Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

At the airport, the vans drove past a chain-link security fence and across the runway before stopping beside a large aluminum hangar.

Inside, a twin-jet airplane, as glossy and immaculate as a drop of Wite-Out, waited for them. A pair of pilots, handsome and cocksure, with regulation military haircuts and amber Ray-Bans, greeted the group and welcomed them aboard.

•••

PETER HAD NEVER ridden in a chartered plane. Ten plush leather chairs were spaced about the cabin. If the burl-wood veneer had been a few shades darker, the plane’s interior might have recalled the library of a Tudor mansion.

A pretty hostess with shellacked blond hair took drink orders and stowed jackets. She showed Peter how to open the tray table recessed in the arm of his chair.

After closing the hatch, the captain paused in front of the cockpit door to address the men. “I just spoke with Pittsburgh. They’ve got a twenty-thousand-foot ceiling, five miles of visibility, winds light and variable. As soon as your baggage is stowed, we’ll crank this bird up. Flight time will be about thirty-seven minutes. So, kick back and relax. Jessica will do your bidding, within FAA-mandated guidelines. I promise it won’t be a long, strange trip.” Though his eyes remained hidden behind his sunglasses, he managed to convey a wink.

Alistair said, “‘Long, Strange Trip’ is the Dead, man.”

His smile stretching thinner, the captain ducked into the cockpit.

Jessica went through the cabin dealing out a stack of pillows.

The plane shuddered as the engines cranked up. Soon they bumped along a taxiway.

“Prepare for takeoff,” the pilot’s voice announced over the intercom. “It won’t be ‘Long Gone’ before we’re in Pittsburgh.”

Sitting across the aisle from Alistair, Wayne Shiga said, “I prefer a pilot who can’t properly attribute Dead songs.”

“At least he’s not quoting Cat Stevens,” said Bluto.

“You mean because he’s Muslim?” asked Dom.

“It’s a joke,” said Bluto.

“My beef with Cat Stevens,” said Alistair, “is his songs are interminable.”

Wayne said, “Instead of ‘beef,’ shouldn’t we say ‘pork’? Lots of groups have a beef with pork.”

Sutliff said, “You know who has a beef with beef? Al Gore.” When no one responded, he added, “Cows produce millions of tons of methane each year.”

At the front of the cabin, Cross appeared to be sleeping. A throw blanket covered the singer’s legs; the hood of his sweatshirt shrouded his eyes. In the seat next to him, Cyril cleaned his cuticles with a bone-handled penknife.

The plane pivoted at the end of the taxiway. “We’re clear,” the captain announced. The engines roared, and they shot down the runway. Before Peter thought it possible, the aircraft punched into the sky.

Bluto typed away on his laptop. Albert had cracked the spine of a book titled Zombie Dragons . Dom worked on a crossword he’d clamped to a clipboard while Sutliff — Peter had to look twice to be sure — crotcheted the arm of a sweater.

The stewardess handed him something, “For you, sir.”

It was Bluto’s rubber-banded phone. The screen tallied the seconds on an active call.

“Hello?”

“Why was your phone off?” It was Tony Ogata.

“We’re on a plane.” Peter turned in his chair; Alistair stared at him, chewing on another Snickers bar.

“That explains it. Speak up then.”

“Maybe I should call you back.”

“I can hardly hear you.”

Peter could feel his throat tighten. He unlatched his seat belt and stood up. At the back of the plane, the stewardess squared her shoulders to him, assessed his intention, then looked away.

With five quick steps, Peter slipped into the lavatory and closed the door behind him. “I didn’t realize you’d be checking up on me.”

“Who’s checking up on you? I’m calling to offer my assistance.”

The bathroom had a granite-topped sink and a vanity. Did Peter need assistance?

“I expect something from you,” Ogata said. “Do you know what it is?”

Peter had no idea, but the other doctor seemed to be waiting for an answer. He almost said “Updates,” but he thought some more and a better answer came to him: “Transparency.”

And now he heard Ogata’s squeaky laugh, the sort of laugh that announced the laugher’s whole philosophy on how important laughter was and how there was no such thing as a terrible laugh, because. . Ogata said, “I expect greatness.”

Right, Peter thought, Expect greatness . It was one of Ogata’s maxims.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door. Peter said, “I’m afraid I have to go.”

“You don’t need my permission,” Ogata said.

There was another knock.

Peter ended the call. As he opened the bathroom door, something caught his eye.

“There’s a shower in here.”

Alistair looked over Peter’s shoulder. “What about it?”

Could this be what Ogata meant when he said “Expect greatness”? “Nothing.”

“Listen,” Alistair said, his body still blocking the doorway, “when we were first talking, I hope I didn’t come across as brusque.”

Peter said he hadn’t noticed.

Alistair flashed his uncanny eyes. “I don’t like meeting people if I’m in that sort of state. I can feel vulnerable.”

“Of course.”

“Put yourself in my shoes. I was jetlagged. My back was in knots and my father marches this skinny doctor in like his prize pig. You’re not drunk or high. You’re not even hungry, and I’m supposed to let you cure me? No thanks.”

Peter felt disarmed. He said, “It was my fault. I guess I let your father steer me.”

“We have to work together,” said Alistair.

“Sure,” Peter said, though he was not sure how or why he needed to work with Cross’s son.

Alistair didn’t move his body, but he turned his head to check out the rest of the cabin. “What do you think of Maya?”

She was smart and attractive. He could probably fall in love with her. “She seems great.”

“You want me to put a word in for you?”

“I get it,” Peter said. “You’re trying to do to me what I did to you, or something.”

Dom, whose seat was closest to the bathroom, said, “Allie, how about you let the doctor out of the john?”

“Was I talking to you?”

Beneath the bassist’s eyes, deltas of busted capillaries. “Let the guy go back to his seat.”

When Peter moved to exit the bathroom, Alistair stepped aside.

“See, I wasn’t blocking him.” Alistair said, “Dom, how’d that solo album do?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“The next time you’re in your basement, do me a favor and grab one of those CDs for me. I want to be able to say I heard it.”

•••

THE WHINE OF the jets changed and a moment later the angle of the aircraft shifted. The stewardess came around to inform them that the pilot had begun their descent.

“Hey, Albert,” Alistair called across the cabin, “what are a couple of swinging dicks like us supposed to do in Pittsburgh?”

The drummer held a finger up: Wait. He only brought the hand down to turn the page of his book.

“I’ve got a zombie dragon in my pants,” Alistair said.

If St. Louis is the Gateway to the West, then Pittsburgh is the Gateway to the Midwest. It’s the westernmost Eastern City. Old families with old money have left their mark all over town. Once you come off the bluffs, you’re on the ground floor. Heading west, the landscape doesn’t have any tricks to play until Colorado.

I used to know the city, but developers have been tearing down postwar buildings and replacing them with facsimiles of prewar architecture — as a result, everyday Pittsburgh looks more like a fantasy of the past.