Flight 5342: October 2023
“Mary Jane’s Last Dance”

Eli never traveled with earbuds. They were too undetectable under his mass of hair, which was still damp from his 4 a.m. shower that did little to wake him up. Beats were an accessory, a statement, a visual cue—leave me the fuck alone. But while in public, for the better part of the last ten years, he was rarely left alone, Beats or not. 

He slipped the headphones over his ears, pushed play on his podcast, and then gathered his personal items from the gray bin at the end of the CT scanner’s conveyor belt, tucking the plastic TSA Notification Card into its slot before returning his wallet to his jacket’s inside pocket. Dr. Rosen’s illegible signature had faded over the past seventeen months from frequent handling by agents inspecting the official medical document before and after Eli’s crotch made the full-body scanner light up like a Christmas tree.

Concourse B’s security gauntlet gave way to his next challenge—getting to the gate with minimal interruptions. Eli slid the headphones down as he approached the velvet ropes that cordoned off the Indy 500 race car. A pair of Fifth and the Shots fans hovered, clearly waiting for him. The band’s logo on the front panel of the thinner fellow’s ball cap showed signs of age and wear, which temporarily warmed his heart. But his unresolved feelings about yesterday’s meeting with the execs from the Indianapolis Motor Speedway overshadowed. While he fought a mood, being rude was never an option. His fans were important. So, he hung the Beats from his neck like a backwards Ruth Bader Ginsburg dissent collar. He’d resume listening to the latest Flying V’s and CC’s episode on his way to Gate 13 and hope the headphones would provide other travelers the visual cue to beg off.

If he didn’t hustle, he’d miss pre-boarding and get stuck in the jetway with a gaggle of overly friendly Midwestern folks headed to California. At this hour, he didn’t have the mental capacity to be the celebrity they met before take off while trapped in a suspended metal tube. It was early, and he was tired.

His phone chirped through the Beats around his neck. The ringer was set too loud, startling him. He wiggled the cell from his moto jacket’s breast pocket, slowing on the motorized sidewalk to check the text. One of the three young female travelers behind him, all rushing to keep pace, stumbled into him, and his device clattered onto the conveyor and rolled away. 

“Oh no!” said the short gal in a Ball State sweatshirt, flushed from exertion but not embarrassment. “I’m sorry!”

Shit! He used his last sanitizing wipes yesterday to clean his hotel room and couldn’t spare the time to buy some at the Hudson retail store he cruised past. “It’s my bad. I should know better than to stop on the moving sidewalk.”

“No worries, Eli Anders. I’ll get it for you.” 

The tall gal of the threesome hustled to retrieve what fell. The wheels of her bag whooshed over the metal sidewalk’s grooves with a high-pitched hum. She scooped up the phone and then slowed until the group caught up. The three twenty-somethings trapped Eli at the railing between their human triangle. 

“Thanks,” he said.

Tall Gal handed him his phone, looking star-struck. Eli wiped the dirty device on the leg of his Levi’s and slipped it into his back pocket.

“The group of us drove to Nashville to see the Shots back in August,” said the gal with glasses, pointing between her friends.

“Both shows!” said Tall Gal. “You guys were amazing!”

“Appreciated,” Eli said. “Thanks for coming out.”

“‘Turn, Turntable’ is even better live than on the album,” Ball State gushed.

“Could we get your autograph?” Glasses said, digging in the bag slung diagonally across her chest. 

“The moving walkway is coming to an end,” the mechanism’s disembodied voice announced.

“Watch your step,” Eli said to Ball State, the tip of this human spear who rode this carnival ride of awkwardness backwards. She tripped at the threshold. Eli steadied her as he stepped onto solid ground. “You OK?”

“I’m mortified!” A nervous giggle revealed her embarrassment.

“Don’t be. It could happen to anyone,” he said.

Glasses thrust a pen and a boarding pass toward Eli. Seemed she was headed to Miami. He scribbled his name as two more boarding passes and two more people appeared in front of him. Two twenty-something bros edged between Glasses and Ball State, full of morning energy that Eli did not share. One bro reeked of alcohol.

He put on a medium smile and nodded in the appropriate places as his fans chattered around him. Remaining cordial, he engaged with detachment. His height advantage allowed him to gaze over the group’s heads and assess the folks at Gate 13 with whom he’d share this flight. All the usual suspects—the business casual folks, the small families with more baggage than hands to carry it, and the twenty-somethings headed to the coast for a fall break. 

In the center of the sea of sameness sat a modern pin-up girl. A bandana, tied in a bow on the top of her head, held back an unruly ring of graying curls. The cutie sipped from a pink water bottle, looking over her right shoulder, amused by the celebrity show. Eli didn’t try to hide his authentic smile when he caught her eye. She blushed with a sheepish grin but didn’t look away.

“Good morning,” an ethereal voice echoed. “This is your pre-boarding announcement for flight 5342 to Los Angeles. We now invite passengers with small children and those requiring assistance …”

“If you’ll excuse me, folks.” Eli talked over the announcement and used his wheelie bag to make his way forward. “My flight is boarding.”

“Holy shit. Eli Anders is on our flight!” one of the twenty-something bros said, backhanding his companion in the chest. 

“It was nice talking to you this morning. Thanks for your kind words and support. Safe travels.” He pounded his heart twice and flashed a peace sign, stepping away. 

Cutie stowed her water bottle, hoisted a giant backpack over her slender shoulders, and left Gate 13. Damn. That’s a shame. He’d not be mad if she invaded his space and ignored the headphone visual cue. His eyes followed, losing sight of her as he stepped to the gate attendant.

As he strode the length of the jetway, he slipped the Beats over his ears and resumed his podcast. In this episode, the retired rock star hosts interviewed Chris Isaak. The three musicians discussed Helena Christensen and her role in the “Wicked Game” music video. Eli stowed his wheelie bag in the overhead bin as the podcast topic transitioned to the entertainingly ridiculous parody cover by Tenacious D, giving Eli his second genuine smile of the morning. Before taking his seat, he pulled his phone and bottle of Purell from various pockets. While not ideal, he used the hand sanitizer to clean his cell. Cloudy smears streaked the screen.

He checked the text, expecting it to be one of the guys. He calculated where the buses should be on their drive to LA from Chicago, the final show of their Masked Men tour two days ago. They may be home already. The mood Eli couldn’t shake stemmed from this Indianapolis detour—the meeting at the Motor Speedway. He’d been asked, begged really, to sing the National Anthem before the 2024 race. While a great honor, the opportunity had a profound sense of betrayal. Trevor, Baxter, Max, and Rikki, his bandmates—his brothers from other mothers—were not begged or even asked to perform. Only him. Solo. An idea that had niggled in his brain, on and off for several years, causing anxiety and guilt. But the message wasn’t the guys or the crew, but a too-familiar number from the UCLA Medical Center.

[+1 (424) 259-9333:] Hello Eli—Your appointment with Doctor William Rosen, MD at UCLA Santa Monica Medical Center Orthopaedics Unit (1250 16th Street, Santa Monica, CA 90404) is on October 18th, 9:45 a.m. PST. Reply YES to confirm, NO to cancel, or RESCHEDULE to reschedule.]

[Eli:] YES

[+1 (424) 259-9333:] Thank you for confirming your appointment.

Eli couldn’t claim he looked forward to the upcoming doctor’s visit, but he did want answers to whether the nagging pain in his reconstructed hip was anything to worry about. Thoughts of the asshole “fan” who tackled him and sucker punched him four times while performing in Pittsburgh two weeks ago were as unsettling as the thoughts of the motorcycle accident that forced the need for reconstruction in the first place. He rubbed the spot absentmindedly. 

Departure time ebbed closer, and the seat next to him remained vacant. He’d not be mad at it staying that way. He struggled to tune people out when they sat so near, and while he was prepared to keep his headphones on to help the situation, they often didn’t. His mood would make holding his end of the conversational bargain taxing. With his luck, his seat neighbor would probably end up being someone who used the seatback pocket with reckless abandon and no regard for the germs and sickness looming within it. He pushed away thoughts of the invisible viruses writhing on the surfaces around him by closing his eyes, focusing on the podcast in his ears, and trying to touch the fewest surfaces possible. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but can I shimmy in?”

Eli opened his eyes, attempting to mask his delight. Cutie, with the oversized bag and blue suede shoes, boarding a plane like in a Marc Cohn song, stood in the aisle with the bag resting over her toes. He unbuckled and supported his frame on the armrest. A full stand was impossible at nearly six and a half feet tall. Passengers occupied the aisle, so he half stood. As Cutie side-stepped past and filled his nose with her sweet coconut fragrance, he accidentally brushed her tush. Crap. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. But, damn! 

He settled back into his seat. Before Cutie got comfortable in hers, she pulled out a pack of Clorox wipes from her backpack. Often, Eli got a sense of a person, like how dogs could detect goodness or evil. He’d been performing for over fifteen years and encountered every kind of human. The good. The bad. And the ugly. There were things he just knew. His heart fluttered. The morning’s tiredness and sour mood vanished. 

“Any chance I could get one of those?” he asked. “I used my last at the hotel yesterday.” Before Cutie even answered, he slipped the Beats from his neck and tucked them at his hip. He wasn’t going to need them.