You look out the window and find he was right–we were now soaring above, white fluffs of wistful beauty trotting along the night sky.

The movie continues to play, familiar faces expressing a cascade of emotions before you. In between pauses of swelling music you unconsentually hear the snore of the man from the outer seat, his head laid back as if it were glued. You turn up the volume, but a disclaimer pauses the movie.

“PLEASE ADVISE THE ANNOUNCEMENTS” words displayed on the screen. Goddamn it, it paused your movie. Right when it was getting good.

“Laaaaadies and gentlemen, this is your first turbulence warning. We are entering state lines and will be expecting some winds thirty minutes from now. Please be advised. Thank you.” An overly enthusiastic announcer speaks through the required crackle of the intercom.

The movie continues. The view outside is nothing but black, leaving the screen to blind you in your peripheral, so you close the shade. You look over to the man beside you to see if he cared whether it was open or closed, but he was still snoring. Completely unaware.

“There is something your daddy and I want to talk about…” the words speak softly into your hard exterior. But it’s cracking. “Nononono” you think, trying not to cry. The movie advertised it to seem to be so sweet! You don’t need this crap. You lift up your hand to change the movie but then a jolt of invisible force hits you from above.

The warning flashes on the screen again, stopping the movie you no longer wanted to watch. “20 minutes till turbulence.”

The airplane begins to shake ever so slightly.

It doesn’t stop.

You imagine your hands on the pilot’s wheel, trying to hold it steady as the winds twist and shove.

You shake off the thought, reminding yourself that you’re in safe hands, and continue the movie in spite.

Every few minutes, another shake.

Your phone slides, your water bottle knocks against the seat leg.

Five minutes.

Another pause.

Ten. Fifteen minutes.

You take one long, annoyed breath, pressing play on the movie once again. Florence Pugh just got bald, which means things were just getting interesting. You’re tied to the characters now–you fear there’s no going back. Five minutes ‘til turbulence. “It’s not that bad,” you think, arching yourself rigid to take on the expected impact.

The plane jerks.

A couple bottles roll down the aisle.

Window covers snap open.

Gasps scatter.

You peek outside.

Small dots of flickering flame string along a California mountainside.

A child says, “Isn’t it pretty?”

His mother doesn’t answer.

Instead, cameras shutter loudly by the view.

The plane tilts.

Hard.

Your hand drops from your phone to the armrest.

Knuckles grow pale.

The view outside wobbles–a thousand little fires stitching together.

Your movie paused.

“We are now entering expected turbulence. Please stay seated and buckled.”

The intercom stops.

The plane drops.

The child screams.

You swallow bile and breathe through your nose as you clench your jaw.

You look over in plea to the man on your aisle.

He’s still asleep.

You consider tapping his arm–no, you don’t. You tell yourself you don’t need anyone.

Another dip.

Then another.

Each one bigger than the last.

The fire outside grows.

Flames weave into ribbons of orange across the black hills, like veins of an angry god pulsing beneath you.

“1mississippi2mississippi3…”

The count steadies your hands, but the dips grow longer.

The wind slams from every side.

You tilt.

Your head hits the window.

Then the headrest.

Then the window again.

Again.

You keep counting.

Every five minutes, a drop.

Then three.

Then two.

Then one.

The descent begins.

Rough.

Relentless.

The captain shouts through the intercom:

“EVERYONE BRACE YOURSELF. STAY BUCKLED. HOLD ON.”

Lights flicker.

An alarm wails.
Gasps turn into cries.

Cries turn into prayers.

Prayers fall into screams.

One person audibly throws up, then eight more mimic down the halls.

The sound forces you to join in.

You lift your feet–bile sliding under the seats as the plane lurches down, sideways, forward.

Phones clatter. People stop filming. They start praying.

You look up.

Waiting for an oxygen mask, or for God.

Neither answers.

So you hold on.

You pray–for the first time in years.

You don’t look outside.

You already know: the world’s on fire.

Your left earbud keeps whispering We Live In Time.

It doesn’t pause this time.

You try to let it anchor you, but your body’s too busy shaking.

Your fingers drum rhythmically on your arm rest to the beat of your unsteady heart.

A child cries in front of you.

“Are we going to land safely, Mom?”

The silence after his question is worse than the scream that follows.

Then the nose tips down.

You free fall.

“1

Mississippi

2

Mississippi

3

Mississippi

4

Missis–

5mis–

6–”

Dark.

Screams rip through the cabin–a pure, raw sound.

No crying or words, just terror.

Then–

It stops.

The silence sits heavily with us.

Everyone gasps.

Hollowed out screams follow.

It sounds like everyone’s had the air knocked out of them–like someone told you to exhale and then, without inhaling, try to scream.

The plane sways.

Not down, but sideways.

A dramatic drag left,

Then right.

The fires are closer now.

Smoke begins to fog up the cabin.

A bump.

Then another–much harder.

Your head slams into the window one last time, a bruise blooming.

You think you’ve crashed.

Lights still flash. The alarm still wails. The plane zigzags.

You don’t know how close you are to the ground, or what waits beyond it. You brace again, for whatever comes next.

Then–stillness.

You sit frozen for fifteen minutes, unmoving, in a dazed state.

The pilots and flight crew step out, faces pale and trembling.

They ask if everyone’s okay, if anyone needs help.

No one answers at first.

A few people nod weakly. Someone faints.

An old man wakes to a flight attendant’s arms and breaks into sobs.

No serious injuries. Just shock. The kind that takes days to thaw.

The plane rolls toward a loading dock.

Engines hum low, tired.

Then the captain’s voice returns–rougher now, shaken. Words tumble through your ears like debris. “Right side hit first…crosswind shear…six-second drop…” He says sorry more than once. You catch maybe half of them. The rest floats above the aisle, ghosted by the hum of the engines. You sit there, staring ahead, realizing the bruise on your temple will tell more about the flight then he’ll chalk it up to be.

You sit still.

The cabin hums with post-shock chatter.

People hug, laugh too loudly, cry quietly.

The captain congratulates everyone for making it. He stands at the door like a priest after mass, ready to absolve.

Applause rises.

Scattered claps.

Cheers.

A few whoops.

You clap too, slow and unsure, palms stinging, ears still ringing.

The man beside you never looks over–you’re not convinced he was ever truly awake.

The little boy in front squeezes his mom. “That was so scary! We’re so brave!”

You manage a smile. It’s small, but it’s there.

Behind you, a mother and teenage daughter wait to disembark. The mom’s eyes catch yours–ashen, swollen, haunted.

Her hand twitches, halfway to reaching out.

Then she doesn’t.

You still think about that to this day.

You stand, grab your suitcase.

The aisle smells like fire, metal, and bile.

Puke crusts the carpet edges.

People in the terminal clap as you emerge–maybe for loved ones, maybe for all of you.

The airport swallows you in white light.

Your heart won’t unspool. Your palms won’t dry. Your jaw is sore.

Your left earbud–silent now. Somewhere between you and Florence crying the movie shut off.

You drift toward the exit in a dead, unfeeling moment that stretches on forever.

You keep waiting for the beat to return.

For the sax to cue you onward.

But there’s only breath.

Maybe…

Maybe you do need someone.

The thought lands heavy, making your vision swim.

Then–a tap on your shoulder.

“Hey there, stranger.”