Bill Clegg - Portrait of an Addict as a Young Man

My seat is on the aisle, in the second row to the right. Never has anything looked so welcoming. I sit down and begin to feel the high panic of the last two and a half hours slowly fade. I exhale and look out the window to the tarmac and ground crew loading luggage. This is the first time I realize that the bag I checked the day before was on a flight I never boarded. Worrying about a lost bag now seems like a lucky luxury and I decide not to think about it until I get to Berlin.

I stow my tote bag under the seat, sit back up, and close my eyes for a few minutes. Finally, I think, safe. And then, when I turn around to find a stewardess, the wind knocks out of me. I see them. The Penneys. One, two, three, four, at least five of them are sitting all throughout the cabin. At just this moment, one of the stewardesses leans down toward one and speaks softly. About me, no doubt. About the arrest about to take place in Amsterdam or Berlin. Or right here. Right now. The entire cabin suddenly seems to me like a set, like some elaborate stage prop created to replicate the first-class cabin of an airplane. The napkins seem to be flimsy fakes, the stewardesses actresses, and the Penneys androids — half human, half robot, emotionless and menacing.

One of the stewardesses is suddenly at my side. She asks, in a tone that sounds mocking and insincere, if I’d like a drink. I’m frightened by the Penneys, but I’m agitated by her. Angry, even. I ask her if the plane is, in fact, actually going to be landing in Amsterdam. She looks confused, but not as confused as I think she should look, so I ask, Don’t you think this is an awfully complicated piece of theater for just one person? She looks at me for a few seconds, excuses herself, and walks away. Moments later she returns with the captain, who politely asks me to gather my belongings and follow him off the plane. I can barely move. And even though I know this is the long-awaited arrest that’s been coming since I got in the car at the hotel, I am relieved when the captain puts his hand on my shoulder and says, Let’s go . Like a scolded kid, and with everyone in the cabin watching, I grab my bag and follow him off the plane.

But there is no arrest. Instead, the captain explains to me that after 9/11 they need to be cautious and that what I said to the stewardess alarmed her enough that they don’t feel comfortable having me on the flight. I notice his jacket, its hokey military mimicry — epaulets, stripes. Like everything on the plane, his uniform — shabby compared to the memory of my father’s — looks like a flimsy, slapped-together costume. He asks if I have been drinking, to which I answer yes, that I get nervous before flying and drank some to calm my nerves. How I form these thoughts and words, I have no idea. I apologize for alarming the stewardess and just as I am about to make my way back toward security, a man in a white shirt with a binder filled with papers arrives. He says he is the head of operations for Continental at Newark and instantly apologizes to me for the confusion. He asks the captain to reconsider and it’s immediately clear that, for some reason, this guy really wants me on the flight. The captain respectfully declines and begins to get visibly annoyed when the operations guy presses him further. I stay very quiet as this plays out. The operations guy finally gives up and the captain wishes me luck and heads back to the cockpit. I watch him disappear into the jetway and have to suppress the sudden urge to call out to him. I have no idea what I’d say if I did, but I know that when he’s gone, I want him to come back.

The operations guy asks to see my passport and continues to be apologetic. I tell him it’s fine, that I’ll just go home and fly out tomorrow. He tells me not to worry, that he’ll have me on another plane tonight. He steps away, makes a few phone calls on his cell, just out of earshot, and comes back to say that he’s booked me, first class, on an Air France flight that goes to Berlin through Paris. It’s all taken care of, and the flight departs in forty-five minutes from a nearby gate. Another person with binders arrives. The little group escorts me to an Air France counter, where a ticket is produced, and then to the gate. I am there for less than ten minutes when the flight begins to board. At this point things have moved so swiftly that I’ve barely been able to keep pace. I do, though, have a strong sense that someone — not just the operations guy from Continental — wants me on a flight tonight.

And then I see them. Three Penneys standing near the gate. Glancing my way, holding tickets, huddled together like the Three Stooges of badly dressed espionage. At first, I’m angry. And then the last words of the young Penney from before roar through my head.

Just wait.

The people continue to board the plane over the next fifteen minutes until the waiting area around the gate is nearly empty. A few last-minute stragglers wander over, and several people rush to the ticket agent with their boarding passes, relieved not to have missed the flight. Finally, there are just the three Penneys and me. The ticket agent speaks to them. They remain near the desk but don’t board. One of the ticket agents comes up to me and asks if I have a ticket for this flight and tells me that it’s the last call for boarding. I tell her I get panic attacks and am not sure I’ll be flying tonight. I ask if everyone is on board and she gestures to the Penneys and says there are a few left to get on but the flight is nearly fully boarded. I tell her I need a minute. Again, as before, I feel as if I am at some terribly important juncture. If I go, I might get arrested in Paris or Berlin. If I stay, I might get arrested here. If I go and don’t get arrested, all might be fine after a few rough days with Noah. If I stay here and somehow don’t get arrested, I will keep using. This I know.

So I stand up, turn away from the gate, and expect to get arrested. I look back once and see two of the Penneys walk over to see if I’m walking back toward security. I don’t turn back again and start heading out toward baggage claim. I know that I won’t make it to the taxi stand. I’m about to be swarmed with Penneys, police, airport security, and God knows who else. The last lines from a novel I worked with years ago somehow surface through the panic. It would be now, they read. It would be now .

I fish for my cell phone and see that it’s on its last bar, which is blinking red. I call David. It’s after eleven and his wife, Susie, picks up. I apologize and tell her it’s important and ask if David is there. They are clearly in bed. He picks up, asks what’s going on. I tell him I’m about to get arrested for drugs at Newark Airport and that I need him to find a good lawyer. I’m probably shouting when I tell him he has to move fast because he shushes me and tells me to calm down. He asks where I am in the airport and I tell him I’m about to pass out of the departure gate into the baggage claim area. He says to just stay on the line and get in a taxi and come home. I tell him I’m not going to make it to the taxi and then the line goes silent. The battery dies. I keep walking. No one is stopping me. I cross the departure terminal and into baggage claim. Suddenly the Penneys have all disappeared. I’m convinced they’ve raced out of the terminal through the upper level and are waiting at the taxi stand. I walk out of the baggage claim area, through the automatic doors, and cross the street. A taxi comes up. I get in. The driver asks, Where to? I say, One Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, but because I expect we’ll be pulled over before we leave the airport, I warn him it’s going to be a short ride. He grumbles and pulls away from the curb. I look at his ID and the photo is unobstructed and shows the same gray-haired, bearded Indian man driving the cab.