“I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” I said tersely, “but there was a lot of money in that bag, and my laptop. They’re about to close the door on my flight. Could you please take just ten seconds to check and see if someone turned it in?”
She looked at me with indifference. “I’m busy.”
“Oh, come on,” I said.
The woman she was helping looked at me sympathetically. “It’s okay. I can wait.”
The clerk sighed, then walked out from the counter and through a door to a back room. I assumed she’d be right back, but she wasn’t. After a full minute I was about to knock on the door when she suddenly emerged holding my pack. “Is this it?”
“Yes,” I said, grabbing it from her. “Thank you.” I swung the pack over one shoulder and ran back to my gate. When I got there the boarding door was closed. The agent was still at the counter surrounded by even more people. I walked up to the door and tried to open it myself, but it was locked.
“Sir, what are you doing?” the agent asked.
I turned to her. “That’s my flight.”
“The aircraft door is closed.” She looked at me with a peculiar expression. “Didn’t I just check you in?”
“I had to get my pack. Could you please open the door?”
“I’m sorry, once the door is closed, I can’t reopen it.”
“But the plane hasn’t left yet. I can see it,” I said, gesturing to the plane. “It’s right there.”
“I’m sorry, sir. There are regulations. You never should have left the flight.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I said, doing my best to remain calm. “Come on. It will take you two seconds.”
“I’m really sorry sir,” she said. She didn’t sound sorry at all.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“There’s a scheduling desk three gates down. They can help you.”
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars to open the door.”
She looked at me incredulously. “You’re trying to bribe me?”
“What are you, a cop? Yes, I am. Two hundred dollars.”
“Sir, I don’t have the authority. I suggest you go directly to the customer service desk.”
I couldn’t believe I was going to miss a flight that was still right in front of me. The agent turned back to the other customers she was helping.
I hiked angrily down to the customer service center. Not surprisingly, the place was as crowded as a Walmart on Black Friday. There were only four agents and each of them had a long line.
I stood in what turned out to be the slowest of the lines for nearly a half hour, growing increasingly impatient. Actually, impatience seemed to be the order of the day. One red-faced man was cursing and yelling threats at the agent until he was forcibly removed by police.
This is a madhouse, I thought. Then, with just one person in front of me, sirens suddenly blared throughout the airport. Not a minute later, all the flights on every screen registered DELAYED or DIVERTED.
The agent in front of me said, “Oh dear God . . .”
Somewhere from the corridor a woman screamed.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
The agent looked pale. “A plane has crashed.”
“Which one?”
He looked down at his screen. “United flight 227. Cincinnati.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
The nightmare is real. It’s all real.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
United Flight 227, the flight I was ticketed on, had crashed shortly after takeoff. At the time, that’s all I knew. It’s all anyone knew.
The atmosphere around the airport was indescribable as stranded travelers roamed aimlessly in a surreal state of disbelief and shock. They talked in whispers or nervously loud voices. Some were crying. Some wailed. A group of people were crouched down around a woman who had fainted.
It was only minutes before the airport television monitors started showing pictures of the crash. Some people flocked to the television screens, while others gathered at the east windows and looked out toward the billowing column of smoke.
Then came a frightening cacophony of sirens. It sounded like there were hundreds of them wailing and chirping, the sound as thick as the smoke from the crash.
Suddenly it occurred to me that this was my dream—my nightmare come true. It was all here: the people wailing, the sirens, the fire. And there was fear. Palpable fear and the unknown that precipitated it. What had happened? Had someone done this? Was there more to come?
The chaos wreaked havoc on my OCD. I had to get out of the airport. As I made my way to the exit, police, some with leashed dogs, ran past me into the terminal. I stumbled out of the airport and to the taxi stand. The sidewalks were oddly bare. I couldn’t understand why everyone wasn’t leaving. Or maybe I did. It felt like I was leaving the scene of an accident.
I walked up to a waiting taxi, opened the back door, threw my pack across the vinyl seat, and climbed in after it. The taxi driver, a young Jamaican man, said, “Where are you going, boss?”
“Downtown,” I said. “Michigan Boulevard Building.”
“Yes, boss. Right away.”
He pulled away from the curb as a black SWAT van pulled in behind us. As he drove off I thought, Why am I going to my office? What am I going to do there? The only person I really wanted to see right then was Dr. Fordham. Or a bartender. That’s what I need. A strong drink. Maybe a dozen of them.
“Change of plans,” I said. “Take me to the Green Door Tavern. Over on Orleans.”
“No problem, boss.”
As we drove from the terminal enclosure a massive plume of smoke was visible to the east. There was subdued chatting coming from the taxi’s radio, and the driver reached down and turned it up. It was a news report about the crash.
“Could you turn that down, please?” I said.
“Yes, boss.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You know there was a plane crash.”
“I know.”
“There were no survivors.”
“How do you know that?”
“They say it on the radio.”
I was silent for nearly a minute before I said, “There was one.”
He again glanced at me in his rearview mirror but said nothing. Neither of us spoke again until we reached the bar.
Chapter Forty-Nine
God or Fate has pressed the cosmic reset button of my life.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
The Green Door Tavern has been a popular Chicago watering hole since 1872. It was a speakeasy during Prohibition, procuring its liquor from no less than Al Capone. The interior is lushly decorated with antique Americana, an eclectic collage of neon, old carnival posters, Tiffany glass, and commercial signage from the early twentieth century, some authentic, some made in China.
I was glad to see that the patronage was light with just a few tables occupied. I set my pack on the parquet floor beneath the bar and sat down on a stool a few yards from a man in a suit who greeted me with a slight nod. He was holding a nearly empty mug of beer and his face was slightly flushed from inebriation.
The bartender walked up to me. “What can I get you?”
“G and T,” I said. “A double. To start.”
“That’ll be right up.”
On the television screen behind the bar there was video of a burning airplane above the banner “Breaking News: Flight 227, Plane Crash at O’Hare.”
The man next to me was staring at the screen. He turned to me and said in a hoarse voice, “And you thought you were having a bad day.”
“I thought I was,” I said. I turned back toward the television as the bartender set my drink on the counter in front of me. “There you are. One G and T double.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
I took a drink. After a minute, I said to the businessman, “I was supposed to be on that flight.”
“That one?” he said, pointi
ng at the television. “That burning chunk of metal?”
“Flight 227 to Cincinnati.” I reached into my inner coat pocket and brought out my ticket stub. “Look at this.”
I handed him the stub. He examined it and handed it back. “You’re not joking. You missed your flight?”
“It was closer than that,” I said, returning the ticket to my back pocket. “I actually checked in. I was about to board when I realized that I’d left my backpack in one of the shops, and I ran to get it. When I got back they had already closed the doors. The gate agent wouldn’t let me on.”
“You owe that gate agent a drink,” he said. “At least.” He took a sip. “You’re saying that you checked in to the flight?”
“Yes.”
He suddenly started laughing.
“Why is that so funny?”
“You’re telling me that you actually checked in.”
“Yes. I did.”
“And the agent ran your ticket through the machine.”
“Of course.”
“Did the gate agent ever take your name off the flight list?”
“No. She was busy.” I suddenly realized what he was driving at. “They think I was on that flight.”
“So everyone thinks you’re dead.”
“They will.”
He slapped the counter. “You are the luckiest man on the planet. I’ve fantasized about what I’d do if something like that ever happened to me. One minute you’ve got the world on your shoulders, the next, poof, you’re off the grid. No taxes, no responsibilities, nothing. You’re invisible. You’re the invisible man, untouchable as a ghost.” He slowly shook his head. “Man, oh man, what I would give to be you right now.” His voice lowered. “You, my friend, are free. You can start a whole new life.”
I looked at him for a moment. “It’s like pushing a reset button.”
He laughed. “That’s exactly what it is.” He raised his glass again. “To the cosmic reset button.” He downed the rest of his beer, then banged his empty glass onto the counter with a loud clang. The bartender glanced over at us.
“Another pilsner, please.” He turned back to me. “So now what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know what I’d do. Nothing. I’d contact no one. Not a soul. Then, while everyone is in mourning, I’d drain all the money from my bank accounts before they’re frozen, and then I’d figure out what I really wanted from life.”
“You really have thought this through.”
“I told you I had,” he said. “You could do anything. You could kill someone, and they’d never come looking for you.” He smiled as if he were suddenly lost in his fantasy. “I’d definitely attend my own funeral. That would be a must. But you’d have to be in disguise—fake beard, glasses.” He shook his head. “No, screw that. Too risky. Someone might recognize you. You have family? A wife?”
“No.”
“That’s going to make it easier. It’s going to take some time to figure out what you want, but what do you care? You got all the time in the world. At least until someone recognizes you. Then it’s over.” The bartender set another beer in front of the man. He turned to me. “What are you drinking?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“A gin and tonic for my dead friend.”
The bartender glanced over at me, and I shrugged. As he prepared my drink, the man said, “When you sat down, I thought you looked a little familiar. I was going to ask your name, but I won’t. You’ve got to protect that. You’ve got one shot at this. Don’t waste it. Get out of town. Go someplace they don’t recognize you, to an island or something. Go for a long walk.”
Chapter Fifty
I can think of no reason that my life was spared. Not one.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
The man left about ten minutes after our conversation, but not without giving me his business card. He was an attorney at a well-known downtown law firm in a building just two blocks from mine.
“Call me after you resurface,” he said. “If you ever do. I want to know how this turns out.”
I took his card. Still reeling, I ate dinner at the bar—their signature Bootlegger burger, with bacon, an over-easy egg, and whiskey ketchup.
As I ate, I watched continuing news coverage of the crash. Someone had captured video of the crash on their cell phone, which the station played and replayed continually. When they weren’t showing pictures of the plane crashing or firemen trying to douse the burning fuselage, there were talking heads conjecturing about what had gone wrong.
New information continued to trickle in. The doomed plane was a Boeing 757-200. It carried 13 crew and 199 passengers.
According to reports, all 212 passengers and crew members were killed on impact. Of course, there was no way they could have really known that. I hope they were all killed on impact. Being burned alive was something I didn’t want to think about.
Initially, some had suspected terrorism, a charge that was later discredited by the authorities, who hinted at pilot error. It would be weeks before FAA investigators determined that the crash was caused by mechanical malfunction. As the jet was beginning to take off, one of the engines separated from its mounts, damaging the wing and severing the hydraulic lines that kept the wing locked in place. As the jet started to climb, the left wing stalled while the right wing continued to lift, rolling the jet sideways and causing it to crash.
The plane had just been refueled, so by the time emergency personnel doused the flames, there was nothing left but a charred fuselage. Nothing could have survived the heat of the inferno. One commentator stated that it was doubtful that any human remains would even be found. “Jet fuel, in open air,” he said, “can burn as hot as a crematorium.” What that meant was there were not only no survivors, there were no traces of the dead either.
That included me. For all intents and purposes I, like them, no longer existed. What do you do when the world thinks you’re dead, when you no longer exist? Maybe my bar mate was right. Whatever you want.
Chapter Fifty-One
I am a ghost.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
I didn’t leave the pub until after dark. I caught a cab outside the bar and had the driver take me to a thrift shop, where I bought some cheap sweatpants, a hoodie, a pair of Converse tennis shoes, and a pair of sunglasses.
I changed inside the store, carrying my suit out in one of their sacks. I remembered that my name was embroidered inside my suit coat. I ripped out the panel of fabric that had my name on it and tossed the suit in the Dumpster outside the store. A peculiar thought crossed my mind. How thrilled I would have been, as a kid, to have found that coat.
It was after ten when the cab reached my neighborhood.
“Which house?” the driver asked.
“Just pull over there,” I said, pointing to the curb near the back of my house. I didn’t want him pulling into my driveway and attracting attention.
He rolled up to the curb. I handed him his fare in cash and grabbed my pack. I looked around to make sure that no one was around or looking out their windows. Then I got out. The taxi sped away.
I dropped my pack over the fence and climbed over. I unlocked my back door from a keypad and went in, disarming the alarm system. I knew that this action could be traced by the alarm company but there was no reason they would even look. I was dead. A corpse. A lapsed subscription. End of story.
I turned on only a few inner lights. I got a beer out of my refrigerator, then went up to my bedroom and turned on the television to watch more news.
The plane crash was the lead story nationally as well as locally. The shutting down of O’Hare had wreaked havoc on the entire airline industry, resulting in the cancellation of more than a thousand flights from coast to coast. The questions kept coming, spinning in my mind like a roulette wheel.
What if I hadn’t forgotten to charge my phone? What if the wall outlets had been working? Then I wouldn’t have gone to buy a charger. Or
what if the line in the store had been shorter? What if I hadn’t stopped at all?
At the root of all these questions was a bigger question. Why was my life spared when so many others weren’t? Was it just a coincidence? If not, why would the universe pick a sinner like me?
I couldn’t come to any conclusion. None of it made sense. The beer didn’t help. A little after midnight I drank another and fell asleep on the couch.
Chapter Fifty-Two
I’m going to finish my dream. I’m going to walk.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
I woke the next morning with my head pounding and the sun in my eyes. I looked out the window. The storm was gone. That was something. And I hadn’t had the dream. Actually, I had lived it. Maybe it was finally over. Or then again, maybe everything was just beginning.
I rolled over and looked at my clock. It was ten past nine. My company’s workday had started. Those who didn’t already know of my demise were finding out about now. I could imagine the insanity of that. Or maybe not. Truthfully, I had no idea how they would respond. They would be upset, no doubt, if not for me, then because their jobs had died in the crash.
Amanda would have been the first to know. She always tracked my flights, so she probably knew within minutes of the crash. She was the only one at work that I really worried about. I didn’t doubt that she would mourn me. If there were to be a funeral, Amanda would be the one to arrange it. I couldn’t help but wonder if there would be a funeral or if the lack of a corpse would change that. Maybe there’d just be a memorial service. Or maybe they’d just go out for a drink and call it good.
More questions. I wondered if my mother or brother would ever find out and what they’d do when they did. Or was I already dead and buried to them?
Most of all, what would Monica think? Would she mourn me? Or had she already mourned me enough? Would she even care?
The biggest question of all still remained: What was I going to do now?