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authors note:
although many of the noteworthy events
and places described within did take place
and/or do exists. The named characters in the
story are fictional. Their response to and
involvement in the events of 1979 are entirely
fictional. Any resemblance to anyone living or
dead is purely coincidental.
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L.C. moved sideways through First Class of the
American Airlines Dc-10. His oft-forgotten briefcase
noisily clipped at the seats as he passed. His animated
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ascension toward the nose of the plane caused the
stewardess to look up from her preflight preparations.
He confirmed his seat with her, (the right side of
the plane three rows from the front) and with a smile
asked for a preflight martini.
L.C. fell into his seat and tossed his briefcase into
the seat next to the window. The flight appeared to be
light, L.C. was confident no one would end up sitting
there. He dug into his jacket pocket for the familiar feel
of his Marlboro Red Box.
The stewardess moved to pull down the seat tray;
L.C. waved her off and took the drink directly. He lit the
cigarette with one hand, snapping the lighter closed with
some flair and smiled at the young stewardess. He blew
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smoke out the side of his mouth and away from her and
asked, You live in L.A.?
Her southern drawl that she had disguised with
some effort came forward as she announced, Im from
Texas.
The twang of her response sent a frisky shock wave
through L.C. that made him appreciate that he was
already in his seat.
Austin, Texas.
L.C. was in love; he gulped at his drink and
inquired about her time in Los Angeles. Would there be
a lay over? A few hours, a day perhaps?
L.C. knew L.A.
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He knew people that would accommodate them,
no matter how little time they had.
The stewardess smiled. She pivoted lightly on her
front foot while she assessed the sincerity of his inquiry.
He was dressed in black Angel Flight bell-bottoms, his
white shirt was opened at the top, and his hair literally
seemed to be everywhere. With both hands full, he
whipped it from side to side to clear his view. He smiled
in between drags on his cigarette.
With a wink she spun away to return to her
preflight chores. She tossed a cryptic, slightly flirtatious,
absolutely noncommittal remark over her shoulder as she
returned to the front of the plane. L.C. smiled and sank
deeper into his seat.
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Landlocked girls from the Midwest could not
resist Malibu and its ocean front charms. The Ocean had
magical powers most women could not resist.
As predicted, the flight was light, and nobody
would end up next to him. His mind moved back to
business, some completed here in Chicago and some yet
to deal with in L.A.
His secretary had gone on about a houseguest, and
he had to refer to notes he had scribbled on a cocktail
napkin.
L.C.s secretary had devised a system over their
years together. She provided him with only basic
information about issues that he would need to be aware
of but couldnt act on while in the air. The notes were
single words that helped him remember the conversation;
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L.C. always chuckled to himself as she provided detailed
information for a possible emergency water landing, that
information so useful on trips from Chicago to L.A.
L.C. flipped the napkin about in his now empty
hand; a houseguest for the summer would call for some
adjustments. Hed know the Aragons for some time,
sending him their daughter seemed unusual, but he knew
questions would only begat more questions.
He studied the napkin again, the flight information
on the napkin seemed wrong. He studied the numbers
more intently, glancing at his watch, he realized, her
flight was today!
Math was not his strong suit, especially math
involving time, and time zones. His houseguest was
already in the air. She was already on her way to Los
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Angeles! He would only have a few minutes to grab his
own luggage, if that.
L.C. threw the napkin at his briefcase, a primal,
guttural, groan escaped him as he realized Miss Austin
Texas, would not succumb to Malibus Magic, no matter
her availability.
The aircrafts engines climbed another octave as
the plane began to vibrate down the runway. L.C. felt the
familiar tug on his shoulders as the plane increased its
speed. His gut yanked him deeper into his seat as the
plane nudged its nose into the sky. He closed his eyes for
a brief moment, waiting for the pull on his body to
subside.
His visceral response to the aircrafts lazy list to the
port side was a meandering, completely lethargic, effort
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to crawl up through the haze of vodka and tobacco. L.C.
opened his eyes to see the left side of the plane was now
below him. He fought the primordial urge to climb up
and away from the depths of danger. He felt the seatbelt
strain against him. His fellow passengers began to
scream as the plane continued its left-handed roll.
The luggage compartments above him gave way,
expelling their contents across the aisle, bombing the
now hysterical passengers along the length of the plane.
L.C.s own briefcase crawled up into his lap; as he
clutched it, a glimpse of the Chicago skyline suddenly
dropped through his window.
He clawed at the briefcase as though it was the
only thing keeping him alive. The screams from the
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plane were quickly replaced by a sense of clarity, a sense
of wonder, and a realization;
L.C. was about to die.
No plane or pilot could correct this dive, this low to
the ground.
L.C. smiled, let the briefcase fall between his legs,
and raised his arms in deviant jubilation. He had led a
good life, his company had provided good value though
the years, and brought countless joy to literally
thousands of people. His life had been indulgent, too
many women, too much booze, and maybe, just maybe
too much rock & roll.
Maybe.
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L.C. had made dreams come true, had done what
they said could not be done. Arms still raised, he
screamed a laugh toward the awaiting heavens. As
American Airlines Flight #191 completed its dying,
hopeless, arch, into a field just north of OHare
International, the napkin with the details of his
summerhouse guest floated across his face.
L.C. perished without ever meeting Elizabeth
Victoria Aragon.
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drooped, jet lag swarmed her. She mindlessly tugged at
her trench coat, uncertain if she should take it off or pull
it close.
Los Angeles was bright and warm, as any day of
late, May could be, yet she sat shivering atop her
luggage. The lack of; sleep, espresso and a ride home
had begun to wear on her.
Her companion appeared from using a nearby pay
phone. Elizabeth Victoria Aragon looked up at her and
knew something was wrong.
She crouched next to Elizabeth and placed a finger
across her lips insisting on silence. Her eyes flooded and
she began to cry.
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Elizabeth twisted atop her luggage reaching for her
companions face... She spoke with a thickness of
dehydration and shock, There has been an accident.
She whispered, A crash.
Elizabeths companion looked quickly to see if her
words had been over heard. Elizabeth managed a quick
sardonic thought that crept its way to her face as a smile.
Nobody here understands Portuguese. She stated flatly.
Tell me.
Her companion assured that indeed speaking
Portuguese made them invisible, continued with the
news she had just reveled. He is dead, the man we were
to meet, he is dead. She repeated. His plane crashed, in
Chicago. A short time ago.
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As she finished her sentence, the atmosphere of the
airport changed noticeably, car radios were suddenly
broadcasting the same station, news of the crash rushed
from all available windows and doors. A nearby
American Airlines skycap leaned into his portable radio,
and then ran into the terminal to verify the tragedy.
# # #
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Isaac Bloomfield launched his Cadillac Eldorado
out of the parking lot at Le Dome with a wide
impertinent left hand turn across all four lanes of Sunset
Blvd. The response from the Friday afternoon commute
was as predictable and vociferous as it was venomous.
Isaac drew the map to the airport in his head; he
was an hour away if not more. Although the freeways
could get him there quicker, Isaacs Los Angeles
consisted of streets withnames. San Monica, San
Vicente, Beverly, Los Cienega, and Venice. Numbers
were good for tracking sales (thus money) and little else.
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Driving on anything called the 405 was for the great
unwashed. The time constrained minions that did not
have the good sense to travel with time and style. Who
could possibly see you if you drove so fast and with the
top up?
He continued to pilot the massive bronze
convertible down Sunset Blvd with an entitled disregard
for property or human life. Sunset at this hour was a
jerky stop and go. He passed the Whiskey a-Go-Go at a
testudinal crawl and decided to abandon it with a left on
Doheny Drive. A slightly more residential street, it
offered him some momentum and he merged with traffic
on Santa Monica Blvd feeling as though he had made
some progress.
His protg was dead.
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strut its was along the Blvd. Hope briefly returned.
Rejuvenated, and he felt his sprits rise with each song.
Turning left on Sepulveda Blvd his enthusiasm had
returned and he felt around for a demo tape. Who among
the unknowns could compete with Bad Company? Who
could surprise and delight Isaacs ability to pick winners.
The name Great Buildings was scribbled across the front
of the tape. He exchanged the tapes and the rockabilly
cheerfulness ofHold On To Something sprang from the
speakers with a nave youthfulness that immediately
made Isaac smile. Score one for the unknowns.
He drummed along with the song until he had
decided to pass the tape along to some friends of his.
Isaac swore there was a television theme song within
their music.
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He rummaged around for another demo tape; it
lasted only 6 seconds before he tossed it in the back seat.
It slapped atop the pile of rejects that slipped and slid
about, floating upon one another like the bobbing trash
forever stuck in a marina.
He blindly chose again from the new release
section; SupertrampsBreakfast in America.
Gone Hollywoodtickled its way forward for a few
seconds before it came on bursting with high-pitched
vocals, and sarcastic lyrics. It was the perfect eulogy to
L.C. and how he saw the world. The songs lyrics carried
a heavy, relentless punch and Isaac was forced to
pullover just after Venice Blvd.
He sobbed; great gut wrenching shouts at the
heavens. He lay twisted by despair until theLogical Song
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skipped to the foreground with its melodious curiosity,
its precise harmonies. He gripped the wheel in an effort
to right himself. The song banged on like a British
drinking song, the sax solo untangled him, and he pulled
back into traffic.
Isaac knew he should stop listening to this; this
disemboweling collection that so perfectly, so
unfortunately capsulated this day. Goodbye Stranger,
Breakfast in America, Oh Darling, Take the Long way
Home, and the soul-questioning anthem that was and
remainsLord is it Mine.
Isaac stoically took the emotional pounding. He
drove himself to confront the loss of the day. With
swollen eyes, he steered the car until the final minute of
Lord is it Mine forced him again to pull over. This time
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he could no longer brave the onslaught and pulled the
tape from the deck.
The high-pitched rushing sound of air being
scalped awaken Isaac to the fact that he had completed
his journey to the airport.
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