If only she knew.
Watching the luggage being loaded I look off into the sky as I have so many thousands of times before. I know the schedule of this part of the airport like the back of my hand, which is why, when I see the blinking lights from the approaching aircraft I know something is off.
Then it hits me.
Tonight is the first night of a new route that’s been added for one of the big airlines. In an effort to stop their freefalling currency Japan’s opened up the country for tourism again, and at nearly one hundred and fifty yen to the dollar, Americans have been quick to gobble up deals to Tokyo to take advantage of the best sushi in the world, at prices cheaper than places like Nobu here in town.
As the plane approaches, preparing to land, I spot another plane moving down the taxiway approaching the runway that’s about to be used for the landing of the new route…meaning a crash at worst or a close call at best.
I yell into the mic of my David Clark H10-13s Headset, trying to notify the tower but the damn thing jams.
Shit.
Taking off in a dead sprint I book it across the taxiway using hand and arm gestures to try to get the plane to stop taxing, but to no avail.
Cutting across the grass I step out onto the runway, the other plane approaching fast just as the aircraft that’s about to depart turns off the taxiway and onto the runway.
Standing in front of the plane like a lunatic, I finally catch his attention.
I jump and yell but clearly he has no idea what I’m saying. But all that matters is he stops, which he does.
A split second later the arriving plane buzzes us, knocking me backward and sending me tumbling as it lands off in the distance behind me.
Emergency personnel vehicles rush toward me, including an ambulance, but I stand on my own and insist I be left alone so I can get back to work.
My boss isn’t having it, not wanting to risk a potential lawsuit most likely, and instead I’m forced to take a cart inside the airport to fill out some damn paperwork.
But we never make it.
As soon as we arrive inside there are two familiar faces waiting on me. This time I get a good look at their names. Officers Dawson and Fields, the cops from last night, and they want to ‘have a quick chat.’
My boss is confused, but I wave him off, telling him I’ll be right over to make whatever statements need to be made, after I get a handle on this.
The officers congratulate me on what just went down, but quickly cut the pleasantries and motion for me to step outside by the arrivals pickup curb.
“Have fun last night?” Dawson asks.
“Are you really interested in my social life?” I shoot right back, crossing my arms and cocking my head to the side defensively.
“Not really,” he replies, meeting my icy glare with one of his own. “Don’t really care what you did last night, actually. More interested in what you did two nights ago.”
“Is it against the law to go to a bar on your night off?”
“No, and technically neither is lying to your employer last night telling them you’re sick, but morally I doubt they’d be too pleased to learn the truth.”
I say nothing, realizing I’m playing this entirely wrong. They have the upper hand all right, but they know nothing. I want to tell them to fuck off unless they have a warrant, but if they get one of those and then show up at my building, that stench might be recognizable to the right professional and my life could unravel in a second.
The messed up thing is secretly I kind of wanted this just a few days ago. I almost wanted to be stopped, and also to get the recognition for the work I was able to do, cleaning up the streets of L.A. and making it safer for the women of this town, much more than they ever could.
This was the moment I imagined so many times. A couple of cops, just like these, making the arrest of a lifetime. Then the modern day Barbara Waters equivalent interviewing me in prison, the book deal even though it would be illegal for me to profit from it. The requests for conjugal visits from groupies, which I would deny out of habit. I was ready for the rock star life, even if it was behind bars.
At least I’d be somebody, unlike my dad constantly reminding me I never would amount to jack shit.
Fields pulls out a pack of Camel’s, taps the end of the pack against the meaty part of his palm, and slides out a cancer stick. “Want one?” he says looking at me.
“Don’t smoke,” I say, wishing I could take the words back as soon as they leave my mouth and I scramble to play catchup. “Only sometimes when I drink.”
“Nice save,” he says. “But I see right through your shit.”