You are airborne for about three minutes when you smell it. Something burning.
You look for smoke but don’t see it. Whispers begin from the seats around you. Hushed questions at first, then more alarmed declarations as your fellow passengers confirm that this is not just their imagination.
The lady in 14B – an off duty cop – presses the call button a moment before you do. The flight attendant, a retired army guy with a weathered face and a winning smile, makes his way back to you slowly, finding handholds to steady himself in the slanted walkway as the plane continues to climb.
As he approaches, you wave your hand in front of your nose to signal to him that you are smelling something. He arrives and you can see that he smells it too. His smile vanishes. He listens to the few, quick words from the lady in 14B. You nod in agreement as she speaks. He also nods, scans the area, turns on his heel and makes his way back to get on the phone with the captain.
Suddenly, a loud booming noise erupts from the plane itself, or maybe right outside it.
Your first thought is that an engine has blown. Next to you, your ten-year-old daughter begins to cry. Your thirteen-year-old son looks at you, his distinctive eyebrows raised over the rims of his glasses. While part of your mind staves off your own dread, the other part begins casting the spell that every parent learns. You smile, you project confidence, you utter soothing words and give calm assurances. They relax and return to their books.
Meanwhile, the part of your brain that is not engaged with the charming of children is a beehive of activity. You are reading the flight attendant’s face as he speaks into the phone. It is not even a minute of conversation, but it lasts forever. As you study him, his tanned face and fresh crew cut burn themselves into your brain.
You are remembering what you know about planes – most of it taught to you by Hollywood. They can lose an engine and still fly, right? Let’s see, there are four forces at work on plane . . . thrust, lift, drag. There’s another one, right? Thrust is the engines, lift is from the shape of the wing, drag is the air resistance. What’s the other? Shit. It’s gravity.
You watch the flight attendant rise, and make his way toward you. His poker face is maddening.
You are also trying to remember your last words to your wife. You didn’t call her this morning before takeoff. Why didn’t you call her?? It was early – so damn early – and you were rousing two of your kids to take them to meet their grandparents for their right-of-passage trek to D.C. Your wife was overnight in the hospital, so instead of calling and maybe waking her, you sent her texts. And after the usual boring bullshit about boarding the plane and when you’d land, you had sent the single word: “love”.
As last words go, that’s not too shabby. And it’s a Hell of a lot better than an eggplant emoji. But you’re not a “less is more” guy. More is more, damnit. And if you’re going down in a fireball over some godforsaken field in Oklahoma, you have a lot more to say to the woman you have loved for over twenty-five years. And to the sleeping teenage girl who taught you to be a parent. And to the seven-year-old boy with the big eyes and the giant heart, who will surely spend the rest of his childhood mornings standing on your side of the bed and talking to your empty pillow.
The attendant is approaching as you pull out your phone. You will switch off airplane mode and reach out to your wife. How to start? “We may have lost an engine!” No, no. WTF is wrong with you? Maybe just tell her how much you love her and the kids. And they will know when it’s all over – IF it’s all over – that you went to your death with them on your mind.
Should you also make a joke? A laugh-in-the-face-of-death kind of thing? Yes. You will say you love them, and also make some joke.
But what joke?
If it’s your last wisecrack on Earth, it’s gotta be good.
You’re considering all this – so many thoughts in such rapid succession – when the attendant arrives. He leans on 13D and notes that the smell has dissipated. As he says this, you realize it’s true. He says he has talked to the Captain, who explained that sometimes, when a plane is idling for a while (as yours had), fumes build up that have to be burned off. Which accounts for the burning smell. You’ve never heard of that, nor have you smelled burning in any previous flight in 44 years of air travel. But he says it so confidently . . .
What about the loud bang?
“That? Oh, that was us being struck by lightning.”
Oh, struck by lightning. No big deal. We’re only living through the exact metaphor you use to describe terrible things that are not supposed to happen!! Lightning strike?! Gah!
“The plane is designed to handle lightning.”
He says this and you realize that of course it must be true. You feel yourself begin to relax. Then he says “But Hell, this rickety bird is over thirty years old. So it’s good to be vigilant.”
The lady in 13B complains that his words are not exactly inspiring confidence. He chuckles and stands up. “You want me to be honest, don’t you? When I say the bad stuff, you know you can trust me when I say the good stuff. Let me know if you notice anything else weird.” He departs.
You’re left with a vague disquiet. You know that you’re not about to die. But your own mortality is now keenly in focus. One day you will die. And on that day, it could be sudden, or you might get a chance to get a message to the people you love. And if you get that chance, what are you gonna say, oh ye of many words?
The short answer is that you don’t know. At least not as you sit on this plane that is not burning. But you promise yourself that you will figure it out.
Usually, the promises you make to yourself – the promises that should be among the most important – are vague and ephemeral. You don’t say “I’m gonna lose 10 lbs by November” or “I will finish a novel in 2017.” You say “I’m gonna get healthier” or “I will write more.” That way, when you break those promises (as you frequently do), it’s not as obvious to you. They weren’t very specific – were they even promises? Or simply aspirations? The ghosts of hopes you dared not invoke?
This promise to figure out what you would say in the face of your own death is no different. Indeed, you forget all about it, and this half-written post describing it that you pecked out on the plane before falling asleep, until you stumble back on these words while sorting through your drafts folder looking for something else.
But reading it over again, with some distance, you’re no closer to knowing what your last words will be. But you do now at least know what joke you’ll make on the hypothetical day when you face certain death (and also happen to have your phone in hand). It’s a dumb little inside joke with your wife – a “toast” you whisper to her whenever you clink glasses. And she chuckles each time, she even chuckles in anticipation before you say it.
Of course. Of course! How could it be anything else? It feels so right that you almost look forward to dying just so you can deliver that whispered message to your wife as your last act.
Well, that or an eggplant emoji.
And not for the first time, you reflect on just how ridiculously dramatic you are. And you wonder whether it’s boring to be someone who isn’t. And you open a new draft, and begin typing: “If you’re reading this, it means (a) I’m dead, (b) I’m currently dying, (c) I really thought I was dying when I hit send, but am now embarrassingly not dead, or (d) you’re totally violating my privacy by snooping through the drafts on my phone. If it’s either A or B, I’m so sorry. If it’s C, I’m also sorry, but not nearly as deeply, and really more for me than you, because I look like an ass. If it’s D, you’re a shit, and I’m totally going to haunt you if I learn that’s in any way an option . . .”
And as you type, you hear your wife practicing the piano downstairs – a hobby she has just taken up. And you’re so lucky to be alive right now. And you drop your phone, and you walk down the stairs to open a bottle of wine, and you pour two glasses. And as you pour, you giggle to yourself, anticipating her giggling anticipation of the dumb little joke you are about to make when you clink glasses.