1
The Crash
“Mayday mayday, ground crew, this is callsign N-10-FE. We’ve got a double engine failure, asking for guidance on where to land.”
“…”
“Mayday mayday, callsign N-10-FE. Double engine failure, we need a place to land.”
“…”
“How are you doin’ back there?”
“Oh just dandy, thanks for asking.”
“Pardon me for checking.” Asshole. “What about you, Sean-Mas?”
“He’s probably also just dandy.”
“Oh fuck off. Sean-Mas, are you okay up there?”
“I’m alright, but we’re all dead.”
“What?”
“We got a chunk taken out of the left wing over here. We’re done for.”
“Mayday mayday mayday, callsign N-10-FE, we got a double engine failure, a piece missing from our left wing. Requesting immediate assistance.”
“…”
“Langley, go prep the parachutes.”
“I was way ahead of you; he’s right, Mitch. We’re all dead.”
“What? Why?”
“There are no parachutes.”
“What do you mean there are no parachutes?”
“I mean there’s no parachutes. We’re dead.”
“That’s what I said—we’re dead.”
“Well, shit.”
2
Hotel Escapade
“Hotel Escapade?”
Strange name for a hotel. Yet not the weirdest; there used to be a John Wilkes Booth Memorial Hotel in Durango. Hotel Escapade is strangely, extremely charming, maybe even quaint if you could ignore the forebodingness of the single reception desk in the centre of the cavernous lobby. Any quaintness is immediately lost upon realizing that a dark, lanky concierge has been staring bug-eyed the entire time, and continues to stare bug-eyed the entire awkward echoing trek from the glass entryway to the reception desk.
“Hi there, do you guys have a telephone I could use?” Mitch said, looking at the ceiling.
“Who?”
“You guys,” Mitch gestured his hands around. “The hotel—Hotel Escapade.”
The man behind the desk, who Mitch was so passionately avoiding eye contact with, looked dumbfounded. He sat in a small chair that made him look like a grown man in a preschool class.
“Ohhhhhh, no no no no no. It’s just me, just me Pennies.” He spoke very fast and with an accent that was vaguely South American.
“Do you have a telephone?”
“Ohhhh… no no no no no. No phones. We don’t do that.” He shook his head frantically, breaking his stare for the first time. He pointed a creepily long finger towards a door to his right.
“You, go there. Get out of Pennies’ hotel.”
Mitch could feel the bug-eyes in the back of his head the entire walk of shame to the unlabeled, seashell-coloured door. The door was less upscale than the rest of the hotel, and the grain in the wood showed through the single layer of paint. But the door had no knob, or handle, or bar.
“How am I supposed to open this?” He turned to ask, his voice unintentionally echoing loudly in the vacant lobby.
“Oh yes, it’s a push, not a pull. Thank you.”
It was true. It just took a slight push, and the door fell forward off its hinges into the desert.
Mitch suddenly found himself alone. Nothing but sand, forward or back, apart from a fire that raged on the horizon, and silence for what felt like hours.
Distant ringing of a service bell.
“What are you doing? Get out of Pennies’ hotel!”
3
Apartment In Void
Being back in the street was disappointing. Dejected would be an understatement. The feeling of being kicked out of the hotel was almost depressive. There was a thick, despondent air to the place. The streets in this town smelt like shit. But as soon as Mitch realized that it smelled, the world decided to cook him in his place. Like an oven opening in his face—it was so hot it was hard to keep a shirt on, so hot he could barely keep pace. Which was unfortunate, because two dime pieces passed him as he was sticky and shirtless to the pavement.
“I don’t care about you or your ugly sister!” he shouted slovenly, after noticing them giving him dirty looks. “I’ve had better back home, anyways,” he said to them and himself.
After a while, everything was a little clearer to Mitch—like the fire station literally being on fire. He felt guilty for what he said to those ladies. He was lying. He really hadn’t had better. They were beautiful ladies, both with hair done up, beautiful dresses, and a confidence to them that he admired and sought now. His infatuation with these ladies lasted hours, but was cut short by a man that came over the horizon and plucked the sun from its cozy place in the sky. Same as it ever was, it had been night for quite some time.
A late-night stroll down Main Street. All there is for Mitch to do is kick at any rock or pebble that crossed his path. Looking up was too much of a headache, as the buildings were breathing deeply and quite sickening to look at.
One glance up to see if they were still breathing and the streets ended. The only thing left was the road and the sidewalk—connected only to a certain extent—and a lonely apartment complex. Nothing more, nothing less. Everything was pitch-black besides these things, and everything after felt vast and unknowable.
4
The Boathouse, The Whaler, and The Angler
Every day at five-fifteen in the afternoon, The Boathouse will ring the belfry. When the bell is rung, it means it’s time to come home. As soon as The Whaler hears it, he lifts anchor and sets course. When The Angler hears the bell, he closes his ears, as he’s far too close. The Angler will then pack up his tackle box, fold up his rod, and walk from the dock up the path to where The Boathouse waits. Then The Boathouse and The Angler prepare the table and clean any leftover dishes in the sink while The Boathouse hums an Irish lullaby. The Whaler comes home every day at five-thirty, slumps into his dining chair, and they all eat together by six.
The Whaler was missing an eye. No eyepatch, no nothing. It was excruciating not to look at.
“You want somethin’ to drink?”
“I’m good, thanks,” said Mitch.
“I didn’t ask if you were good. I asked if you wanted a drink.”
“No, thank you.” He had to look at anything but The Whaler to avoid making eye contact with the socket. Lovely house, he thought. Beautiful choice of carpet. The ornate clock on the wall said eleven-ten.
“So you want my boat?”
“Yeah, I’m hoping—”
“My boat’s my living, y’know. You’d better be offering me your liver or somethin’ for it.”
The Boathouse chimed in, “Honey, I think the young man asked if he could borrow it. He doesn’t want to take your boat.” The Boathouse laughed nervously.
“Be quiet,” he stomped his steel heel into the floorboard. “I heard what he said.”
“Woah woah woah,” said The Angler, as he sat on the sofa next to The Whaler. He was a rosy, stout man, while The Whaler was tall and shaped like a beer bottle. The Angler patted him on the back and said, “Take a walk, buddy.”
The Whaler stared at Mitch, then got up from the couch with a deep “Hrmph” and walked away. Mitch could see him talking to The Boathouse in the kitchen.
The Angler leaned in towards Mitch. “He’s not having the best day, you know,” he said softly. “There was a big one, you know,” he gestured with his head towards the window, “out there, on the ocean. Oh yeah, slipped right out from under him, he says. I’d be mad too.”
The Angler noticed Mitch was ready to leave. He let out a big sigh and threw his hands into the air.
“Alright, let’s get you set.”
5
The Ocean To ‘Out of Here’
(Contaminated With Moths)
“Crazy, right?”
“What?”
“The ocean!” she said. “C’mon, are you even paying attention?”
Mitch turned to face an endless crashing ocean shrouded by a night filled with stars. Moths covered every inch of the ship, stern to bow. They lined the railings and the floorboards and swarmed the floodlights. Fish kept jumping out of the battling waves and burst into more moths and some viscera. The constant rocking made it even harder to focus.
“I don’t know, I saw you staring. I’m just trying to make conversation.”
“Sorry, I forgot what we were talking about… What were we talking about?”
“Nothing. We weren’t talking about anything.”
“You sure? I feel like we were talking about something.”
“No, it was nothing, never mind.” She walked away.
Who she was and why he was talking to her, he did not know. He couldn’t remember. It’s been very hard to keep up the past few days, and his head hurt like hell.
Aiden writes all his work past 11 pm under candlelight in his pajamas.