Aground on St. Thomas Read Online Free PDF Page B

herself in the plane’s packed coach section, staring up at the ceiling. The Mojito Man sat beside her, hogging the armrest.
    She groaned, anticipating the flight ahead. She was certain the assigned seating was not as he had insisted.
    Midway through the boarding process, right after the author had taken her seat, her friend from the departure lounge had appeared in the adjacent aisle. He’d apparently stopped in one of the plane’s tiny restrooms, negating his preboard advantage. He stood wavering in the narrow walkway, loudly proclaiming that he held a ticket for the middle spot in her row.
    Out of necessity, she had offered him her aisle position, which was easier for him to access. His wheelchair had been left at the end of the gangway, and the walk through the plane had worn him out. His spindly legs shook as if they were about to collapse beneath him.
    It took several seconds for the author to shift to the next spot over. The man moaned loudly throughout the wait, finishing with a painful grunt as he dropped onto the seat’s flat cushion.
    In the shuffling process, she’d glimpsed the number printed on his boarding pass. It was for the other side of the plane, one row back. She glanced across the aisle at the passenger who had silently slid into the open seat. He shrugged apologetically, but did not offer to switch.
    Her unwelcome companion beamed with delight. “What luck,” he said cheerfully. Instantly cured of his aches, he curved in his seat to face the author. “We get to spend more time together.” He bent the straw from his cup, which he had miraculously managed to carry with him, and slurped the last sip of the drink.
    “Stewardess,” he hollered, pressing the call light over his head.
    “Mojito, please!”
    •
    FOR THE DESPONDENT author, claustrophobia had already set in by the time the passenger doors closed and the plane pulled away from the gate.
    Bumping and creaking along the tarmac, the aircraft began a slow roll toward the runway. The writer tilted her head, craning to look out the nearest window. Planes were lined up, for as far as she could see, waiting to take off. An on-time departure appeared unlikely.
    It was going to be a long flight.
    “My mother, rest her soul. She died a painful death.”
    The author did her best to manage a sympathetic smile.
    “Cancer. That’s what did her in. It was a horrible thing to watch. No one should have to go through that.”
    Her seatmate motioned toward his wasting limbs. “That’s why, when my time comes, I’m going to finish things off real quick.” Swinging his arm upward, he pointed two bony fingers at his temple. “Maybe I’ll do it Hemingway-style with a gunshot to the head. I’m telling you, Hem knew what he was doing. Not like my poor mother, rest her soul.”
    The author shuffled her feet, trying to figure out what she’d done to provoke this unsolicited barrage of information—and whether there was any way of stopping it.
    The answer to the second question appeared to be no.
    “I can see it coming—death—like the headlights of a car that’s about to run me over. It’s driving straight for me. I need to get in front of this thing. Take control, so that I go out on my own terms.”
    He tapped the armrest.
    “What do you think? How should I do it? What’s your preferred method of suicide?”
    •
    AFTER A TWENTY-MINUTE crawl across the tarmac, the plane approached the front of the takeoff line. The pilot announced that he had reached the number-two slot in the order and that the craft would be in the air momentarily.
    The passengers in the coach compartment let out a sigh of relief, particularly those seated within the vicinity of 26D. The Mojito Man had been chattering nonstop throughout the excruciating taxi from the gate.
    The pilot completed his final preflight check and revved the engines. At last, the plane began picking up speed on the open runway.
    Then, suddenly, the aircraft slowed. The engines dropped down to an