Humanitarian Flight - Quarantine Day 4

WHEREAS my alarm clock takes the shape of my mother’s right hand, grabs my ear at 7:30am, and yanks me out of bed in one fowl swoop.

Whereas, the futility of my passions and the tendencies of my human heart flip her the fuck off as she closes the door behind her with that very same hand.

Whereas, I spend the rest of the day resenting her.

Whereas, I spend the rest of the week resenting her.

Whereas, I spend the rest of my life resenting her.

Whereas, like my father, I love chocolate malt milkshakes and black coffee and nicotine.

Whereas, unlike my brother, I jumped before I could fly –  the ground caught my brittle-boned-thick-skull.

Whereas, I miss the drive through Indian Smoke Shop – it’s raining.

Whereas, it never stops raining.

Whereas, I disappoint my mother, AGAIN, alone, with my hand, chain-smoking, out the car window, I envision it, slow-moving and delightful – the smoke wafts through the damp Washington air, and gets lost, fogged on the withdrawn window.

Whereas, I didn’t bring it up at Thanksgiving dinner.

Whereas, Febreze doesn’t hide the smell of Camel Turkish Royals, well. 

Whereas, Let the addicts and the asthmatics die. For they have brought their ailments unto themselves.

Whereas, my hand is damp. My dog is well fed, under the table.

Whereas, I am well fed, under the table.

WHEREAS, I should have just driven to the airport alone.

Whereas, I shouldn’t have given anyone the luxury of watching me wilt.

Whereas, Their ghosts wander throughout my memory.

(Whereas, please pay attention to me)

Whereas, I blame everything on the local news and those women on The View. Fox 13 says that we’re due for an earthquake, soon. THE Mountain West Philippines. We are devastated DAILY. MURDER-SUICIDE, BREAKING. Local man kills himself, then his wife – no wait – that can’t be right. I cannot recall exactly, but I remember the town. They had two kids, all of which, are orphaned now. Went to my nephew’s high school. Perfectly sous-vide a salmon, HOW? Stay with us, and find out. UP-NEXT.

WHEREAS, I never learned the boundary of bedside manner nor did I learn the etiquette nor candor of sitting in 37F, the window seat, “excuse me.” “I really have to pee.” “I’m sorry to wake you.” “Sorry.”

WHEREAS, I stare at myself in airplane lavatory at 30,000ft. I examine the curvature of my face. I have my mother’s eyes. They are green with yellow and blue. I should really learn more positive self-talk. This flight is non-smoking. They make that much clear. Do smoking flights actually exist? This bathroom is out of toilet paper. I lean forward and grab some of the paper towels above the sink. Are these flushable? Is this going to clog the airplane toilet? What if we have to turn around? What if I break it? I opt to stuff the towels in the garbage. If the Balinese can remove paper with human excrement from the trash, surely this Star Alliance Flight can. My legs hurt? Did someone knock on the door? How long have I been in here? SLIDE TO UNLOCK. The light goes off. “Sorry.” I run my hands along the overhead bins as I walk back to my seat. The man is sleeping again.

Whereas “Excuse me.”