Originally published in Verbicide issue #19

Amin was frequently at Heathrow, traveling back and forth between his home in England and his parents in Dubai. When he was younger he very much looked forward to it. Even though his aunt would help him through, the basic aspects of the airport — from the passport to his luggage — filled Amin’s small mind with lofty thoughts of maturity. He also found himself drawn to its feel, from the bustling people who were inert, waiting, reading their periodicals, but filled with purpose and destination, to the rows of square-shaped chairs that were designed to offend and please no one.

Amin looked about, his eyes cautiously darting around the terminal; it wasn’t the same anymore. Out of the corner of his eyes he was sure she glanced at him. She was dressed in fitted jeans and a t-shirt, and he would have guessed her for an American had it not been for her accessories. Both her purse and belt were typical of London girls of the time: bright, shiny, and segmented. He admired the way she sat: legs crossed, perched forward, studying a magazine: her body tight and twisted. She had skin welcoming and soft with breasts in defiance to the limits of her slender frame. Amin would have liked to talk to this girl. But with his head still unwell from last night’s club, he couldn’t make it out — did she fancy him? Or was it al-Qaeda eyes?

At the front of the terminal one of the stewardesses announced that they will now be boarding the flight, and as the others began to mill around, anticipating their turn to board the plane, Amin called his mother on his cell phone.

“Hello, it’s Amin…I’m not quite sure…six or seven, I gather. We’ll be flying into the Gulf Stream, you know, so it should be longer…Alright, I’ll ring you when I get in…Yes, New York.”

Standing in line behind Amin was the girl from before; he glanced back, allowing his eyes to fall on her for a moment. She saw him, met his stare, her eyes firm and full.

“Are you English?” She smiled pleasantly. “I can’t tell from your accent.” Amin had a multitude of answers and passports for this question and relied heavily on context to figure out his nationality of the day. Yes, I’m British. No, I’m Saudi. Heck, he spent seven years at school in Spain. Today he was British.

“Nice to meet you, Amin. My name is Kerri.” Amin chatted with her about what she had spent her time doing in England, what he planned to do when he arrived in America, and since the plane was relatively quiet, Amin leapfrogged from seat A1 to A6, pleased to find the seat beside Kerri mostly unattended.

“Want to switch seats with me little guy? Come on, go find your mammy.”

And with that Amin had defeated the competition, Billy Lancaster, age six. Billy went back to his mother, who had been getting more and more frustrated with the stewardess two aisles ahead in A8. She had just vacationed in Pakistan and was eager to get back to Vermont, but not until she acquired some water. Her throat was so dry, and the desert had been so hot, and she was very insistent and belligerent about this point.

The plane banked and circled, motors humming and pushing along, out towards the Atlantic. From the moistened windows the English countryside stretched out non-descript, lifeless and green. A Pangaea-esque landscape unfolded below, where one might think one could fashion something new if one would. As the plane pushed forward, moving out of British airspace, passengers looked down upon masses of warring clouds that colored the sky with reds and pinks.

It was now eight o’clock and the Boeing had reached cruising altitude. Passengers freed themselves and roamed the aisles, buying up drinks and duty free. Amin returned armed with alcohol.

“So, are you attending a university?”

“Uhm…” Kerri hesitated. She’d gone abroad for a semester and had assimilated the heart of London, but did not attend a single class and had certainly failed out. “I’m getting a bachelor’s at Brighton University in the States.”

“Are you now? Where are you from in the States, Kerri?”

“I’m actually from Ireland, outside of Cork. Or I was born there, anyway. See…my Claddagh ring.”

“You’re a dual citizen?” While Kerri spoke, Amin envisioned in his head fictitious family trees and innumerable passports. Some countries, like Japan, won’t allow citizens to claim dual citizenship, and others, like the United States, have millions of dual citizens. Say your father was Brazilian, and what if you were born and lived in Mexico, but then you moved to the US on a work visa and sought citizenship? How many nations could you vote in? Four? Five? How many could you go to war for? Twenty-two? Amin was never great at math. Ninety-three? Would you be assimilated or would you remain beyond countries, always a foreigner, and among the oceans?

Amin’s thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a lady yelling a seat or two ahead. Kerri was still there looking at him and waiting.
“Sorry Kerri, I got lost for a second. I’m a dual citizen too.”

The stewardesses brought water, but only small amounts and Mrs. Lancaster needed more. She needed to wash the feel of desert out of her mouth. Her throat was cracked and so dry, and no amount of water could moisten between the cracks.

“How about you, what do you do for work?” Kerri reached out and touched Amin’s arms as she spoke. Her wrists were so small, and he could see her whole body laid out before him, fragile and around him. He relaxed and brought his leg close to hers.

“Actually, I’m strapped with explosives and I’m planning to blow us all up.”

“Oh yeah? How many virgins will you get?”

“Enough.”

“I’m a virgin.”

No, she wasn’t. Amin hesitated.

“No, you’re not.” Amin laughed and she smiled. And then there was an awkward silence, but thankfully, Mrs. Lancaster began to scream bloody hell two seats above them. This took the pressure off Amin to think of something to say. Mrs. Lancaster didn’t know why she couldn’t get more water. She had the anthrax in her throat and needed water. When one of the stewardesses tried to calm her, she raised her hands up like a rabid animal about to attack. Hadn’t she met bin Laden? Didn’t he say it was jihad? To add insult to injury, she dropped her knickers and pissed in the aisle in protest.

“She’s cycling,” Amin said, trying to impress upon Kerri his medical knowledge.

“What’s that?”

“It’s bipolar — a manic phase. Can you see what’s going on?”

Kerri craned her neck, but could only partially make it out. Mrs. Lancaster’s seat was shaking violently, as if the plane had hit a localized turbulence that affected only her. Maybe vibrations from behind the windows had burst through the cabin and were attacking a lone passenger, uninterested in shaking anything else. She saw the blue and red shades of uniforms gliding between the motionless seats. Perhaps the cabin crew was merely assisting Mrs. Lancaster with her seat belt, making it good and tight. Amin could see nothing from where he sat, but he heard someone say, “Jesus, the stupid bitch pissed herself.”

The atmosphere was now thick and quiet. Though few passengers could see Mrs. Lancaster, the whole of the plane felt nervous, less real than before. Amin tore off his jumper, because he felt that the cabin pressure had increased in the confusion. His adrenaline pumping, Amin tried to think of something to say to Kerri, something to push the conversation forward and away from the events on the plane. But he could think of nothing else.

“What do you see?” he asked Kerri again.

“I don’t know. I think they are tying her up.”

Amin didn’t know what to say. Although he had seen restraints at the hospital where he worked, he suddenly felt overwhelmed. He gazed out the window. Gone were the bright reds of battle; the sky was void and empty and all Amin could see in the blackness was his own reflection, a translucent mirror.

The excitement had passed. Now exhausted, Mrs. Lancaster lay prostrate, her restraints ornamental, deep in sleep. Billy was beside her, sleeping too. The plane had fallen into darkness, the hum of the motor soft and reassuring. Draped in blankets and dreams the passengers slept through the night, snoring soundly.

Kerri knew something was wrong and was concerned. Amin hadn’t spoken to her since the plane returned to normalcy, his face burning bright against the night sky. At first, she was afraid to bother him, but she could wait no longer. “Are you alright?”

He could barely make out her freckles in the light. Kerri looked like a movie star in soft focus, her face faded and dark. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She turned in towards him resting on his chest because she knew he wanted the same, and the plane crossed over into Canada and chartered a course south to New York.
—
Sick in the head and tummy, Kevin Munley should be dead. But he isn’t.