Joshua Cohen - Witz

They’re in the air. And the air is also above them…and the air is also above the air, then above that air, less air, and then through that lessening, no air, and the Above is more like an Around: there’s air inside in which they’re enplaned, there’s air inside them in their gasps, groans, moaning, prayers, and then there’s air outside, though that that separates the two airs is anyone’s guess: this separation, whatever it is, whichever’s it is, whether of heaven or earth, is the shell after shelling, the husk or the hulling, a movable mechitza, stay with me…the indigestible tubing of an unctuous salami slung through space & time; they’re the thick mixedmeat stuffed inside the inedible, indelible, tubing; they’re the nuts inside the shell, rattling around, the seeds inside the husk. Hulled. There’s one air on one side and there’s another air on the other, the air inside laden with virus, heavy with flu, stifling, I can’t breathe, I’m choking…the air outside’s pure and open, but they need the air inside, they need it to live. If pressure’s lost, oxygen will fall. Rubberized masks. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be at all. Make sure to fasten yours first, and only then those of the kinder.

They’re in the air inside in the outside air, with air above that and above that air less air, then above that air lessening itself into no air and then above that around, only space; they’re wandering, sort of, kinda, not astray or any other species of lost, they know their ultimate destination, terminus, the end territory, Niemandsland’s ever, the antipode poles…it’s printed on their tickets, what’s not printed’s the route: the route is known and the route is unknown, it’s known to be unknown; there’s an ocean to arch; they’ve risen in the air, then they’ve unleavened, evenedout: they’ve left the light and will leave it again later that day, only to…so long, too long, forever, never; they’re fixed like stars, they’re unfixed like stars falling; they’re migratory snowbirds flown east, the wrong direction, don’t squawk, opposite, gone opposed; they’re schooled fishes, scattering return with a flap of the tail; they’re shooting here, slingshotted there, through wisps of precipitate, high and thin nimbi, flying an arc through the arcless air — out over the ocean, and to the Other Side.

Many of them are flying Class; these people have plenty of food and drink, entertainment, magazines and newspapers the headlines of which inform fate. One interpretation holds that Class is the only way to wander, better to go out in style, what’s your time worth, what’s your money worth, now. In Class, they’re packed two, three to a row aisle depending, reparating their armrests, adjusting their position of recline: though the available positions of recline would seem at least theoretically infinite, mechanically, mundanely, there are only two, which are fully reclined and partially; no one is unreclined, it’s unthinkable. A Mister Sanderson is fully reclined, his shoes off, his socks a shade of night three hours lighter than the aisle upholstery, five hours lighter than the outside at present; they’ll fly through the night, and the morning; next to him, and presently asleep, a Misses Sanderson née D’Agostino (at whose insistence both she and her husband had been upgraded following the presentation of the deed to their home) is only partially reclined, minding the goy sitting behind her: that goy, a Mister Sells, with nearly adequate legroom, is not as thoughtful with regard to the passenger just behind him: he’s reclined fully, and the woman one row back is arthritic, and overweight. Deep Vein Thrombosis. Pulmonary embolism. Lost luggage, don’t forget what’s stowed underseat. O the overheads. Remind me, or don’t. This to be worried about, too. That woman behind him, a Misses Sims, is able to recline without guilt: no one’s behind her at present; that seat’s occupant, a Mister Smart, has been on the toilet for hours. This Mister Sells, obese, morbidly, bound in buckle, is unable to sit still, he shifts in his seat, which movement wrests Miss Sims’ tray loose, Miss Sims slams her tray up, fastens it, hoping only that the adamancy of her slam, and her murmurs of annoyance, might keep him still, whoever he is, stop his shift, whoever he thinks he is, and it doesn’t, nothing does, ever will; they’re all nervous if stupid and neurotic if smart, despondent and full of demands, and this despite the ministrations of any attendant, the stewards and stewardesses in their uniforms freshly ironed if not, also, stiffly starched, stalking the aisles with hot moist towelettes draped over their arms strong and outstretched, as if involved in their own personal Ascensions, with complimentary blankets, and pillows and, though only upon request, slippers and eyemasks; limbs and heads ache, they’re shouting to hear one another over the air, the airs, the air of the air; they’re all praying, though only some of them know that they are, while others opt for the prayer that is distraction, diversion, talk talk talk; the aeroplane entire’s one inestimable noise of many noises, and air.

A goy graced with ideological facial stubble rises, walks to the front of Class, then screams he’s planning to blow up the plane.

No one’s listening.

No, he insists, you don’t understand, none of you, shema, listen up: I’m strapped with explosives, I’ll blow us all right out of the sky…and still, no one hears, and so he stomps his foot, pulls down the microphone to the PA, feedback — the stewardess takes it from him with a stern reproach, return to seat; he yells even louder, shrieks through an accent who can hope to identify.

I have enough explosives wired on my person to blow up ten aeroplanes, one hundred, I don’t know.

And I won’t hesitate, not for a moment, don’t think I will, and still the talking goes on, a Babel of chatty.

I’m serious, he’s promising he’s serious now…I’m warning you, he warns, I pull this, motioning to a small pin protruding with a wink from his vest, and, honest to God, we’re in serious trouble.

And then one woman, sitting directly in front of his stand in the aisle, there at its head, this passenger whose attention’s flitted in and out of this outburst, insane and as such, ignorable, ignores, too, her husband’s response to one of her questions— Are we there yet? and motions instead to this enraged terrorist, who leans into an audience with her he thinks and, grabbing at his vest, she asks him another: Aren’t you hot in that? like why don’t you take that thing off? and then, without waiting for an answer, drops her hands, returns to her husband, to resume an even earlier discussion pertaining to what.

Okay, he says, one more time…I’m only going to say this one more time, listen up: I’m prepared to blow this aeroplane right out of the sky — if you don’t listen to me, I’ll end it right now, honest, and then when the light flashes on, seatbelts, turbulence, ding, ding, the goy quickly returns to his seat, fuming, and mortified.

Amid the rare silence, a Mister Smith asks loudly for a refill (water, coffee, tea, or disappointment), shakes his mug, plastic, into the aisle, taps it throttle him annoyingly against his tray, which’s in its appropriate upright position.

Here in Class, there are sons of Sanders and Sandermans and Sandermens and Sandersens and Sanfords and Sandfords, too, in this row alone. Up front are all the Arnolds, with the Zimmers down toward the rear. In Rows 1–2, the Abernathy family, with the Bertrams, and the Christians, the Christiansens, the Christiansons, in Row 3 the Donalds, and Elmores, in Rows 4–8 the Hards, and the Hesses; there are whole sections of O’Malleys, O’Nallys, O’Nellys, Spinellis, Tartellis, and Worths. Amid the Sandersons here in Class, there’s a whole family of them, myriad generations like stars or their light: greatgrandfather and mother, grandfather and mother, father and mother, and lastly Mister & Misses Sanderson, who were wed only last night: the sky, like the glass should’ve been but wasn’t, is freshly shattered; this trip’s their honeymoon, though enforced, if required, Misses Sanderson’s first appreciable time spent at the pleasure of her new relatives, the Sanderson-inlaws, and so far she hasn’t spilled anything, so good; let’s hope, we hope, this luck holds.