“Pretzels?” she asks as she stops the cart in the aisle beside 36C—a seat occupied by a large man who shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“No,” he responds, quickly looking away. Pretzels remind him of his brother. “Wait!” He grabs the flight attendant’s arm, “Could I get some more coffee? It’s freezing in here.”

With a well-practiced hand, she pours the brown liquid into a Styrofoam cup, half full, and hands it to him with a small overly white napkin. The airline’s mantra, “Connecting our past with your future” marks the corner in tiny blue letters. Despite the steaming cup of coffee he clutches between both hands, he shivers.

“There you are, Sir. My name is Nancy,” she says pointing to her nametag, “I’ll be your flight attendant for the rest of this flight. Call for me if you need anything else.”

He looks at her nametag again. “I can read.”

Nancy breezes back down the aisle, and he waits for the clear bubbles that formed and accumulate in an amoeba-like cluster at the center of the cup to burst before sipping it. Empty, the cup joins a stack of seven others on his tray.

-----

It’s been at least a decade since Art has talked to any of them. Last he heard, Celeste, his sister, was travelling in India and his brother was working his way up at General Mills. Art is only going back to Hartford to make sure that he can put up a good fight for a fair share of their mother’s assets. The will would definitely be skewed to benefit her favorite son and daughter, neither of whom need nor deserve what she left them. He can’t even afford the cheap hotel Celeste mentioned she booked in her email. “It’ll be better than those trucker stops you always stay at,” he recalls his sister’s email. How would she know? Art always enjoyed spending the night in the middle of nowhere with fellow long-haul truckers. The hours of solitude made the nights something to look forward to. It was their loneliness that brought truckers together and allowed them to develop the sense of camaraderie that many of them felt nowhere else.

-----

“Seriously, would you stop?” the person in 35C turns around and snaps.

“What?” Art scowls back.

“Stop hitting my seat.”

“I’m not.”

“Stop kicking my seat.”

“I’m not.”

“Seriously man, just don’t touch it, okay?”

“I can’t. These seats are too small.”

35C sighs loudly in exasperation before turning around again and returning to his Winter 2003 SkyMall catalogue.
Art sits straight up but his knee continues to bounce. An icy chill shoots up his body, starting from his feet and quickly rising to the back of his neck. His hand shakes as he reaches for the red service button. Nancy arrives shortly.

“Hey, Nance. Could I get some more coffee?”

She returns with coffee and leaves with a tall stack of foam cups.

-----

Everyone always knew Bill would be a success. Even though he was several grades younger, he shone above Art in everything:  school, athletics, public speaking, being social. At church, at school, at family gatherings, people would comment on how every young man ought to be like Bill. As Bill’s shadow grew, Art fell deeper in it. As a teenager, Art tinkered with his car for hours every day after school in the family garage next to his father’s brand new 1960 Ford Falcon. It was in these hours that Art developed a hate for his siblings fueled by anger, loneliness, and cheap beer. While Bill was destined for success, Celeste had been born equally lucky:  free spirited and angelic, she seemed effortlessly above everyone and everything else. She was artistic, musical, and the brown-noser of brown-nosers. Together, big sister and little brother, Celeste and Bill were every parent’s envy and their mother’s pride and joy.

Sometimes, on warm summer evenings, Father would come out to the garage in his undershirt, bare feet pattering on the packed dirt, with a plate of dinner. He observed silently as Art worked on his latest motorized project, and then without a word, he would hand Art the next tool. A rare smile flashed over Art’s face before returning to his work.

-----

An unrecognizable mash-up of sounds leak from the complimentary earbuds of 36D. Drawing from the amount of bass, Art assumes it’s some sort of pop music ----. He gives the down button on the armrest of his neighbor a few clicks to reduce the ruckus. 36D glares and presses the up arrow several times plus one. High pitch screeching and muted bass emit even louder. A baby cries in 36A. The air conditioning creates an endless “ffffffffffff…” Someone sniffles.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” Art whispers louder and louder.

35C turns around again. “Do you mind?”

Art shuts up and stares blankly at the screen of the entertainment system while hyperventilating. The pit of dread in his stomach swells like a balloon in the sun.  Art reaches shaky-handed for the service button, but Nancy is already there.

“Can I offer you some coffee, Sir?”

-----

At 7:30 p.m., April 30th, 1962, a dull pounding sounded through the house. From the inside of the garage, it sounded like some of Bill’s friends, but had Art been inside he would have seen the red and blue flashing lights reflecting off the glossy white walls of the home. He would have seen the stolid faces of the police officers as they told Mother that her husband’s body had been found on the riverbank. But it really didn’t matter where he was when they came.  By 7:45 he had heard no pitter patter of feet. At 7:50 he didn’t feel his father’s eyes following his movements and anticipating the next tool he needed.  Art went inside and saw Mother, Celeste and Bill gathered around the kitchen table. Usually at this time they’d be rehearsing or studying. Bill was the first to speak.

“Dad’s dead. They found him about an hour ago.” His words stank of complacency, as if they’d been slung together with less care than usual.

The chill ran through Art’s body, this time beginning at his neck and running down to his feet. The sole sound of his quick short breaths and heart beating pounded and drowned out everything else. His mother reached out to her son from her seat at the table to console her ugly duckling. He jerked away.

“Don’t touch me. You don’t even care!”

At the funeral, Bill wore his father’s watch as he gave a eulogy containing phrases such as “good man” and “helped me to reach this path to success I’m on today.” Community members fawned over Celeste. The poor angel shouldn’t have to go through something such as this. The family didn’t deserve this. Art observed his mother and siblings with their pathetic tears from the other end of the pew. It wasn’t until he was in the safety of the garage again that he allowed himself to cry.

-----

Art tastes iron and salt.

“Sir, you’re bleeding,” 36D removes his earbuds and attempts to hand Art a Kleenex.

36D is right. A narrow drip of blood and saliva creates a trail down Art’s chin. Not until 36D wakes Art from his miserable reverie does he realize that, due to his anxiety about seeing his siblings again, has he punctured the inside of his cheek. Art ignores the offer and wipes his chin with his trembling sleeved wrist.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, embarrassed.

In an attempt to compose himself, Art puts up the laminate tray and firmly twists the latch 90 degrees. With a deep breath he sits upright in his seat and plants his feet firmly on the blue carpeted floor. He pushes the red service button.

“Coffee?” Nancy says between a plastic smile. She hands him another half-full Styrofoam cup.

“No thanks. Just a napkin,” Art replies.

Nancy removes a small paper napkin from her bag and Art takes it slowly. With care, Art locates the blue lettering on the corner. “Connecting our past with your future,” it mocks. With a stubby finger he runs the words over the bloody smear on his sleeve.