|
Mountains fade into mist as rivers flow softly to the rhythm of New Age music. The jangle of a keyboard riff fills the air as I reluctantly take a seat beside a fat man, pausing and glancing to let him know I do not approve as he stuffs himself with a meat sandwich. I shove my bag under the seat, then focus on the video, as sunlight bounces over a deciduous forest. The music crescendos into horns with a hint of piano as a lady wearing a green sweater with a poodle on it slams the stubborn overhead compartment door for the third time. She is clearly incompetent, and I want to shout; tell her to sit her ass down and let the cheery gay steward trouncing up the aisle to handle it, but I keep my eyes on the synthetic forest. I bet they've done studies showing that ninety-two point six percent of all passengers mind their own business and take their seats more quickly when they show make believe lands full of dreamy clouds, extra green trees and no animals. I bet they have it down to a science: nimbus clouds, on average quell any hint of agitation a person may feel five point nine percent more than cumulus clouds. It is obviously not working for me, because I tremble as I recall the barely twenty-year-old security guard waving the nail file in my face, asking why I even brought it. Wasn't I smart enough to know the requirements by now? As if I was going to stab somebody. I watch the clouds slough off into a thin
fog as the fat man attempts friendliness with a smile. Like he
wants to say, "hey sweetie, it's all good," but look
away. It's not like I have anything against him, but I cannot
stop rubbing the jagged nail with my thumb. It is rough like
a man's back, and I can tell you he will notice it the minute
I land. It is our second date and I know that not even the stupid
clouds and forests will make me forget that I am flawed and he
will That is how it goes. You cut and polish and buff; he makes love to you, like you are the ocean and he is the moon. But next time when you are at dinner and you tell him your mom is in remission and your sister is on rebound, he glances at the spinach stuck between your teeth and tells you he's met someone. It is not like you care because there are others like him. But then in the bathroom, you notice the spinach then the pimple then the wrinkle then the hair and then just how wrong everything is. I am entranced by dense gray rain as pine trees glisten. Suddenly, the fat man leans toward me. They play the videos to keep us all down, to keep us distracted so that we can't focus on the issues at hand, like why did that stupid woman confiscate what was mine and necessary? There will be no plans for white dresses, I tell myself as he points at an US Weekly with some idiot starlet smiling on the cover, his ham sandwich breath smothering me. "Hey. Can I read your magazine?" I glare at him as the stewardess tells us to fasten our seat belts, then suddenly, I do not even realize it, but I grab the magazine and swat him in the head. He covers his shiny bald head with his hands as I continue. How can he get away with himself? He is far from perfect and it doesn't matter to him. It is not okay with me, and that is why I carry on, swatting harder as I glance up at the blank video screen.
Leena Pendharkar is an award-winning writer and filmmaker whose work has screened in numerous festivals and shown on television. She is shooting her feature film debut, Raspberry Magic, this upcoming fall. Leena also teaches filmmaking/writing at Loyola Marymount University and Otis College of Art and Design in Los Angeles, CA. You may visit her at the following
sites:
|
|
