Plane
Spoken
Three Bloody Marys in the airport
lounge have failed to soothe the raw, scorched feeling in my throat
and I can no longer deny the obvious. As I settle more uncomfortably
into the cattle-class seat, I moan.
"Are
you all right?"
Realizing
the question is addressed to me, I open my eyes and gingerly turn
my head. "Fine," I cough. "I just need something
to drink."
My
seatmate introduces himself. He’s the aisle. I’m the
window.
"Nice
to meet you…" Bugger, I’ve forgotten his name already.
I automatically extend my hand, then snatch the pestilential digits
back into my lap. His own hand hangs uselessly in the air.
"Better
not," I apologize, "I think I have a cold." Dismay
appears on his face. He looks about the plane, then back to me
with resignation. The flight is full. "Or maybe not."
No one is more hopeful about this than me. "I’ve been
in Missouri, touring a cooperage. Four hours in an overheated
building breathing wood smoke and sawdust. It’s bound to
make your throat sore." He wants to believe me.
Normally
on a flight, I withdraw into a book or sleep, but the vodka makes
me sociable. Besides, this is not some businessman from Des Moines.
He wears a scuffed leather jacket and jeans. There is a whiff
of the outdoors about him, someplace arid and dusty. His hair
is cropped close on the sides to minimize the effect of the balding
crown. He has an accent. I ask where he’s from.
"I’m
African."
His
parents are British, but he was born and raised in Zimbabwe. Later,
he moved to the Sultanate of Oman.
"And
what do you do there?"
"I
raise falcons and cheetahs."
"Really…"
He smiles and nods, used to raised eyebrows. "For what purpose?"
"The
royal families keep them to hunt with." He assures me that
the animals are not taken from the wild, but are bred in captivity.
I ask if this is difficult to do.
"Yes.
Falcons pair for life. They’re very particular about their
mates."
"Unlike
some humans," I mutter under my breath. I imagine this man,
an avian Yente, wearing a babushka and a conspiratorial grin.
He sidles up to a haughty-looking bird: Ahh, Mr. Peregrine. Such
a fine nest you have. But what is such a nest without a wife?
"It
must be a challenge."
"Yes,
it must be approached carefully. When I have a pair of birds that
are ready to be bred, I put on my hat." His hat? I was only
kidding about the babushka. "I visit the male bird and imitate
the courtship behavior of the female. If I am convincing, when
the male is sufficiently…" He hesitates, searching for
the right word; we are strangers after all. "Sufficiently
aroused, he jumps on my head."
My
eyes widen.
"And
copulates with the hat."
I’m
so busy trying to control my twitching facial muscles, that I
almost miss the finale.
"Then
I take the hat to the female. Once again I mimic the courtship
behavior, this time playing the part of the male. When she assumes
the mating posture, I inseminate her from the hat."
He
looks at me with frank brown eyes. All I can see is a hat: grey
in color, small holes puncturing the felt, the crown stained and
misshapen. It’s my turn to look anxiously about the plane.
Where’s a stewardess when you need one? I could really use
that drink. The man is still looking at me.
"So,"
I respond weakly, "what do you do with the cheetahs?"
Erika
Smith