Mile High Trip

Nobody told him that dropping acid at the airport before getting on a two-hour flight from Chicago to Denver would be a bad idea.

Maybe if somebody did, his flight would not have begun with him tripping balls. Drenched in sweat, eyes darting around the cabin with a look of terror while the plane took off from ORD.

Maybe if someone did, his flight would not have ended with him curled into a fetal position across an entire row of seats in the back if the plane during descent. A sassy black flight attendant rocking him in her arms and running her acrylic nails through his wild mane of hair, humming “Amazing Grace” to keep him calm while the plane bounced along the tarmac at DIA.

Big maybe.

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Chances Of Dying Are Something Percent

My mother scares me when she drives. She drives like a frightened foreign woman from a country where men subdue women, and her nervousness makes me nervous.

Where we are now is heading north on Manheim Road in her tinfoil-on-wheels Hyundai. Where we are going is O’Hare International Airport.

Hashtag ORD.

I have not flown in 18 years, and all I can think about are television images of commercial airline wreckage scattered across fields like tornado debris. Continue reading “Chances Of Dying Are Something Percent”

Chances Of Dying Are Something Percent

My mother scares me when she drives. She drives like a frightened foreign woman from a country where men subdue women, and her nervousness makes me nervous.

Where we are now is heading north on Manheim Road in her tinfoil-on-wheels Hyundai. Where we are going is O’Hare International Airport.

Hashtag ORD.

I have not flown in 18 years, and all I can think about are television images of commercial airline wreckage scattered across fields like tornado debris. Continue reading “Chances Of Dying Are Something Percent”