Passager #19

…fuck it, I say. If I don’t make it, I don’t make it. The plane is gonna leave in five minutes and I bet they’re already calling my name in the airport: “Mr. Thomas Johnson to Gate 9 immediately, Mr. Thomas Johnson to Gate 9 immediately.” Once I would have been terrified of missing a plane but now the thought suits me fine. It makes me feel like a criminal in a movie or something. Cynical as hell. If I ever were to star in a movie it should be in a movie about plane crashes. Ha, ha. I know it – I’m not very good at sounding cynical. My laugh isn’t nearly terrifying enough. But maybe I could practice and get better? Like an actor. Aw, no – who am I kidding – I suck at acting and it only brings up bad memories to even think about it. Me in high school. Me at an audition for a play. Laughing director, laughing school mates and laughing headmaster. I didn’t know you were supposed to sing. I did it, though. I should be proud of myself but somehow it’s not possible when I keep visualizing all those laughing faces. Maybe that’s where it all went wrong. The feeling I got almost drove me to suicide. I swear it did. Later that same night I stood in a dark alley and kept knocking my head against a brick wall. Got some bad scars and mom wouldn’t believe it when I told her I crashed on my bike. At first she wouldn’t, that is. When I kept denying that there was some other cause she insisted that I’d get a helmet and never ride without it. Fuck me. Those weren’t the days when young boys on bikes wore helmets. I could just as well have bought myself a scarf. Anyway, I’m at the airport now. Should I run? It would be sort of stupid to not catch the plane. Stupid, stupid. But do I even wanna go home? Home to what? A lovely wife and a pair of nice children? I’m not a family man and I’m never gonna be a family man. I’d rather spend a week drowsing in an airport than go home right now. Still, I’m going. I’m gonna catch the fucking plane if I don’t stop walking right now! And there she is, the stewardess. Smiling. Not angry or anything. How am I doing? Fine, thank you mam. Here’s my ticket…