"Going Down Easy" by A.D. Schweiss

A dog-eared rag of duct tape flaps on our plane’s wing outside my window as we take off; my cell signal falling away with the earth, leaving behind the guy who doesn’t want to meet my parents yet. My sister’s last text, flying with me:

Until you become a parent, you really can’t understand what real love is.

A thirty-day AA chip rattles in the pocket of my winter coat against a tube of lipstick in time with the engine. An electric whine audible over noise-canceling headphones; an indecipherable Marvel movie on my phone. The cookies the flight attendant hands over instead of a hot meal. Santa hats and a beverage cart strung with Christmas lights.

They take credit cards, including the Visa gift card from my aunt.

Somewhere on the ground, my sister and her new baby are in a bedroom with the words New Beginnings in gold cursive over the crib.

Somewhere else on the ground, my parents are making up my old bedroom for me to stay with them for a week and yesterday someone stole my car battery and slashed my tires just for good measure so I took an Uber to the airport. I don’t want to spend eight bucks for Wifi to text my sponsor.

My phone’s screen hurts my eyes in the dark; outside my window the duct tape waves like a lover on a train platform and I know the most dangerous words for an alcoholic are ‘I’ve been thinking.’

Ordering Jack and Coke feels like hugging a friend waiting at baggage claim. My I’ll go everywhere with you drink. I hold out my card to pay. The stewardess waves me off: ‘Merry Christmas.’ She says the words the way you’d say, ‘screw it.’ My movie gets a little better. Outside my window the duct tape on the wing does the mashed potato in the jetstream.

I do a little math problem, about my three-hour flight; the size of the airplane Jack bottles; how much time I’ll need to get squared away when we land. I press the service light again and chew the ice in my little plastic cup. The same stewardess only she’s ditched the Santa hat. When I order another she’s ready with her card reader before I get the words out.

Outside my window I see a creature at the tip of the wing. Small, like a piece of garbage clinging to the leading edge. It hangs there on claws a little like a sloth. The duct tape, closer to my window, does a king cobra twirl and grows a little longer. I order a double that tastes like ‘Fairytale of New York’ on a jukebox while the creature outside struggles against the wind.

The person next to me is watching HBO and I shoulder-surf the plot because he’s got subtitles on.

The air outside must be cold; the creature has brown-black fur like a mink coat that whips in the wind like palm trees in a hurricane. A little square mouth loaded with teeth bared to the gale. One fish-hooked claw works at the wing, striking it the way a carpenter hits a stubborn nail. The engine gives a little whinny; a square piece of aluminum no bigger than a playing card flies off behind us and the creatures hugs the wing with one claw dug into the hole left behind.

A different flight attendant this time; he doesn’t have the beverage cart or anything but I flag him down all the same and this time I hold up the cash I have on hand, including five for a tip. This time it’s me who says Merry Christmas and he gives me a thumbs up; our special bond among the world-weary and cool. 

The creature outside my window works on another hole; one claw dug in securely in the guts of the wing, the other claw chipping away at the wing closer to the cabin. Big headlight eyes – a little like an owl– and a slit nose to keep out the chill. The eyes narrow while the creature works, and this time when the claw connects just right, ping, the whole cabin reverberates. A section of metal skin tears away, the size of a bath towel this time, and flies out into nothingness like the prayer at the end of a meeting. The flight attendant hands me three bottles this time along with the can of Coke.

‘We’ve got to end service,’ he says. ‘Turbulence,’ shrugging, the way someone might say ‘traffic.’

My lips feel dry and I go for my lipstick. My hand fishes around in my pocket a little too clumsy. It works if you work it. Outside the plane, the creature finds the duct tape and goes to town pulling the strip clear from the plane. The adhesive clings to the creature’s fur and our eyes make contact as it rips the last of the tape free.

There’s so much you can find in the bottom of a glass; there’s so much you can tell from a pinched, hairless face on the wrong side of a pressurized cabin.

I want to tear the wings off this airplane, the creature is thinking.

I purse my lips, nodding. I know, buddy.

I’m going to shred this metal bird, no matter the cold, no matter how much I get cut up in the process.

I think about the plastic bag covering my car’s broken window back home; about giving up my 30-day chip and washing coffee cups when I go back to meetings.

The creature gives one hard pull at the open wound beneath the duct tape. This time a section of wire comes loose. Inside the cabin, every surface rattles like the hands of an old drunk and the captain’s voice comes over the loudspeaker.

The creature’s face, when it looks back at me: I won’t survive the crash.

I raise my little plastic cup in a salute. None of us will.

A.D. Schweiss has worked as a prosecutor in California for 14 years, mostly handling crimes of intimate partner violence. He lives in Northern California with his troublesome kids, his troublesome wife, and a well-behaved dog.