Turnaround

Very short tragic comedy.

The linoleum topped kitchen table with rusted aluminum legs sat against the right wall as you walked into the room. Rays of morning sunlight illuminated the dust particles swirling in John’s wake as he walked to the stove. He had to push in a chair at the table to be able to walk between it and the refrigerator. He bent down to light a cigarette on a burner and as he turned back around, he saw the plane ticket lying on the table. He grabbed it and opened the travel folder quickly to be sure it was actually the ticket and not just an itinerary or receipt. The ticket was there. Northwest Flight 1043, Sacramento to Omaha, 11 AM. He looked at the plastic clock on the wall. It said five minutes to nine. He made a fist in his graying hair and arched his neck backwards while he blew smoke at the ceiling with a loud hiss.

Thirty seconds later, he was out the front door and getting into his 18-year-old Corolla. Amy had taken the Landcruiser. It was only 8 years old. He backed out and turned towards South Lake Tahoe. It was at least two hours from their cabin to Sacramento.  “There’s no way,” he shook his head, as he dialed her number on his cell phone and nudged his work boot a little harder against the accelerator.

“Yeah?” she answered.

“You’re not going to like this but you left your ticket on the table”

“No I didn’t. I have everything in my laptop case. What do you really want?”  

“Look I’m heading down there right now. You need to turn around and meet me or you won’t have a ticket. How far are you?” He forced an even tone into his reply.

“What did you do, sneak it out of my bag so I couldn’t go? That’s pathetic.”

“Where are you? Look it doesn’t matter, turn around and head back so I can meet you.” One more snotty response and I’m turning around, he told himself.

“John!” She wailed. “It’s nine o’clock! How do you think I’m going to make it now?”

“Look, do you want to meet me for the ticket or not?”

“I gotta call Adam. He’ll be wondering where I am” Her voice had lost its snottiness.

“Yeah, call Adam, the Zen f*****g master, ray of celestial light, spiritual soul mate. Maybe he can quantum leap you to the gate”.

“You know, I knew that you’d ridicule me if I told you what attracted me to him. Of course, you assume it’s sexual. You don’t even know me”.

“I can’t argue with that,” he muttered. Thinking you knew someone in a previous life and quitting your job to go with them to an ashram in Nebraska was beyond knowable to him. He realized the phone connection had broken as he started up the grade out of the valley. He geared down but the ancient Corolla slowed to a maddening pace anyway.  Slow enough that a fully loaded logging truck was right on his a*s. Reaching the top of the grade and starting the long descent towards Sacramento, he quickly picked up speed again and left the log truck behind.

A half an hour down the road and he reached an area with reception. He dialed her number for the last time.

“Where have you been?” She berated him. “Did you get my message?”

“I just got reception. I’m 20 minutes from Placerville. Where are you?”

“John! I left you a message! I’m almost to SAC. I called Adam. He’s buying me another ticket at the counter.”

He pulled over at the next turnout and contemplated throwing the phone out the window.

“John?”

He gunned the Corolla’s engine and shot out across the highway to make a u-turn. Just as he reached the apex the logging truck caught up to him. When the resulting chaos had died down the phone lay in the dirt on the shoulder, still connected.

“John? What was that noise?  Did you hear what I said? I’m going to make it!”