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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?"
back to: Literary Arts
Home Literary Arts Visual Arts About Zephyr Contact Graphic Version
Mendocino College Online Journal of the Arts - Spring 2002 Text Version
Mendocino College
1000 Hensley Creek Road
Ukiah, California 95482