What We Ask

Caleb woke up late after arriving late the night before. The kitchen table had all the evidence of having already been sat, the morning paper in a disheveled pile, crumbs on a coffee-stained napkin, chairs angled erratically. Everyone was already gone. He moved a chair across the tile floor, to get around the table.

"I wanted to let you sleep," said his aunt Karen as she sauntered into the room. He walked toward her and they embraced, simply.
"Good to see you," said Caleb.

"Want some breakfast? There's bacon and sausage made, and potatoes. I can get some eggs ready."
"I can't dig on swine," he paraphrased, then corrected, "Pork's no good on me. Potatoes, scrambled eggs sounds great."
"Coffee?"
"Thanks," he said, seating himself at the table. She placed a cup in front of him and poured from a long simmering pot of dark roast.
"Cream, sugar?" she asked.
"No, thank you," Caleb said, eyes moving to the paper.

"I had to go to sleep before you got in last night. How was your flight?"
Caleb laid the paper down on the table.
"You remember the car George Jetson had? The one that had the antenna that propelled the car with little bubbles like 'bbbbbb' and folded up into a briefcase when he showed up to his floating office?"
"Yeah?" she said as she cracked open an egg.
"Well, that's all I want in life. A goddamn flying briefcase car. Is that too much to ask of the twenty-first century?"
His aunt chuckled as she moved toward the refrigerator.
"Not so good?"

Caleb postured as if reading while he answered. "Just that it's a sad question. I imagine there used to be something to talk about, when someone took the train, or drove, or went by stagecoach. You experienced travel then. You smelled the land. You saw the stars. Sure, you probably shot Buffalo, or came down with cholera, but it's better than now. Now means taking off your shoes at the airport, packing in like chickens, being vacuum-sealed."

"Flying can be an experience," Karen offered, stirring eggs in a clear bowl with a fork. "I always get the window seat and watch the fields shrink into tiny dots of carpet. The cities with their little insect cars. Makes it all seem so small."

"I had to throw out hair gel at the security checkpoint," Caleb countered, "Hair gel. Soon it'll be the cavity search 3000. That's the only way to know! Grandma's got a bomb in her ass! Bend over and take it like a patriot!"

Karen laughed half-heartedly, not really listening but embracing the tone.

Caleb drank from his coffee, sternly preparing his ideas. "Once we were in the plane we sat on the runway for an hour, while nobody said anything. We were waiting for the pilots! An hour without air-conditioning. Neutered flight attendants. Updates about nothing. Whatever happened to free drinks? They're protecting you from getting hurt, you know. Like from hot meals and honey roasted peanuts. Courtesy is dead, and company killed it."

His aunt was cooking the eggs with garlic salt and it filled the room with savory air. "Last time me and your uncle flew, they kept our cell phone. I'm convinced, we looked everywhere. At that security search is where we figured."

"Freedim. Dey hate our freedim," Caleb mimicked.

For a while it was quiet. Caleb studied the box scores and Karen put the eggs and potatoes on a plate and walked them over to the table. She brought a bottle of ketchup and sat down opposite Caleb at the table, blowing steam off the top of a cup of tea.

Caleb ate as he asked, "Here we are in the Year Of Our George Two Thousand and Six. You happy with the state of travel? Or you just addicted to 'ole?"
"Don't know." She sipped from the tea. "Always this jovial in the morning?"
"Mornings are about acceptance. What have we accepted? We don't want to live in the future."
"Fear is pretty big," she said.
"And then we ask 'How was your flight?', 'What time are you planning on leaving for the airport?', 'Are you going to have enough time?' All of these questions, and it's always the same answer."
"The world must bore you."
"Sorry, it's just true."
"You have to learn to laugh at it," she repeated from somewhere.

Neither of them spoke, neither wanting to confront this profound lie.

Caleb ate the last of his breakfast.
"That was perfect," he said, standing, "Where's everyone?"
"They're out getting the tree."
"I'm going to shower then. Thanks again for making that," Caleb said as he made his way out of the room.

His aunt took the plate and fork to the sink where she rinsed them off. She opened the dishwasher and put the dish and fork into their proper compartments, then closed the dishwasher door. She wiped off the counter with the dishrag, around the coffee maker, around the sink, and then inside the sink. She rinsed off her hands and toweled them off, and by the time she was done she had forgotten everything they just talked about.

posted by ZHorton at 10:33 AM