Sinclair Chartreuse: Part I

I

“Now we’ll all go to the airport together, okay?” My mother’s gaze momentarily met mine before returning to the floral dress she’d been folding. Her inquiry required no response; it was a tyrannical imperative in a democratic guise. She turned and placed the garment in a monstrous suitcase that would approach half her body weight as more of her closet found its way inside. “I’m getting you up at 5:30, your father and I leave at 8:15.”

“Mom, this is ridiculous. I’m 20 years old and cognitively functional. Watching the house is no problem.”

“Well you know how your father feels about that,” she offered. “If it were a few days I’m sure he’d be fine with it, but a month is an awfully long time.” Around Thanksgiving Dad had hit the wall. He had that unfortunate but inevitable realization that time is unidirectional. And while reaching middle-management was probably a life objective of his, it was far from the only one. Ever the opportunist, Dad presented Mom with a velvet box on Christmas morning containing two around-the-world plane tickets and a handwritten note addressed to her boss “excusing” her from work for the month of June. Perhaps the only person more excited than my mother was me, who had thought ahead to the implications. Classes ended in May, and I’d be home. They wouldn’t be. I couldn’t help but smile as I reached for my box. Much to my chagrin, it too contained a ticket. This one was to Brussels, and conveniently bore the same departure date as my parents’. My father beamed thinking he’d shocked the smile right off my face, but in reality Brussels, at this point, had contributed just two things to my existence: god-awful vegetables, and a supreme sense of disappointment. What the hell was in Brussels anyways?

“I don’t even know Uncle Chartreuse. Is he ok with this?” I paused. “Does he even know I’m coming?” My mother looked up from her packing.

“Honey, I talked to him about it last week.” Her tone was matter-of-fact and laced with a slight tinge of condescension. “He’s a very…nice man, and when you see his chateau I’m sure you won’t mind spending some time there.”

“All I know is that before you called him in to babysit, you and dad hadn’t spoken to him for like 15 years. He’s your brother, there’s got to be a reason for that.” My mother was becoming increasingly agitated.

“He’s my half-brother, dear, from Grammy’s first husband. And I don’t know. He just, he has a way about him. You’ll see. Now here, go give this to your father. He forgot it.” Her outstretched hand contained a worn yellow toothbrush, and dispatching me on such a trivial errand meant she was finished with our conversation. My parents had done nothing for me in scheduling this trip though, and I’d do nothing for them to assist in its execution. Failing to take the toothbrush, I turned and left.

That night I had a dream about Uncle Chartreuse. He sat at the head of a mahogany table and, though I never looked behind me, I knew it extended in perpetuity. There was no décor, just incessant and infinitely deep blackness threatening his space. He was a portly gentleman, perhaps in his mid-50s, dressed in a brown sweater with a slightly mismatched plaid jacket. His face was sweaty, swollen, and highly compact, bearing more resemblance to pig than man. His comb-over hairstyle failed miserably to conceal his balding head. On the table in front of him were a heaping serving of Brussels sprouts, a tankard of ale, and a large roasted turkey still marinating in its service tray. Suddenly, he slammed his fists onto the table, lunged for a turkey leg, and tore it from the rest of the creature with primal ferocity. Rending flesh from bone, he ate in an undignified, disgusting manner. Juice dribbled down his chin onto the napkin stuffed into his collar. The turkey haunch vacated his mouth intermittently in favor of the ale tankard. He was consumed with consumption. For some reason, I was compelled to speak. “Uhh, Uncle Chartreuse…Hi, I’m Chris Davis, your nephew.” He lowered the turkey leg to table height, resting his wrist on its edge, and leaned forward slightly. Squinting his eyes, he opened his mouth slightly to reveal a wad of turkey cud.

“Eh?”

“I’m…I’m Chris, your nephew…from Chicago. Did my father tell you I was coming?” He glared at me, looking thoroughly confused. After a brief pause, he leaned back, released a thunderous belch, and returned to his meal.

I awoke thoroughly unsettled and went through the motions of my morning routine on autopilot. All available cognitive processing ability contemplated the intricacies of my dream. The taxi ride to the airport, however, provided a brief distraction. In observing social dynamics, it’s often obvious what both parties wish to accomplish. But why make things easy?

“Where you go?” The cab driver spoke with a heavy middle-eastern accent and adjusted himself, sinking deeper into his heavily-worn chair. A youthful man of dark complexion, his smile was as unshakeable as his enthusiasm. His ID badge hung with a cluster of other ornaments from the rear-view mirror. It read “Hi, my name is MAHMOUD,” in large block letters.

“O’Hare, international departures terminal please,” my father replied. He turned to my mother, “Hon, did you grab the passports off the kitchen counter?”

“You make nice trip?” Mahmoud’s English was less than perfect.

“Yeah, it’s going to be great,” replied Dad tersely. “Hon, the passports…”

“I’m not su—“

“Where you go?”

“Just some countries! Well, you better check the bag—“

“Which countries you go?”

Enter me. “Yeah, Dad, where all are you going again? England, Spain, Russia, Jordan…” He jerked around from the front seat and whipped his finger toward me, but the damage was done.

“Ahhhh, my friends, you see Jordan!” Mahmoud rested his hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Jordan my country!”

“Fantastic, I’m truly happy for you sir. Hon, any luck with—“

“You see Petra! Amman? How long you stay?”

“Oh, they’ve got a great itinerary, right dad? How long are you staying again? Was it three days or four? Mahmoud, what’s Jordan like?”

“Yes! Yes! I play for you music, great music!” He slid a cassette into the dash and cranked a knob on the player. A cacophonous arrangement of sitars, horns, and wailing voices blared from the speakers. Mahmoud bobbed his head in time and sang along as the cab barreled down the freeway. I slipped on my noise-canceling headphones; Dad touched his palms to his face and shook his head.

When we reached the airport, Mahmoud leapt out of the car and raced around it to open my mother’s door. After helping Dad with the luggage, he bowed deeply and accepted a $5 tip. “Tell Jordan I say ‘hi.’” He waved in a horribly exaggerated motion and sped off.

Inside the terminal, my father scanned the departures board for the 8:15 to Heathrow. My flight wasn’t until 4:30 p.m., but apparently 8 hours of my time weren’t worth the $30 a separate taxi would have required. “It’s H13, Linda. Oh good Lord, look at the line for security…here, we better get moving.” In an utterly dehumanizing process, we entered a labyrinthine assortment of switchbacks and turnstiles and, like cattle to the slaughterhouse, awaited our turn at the front of the line. As we inched ever closer, I observed the security personnel to amuse myself. A battalion of wrinkled uniforms and empty eyes, the entire operation churned along at a pace slightly slower than leisurely. As we were clearing the checkpoint, I brought up my observation.

“Do you think it’s in everyone’s best interest to have a team of highly unmotivated, uneducated, hourly government workers ensuring the safety of our aviation industry?”

My parents had very different reactions. My father scrunched his face in a “did he really just say that?” expression. Mom seemed more dismissive. “Honey, that’s not nice to say, I’m sure they’re very competent individuals.” My mother slipped her flats back on and began routing her belt through its series of loops. An attendant lackadaisically pushed my tray of belongings toward me as it exited the x-ray machine. Examining its contents, I noticed my old Swiss army knife amongst the change, pens, and pocket lint.

“I wish I shared your optimism,” I muttered. Nobody heard.

My parents walked briskly through the network of concourses to find boarding to Heathrow already in progress. My mother turned to me. “Chris, you be safe now. Email us as soon as you get there to let us know you’re ok. Your uncle should be waiting for you at the airport but you have his phone number just in case, right?”

“Mom, yes, I have it.”

“And don’t take any wooden nickels!” My father smiled. I hated that expression.

“Just so we’re clear, you both know that as much as I’m looking forward to spending a month in a foreign country with a man I’ve never met, I’m willing to just take one for the team and stay home, right? And you both know it’s not too late to cancel my ticket and get me a cab out of here…” My father sighed.

“Son, how much money do you have on you?” Excellent, perhaps I’d at least raised enough hell to receive a “shut up” bribe. I pulled out my wallet and sifted through its contents.

“I’ve got three bucks.”

“Good,” my father said. “Not enough to get home.” That set-spike combination had won him the match. “Oh, one more thing,” he started. “Tell Brussels I say ‘hi!’” My mother giggled.

“Ohhhh God…” was all I could muster. My parents started toward the jet-way.

“Bye honey, I love you. Be safe!” She opened her arms.

“Try to have some fun, kid.” He stuck out his hand. I stood and watched momentarily as they showed their passports to the gate attendant and continued on. As they entered the jet-way side-by-side, my dad furtively reached behind him and grabbed my mother’s butt. She recoiled and slapped him on the shoulder. He pretended like he hadn’t done anything.

“Parental guidance suggested,” I muttered.

My gate was a mere 5 minute walk from theirs, and after reaching it I had 7 hours and 55 minutes to kill before my flight departed. My mind wandered. I wished I could edit my life like they do in reality TV shows. Some mood-appropriate track would accompany a video montage. I’d be leaning against the glass admiring the tarmac pensively in one frame, sprawled uncomfortably across 3 chairs in another, skeptically opening the brown-bag lunch my mother packed in the next. Even better, the flight itself could be reduced to two brief shots: one of my plane leaving the runway and another of it touching down. The next 18 hours could be easily and effectively condensed into 20 seconds. I looked at my watch-- 1 minute down, 474 to go.

I hate waiting. Life offers a finite amount of time, and catering to another person’s schedule seems like a terrible way to spend it. I leafed through the issue of Car & Driver I’d brought, tried to digest some of Guns, Germs, and Steel (I’ll be honest, I read some books just to be seen reading them…that’s one of them), and ran the battery dead on my laptop playing Spider Solitaire. Finally, Delta flight 417, nonstop service from Chicago O’Hare to Brussels National, began boarding. I’d never been on a wide-bodied jet before, and seeing the middle row of seats five across was a little startling. Flight attendants in perfectly pressed uniforms beamed smiles from their posts along the cabin, individually acknowledging passengers as they continued down the aisle to their seats. I wondered if there was any true joy behind their corporate-mandated pearly grins. I decided to find out.

“Sizeable plane,” I said. “It’s surprising this thing can get off the ground.”

“Oh this is just a 777,” responded the attendant. “It only seats 305. As a younger man, I worked on a 747 that held 430. Now that was a ‘sizeable plane.’ And don’t worry, she’s got plenty of get up and go.” The sentence was surprisingly sincere and indicated a sense of interest. Maybe work in the airline industry is less soul-crushing than I’d anticipated.

My seat was on the aisle in the middle section. I stowed my backpack and collapsed into the seat, delighted that my below average height afforded above average leg room. The other occupants of my row trickled in one by one, each apologizing as I stood up and stepped into the aisle to allow them entrance. The headphones went on, the iPod came out, and the world slipped away—briefly. I felt a tap on my arm.

“Sir…Sir. Please turn off your electronic device in preparation for take-off.” A middle-aged female flight attendant was leaning down and looking at me, a saccharine smile all too close to my face. In contrast to her colleague, her tone was apathetic and distant. It sought compliance, social intercourse be damned.

“Oh, sure, yeah. It’s off.” She continued up the aisle before I’d finished. I removed my headphones and tossed them in my lap. Desperate for stimulation, I pulled the Sky Mall magazine from my seat pocket and perused the overpriced, overhyped merchandise it offered. “The Big Foot Garden Yeti Sculpture” and “The Alien Gnome Bandits” were 2 of my first discoveries. Why is every item in the magazine listed in the definitive? I half expected to see “The Straw” and “The Toilet Paper” featured next. I understand that the definitive implies uniqueness, and uniqueness is good, but if someone offered you a chunk of feces and it were the only one in the world, would you take it? I still wouldn’t. Admittedly, though, The Alien Gnome Bandits was an endearing item. It was a sculpture of two small metallic creatures with circular bodies, large teeth, and long legs. In stride, they had a red garden gnome held above their heads and were working together to cart it away. I’m sure all the inventions and items featured in the magazine are consignments from the original patent holders, and I really wanted to meet the inventor of the gnome bandits. Anyone willing to hedge their financial future on the success of a humorous but purposeless decoration has to have a pretty unique life perspective.

The click of the PA-system interrupted my reverie. “Uhhh, good evening ladies and gentlemen, this is uhhhh your captain. On behalf of myself, Delta airlines, and the crew, we welcome you aboard this Boeing 777 with nonstop service to Brussels, flight time 10 hours and uhhh 14 minutes. Uhhh, conditions are looking pretty good at the moment, clear skies and calm winds. We’ll be pushing back momentarily, and we’re uhhhh currently number 6 in line. Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff.” Another click signaled the end of his transmission.

My headphones reassumed their rightful position atop my head, and I whipped out my iPod once more. Yes, I know all electronic devices are prohibited until the plane clears 10,000 feet, but with the flight attendants in their jump seats, nobody would be policing my decision to endanger the lives of the other 304 passengers on board. Seeking a musical diversion, I ran my finger round and round the click-wheel until the selection bar highlighted Sigur Ros and pressed play. I’m an unrepentant indie music snob, and they’re firmly within the genre (half of their vocals, for example, are in Icelandic and the other half unintelligible). Their immediately recognizable sound is attributable to lead vocalist Jonsi Birgisson’s swooping falsetto which, admittedly, sounds ridiculous on first listen. But you don’t listen to the music, you get lost in its emotions. You become a pilgrim traversing an otherworldly sonic landscape of their design. Of course, most of my friends don’t share my affinity and give me hell for listening to them: “Hey Chrissy, maybe you could date the lead singer” (I’m not gay, but Jonsi is), “I hope you enjoy whale music, you’ll be dating a few,” etc. In return, I give them hell for fist pumping to the Jonas Brothers. It’s a palatable equilibrium.

The same female flight attendant strolled down our aisle with a pen and piece of paper, presumably taking dinner orders. Upon further inspection, her makeup was doing a fantastic job of concealing the worn nature of her features. Her eyes appeared empty. A trademark sign of age, the triple-line formation of crow’s feet extended from her orbital sockets. The effect was muted, however, by the volume of foundation that filled the cracks. Nevertheless, her crumbling façade of personability was unbearable, and I felt she deserved some sort of recourse for so poorly hiding her displeasure with the world. Walking backwards down the aisle, she came to me.

“For you? Chicken or Beef?”

“Whichever more closely resembles what you’re billing it as,” I replied sarcastically. She looked like I had punched her in the face. Her lips curled downward, a mixture of a frown and sheer befuddlement. She ticked off one of the columns and, without further acknowledging me, continued down the aisle. Fifteen minutes later, the food trolley rumbled up to the front of the economy section as custom fitted trays (just small enough to fit on the tray tables, mind you) were issued to passengers. It was rations, nothing more. I waited patiently and sat expressionless as my food arrived with an unceremonious thud.

“Yum, kibble!” The stewardess shook her head and continued on. I ate quickly, the food surprisingly good. It was my first experience with an actual airline meal. The domestic legs I’d logged previously offered only pretzels and a coke, but this was my first intercontinental excursion. As I was finishing off my square of Tiramisu, the cabin lights were dimmed and the seasoned travelers began to crack open their packages of blankets and blindfolds. I did the same and, making a new playlist selection and reclining my seat the maximum 15 degrees, drifted off to sleep.

I felt the tapping again. This time it was on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to discover the stewardess leaning over me. Though I had my headphones on, I perfectly understood what she was saying: “Sir, please stow your electronics device in preparation for landing.” She pointed to my iPod. I had had about enough of this woman. I tapped one ear of my headphones and shook my head in the classic “sorry, I can’t hear you” sequence of gesticulations. “SIR, your iPod, please switch it off.” I repeated the gesture. She pressed her lips together. In a sudden motion, she grabbed the headphones by their connecting bar, jerked them off my head, and thrust them into my lap. “Turn it off!” she repeated and stormed back down the aisle. I’d file a report against her. I’d personally see to it that that wretched wench was expunged from Delta’s payroll. It would be doing her a favor really, she could pursue a position she’d find more enjoyable. As I considered the myriad ways she’d grow to regret crossing me, there was a jostling bump as rubber met road. We slowed to a halt and taxied to the gate without incident. As usual, the “fasten seat belt” sign disappeared with a “bing” as the aircraft came to a complete stop, and 300 weary, cramped passengers stood to collect their belongings from the overhead compartments. The line to disembark slowly inched forward, and as I passed the lavatories, I recognized a voice coming from within.

“I’m sorry to call you again Diane, but we just landed and I wanted to check in. Has there been any sign of him? No, I know, it’s just…he’s 17 years old. God knows what could have happened to him. I mean we have squabbles all the time, I’m his mother, but he’s never just left before. Have you called the Bakers, did he try to come over there? I’m sure they are doing everything they can, but I just filed the report yesterday and it can’t hurt to have an extra person looking. Yeah but you just can’t understand, Diane, you just can’t imagine…” A whimper gave way to muffled sobs. I continued toward the front of the plane and addressed the steward I saw on my way in.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Your colleague, the woman, what’s her name.” The man looked behind him toward the lavatory.

“That’s Jane Morris. I’m sorry if Ms. Morris was a bit out of sorts today, but I hope you enjoyed the flight nonetheless. Have a nice day, sir.” He nodded his head slightly.

“You too,” I responded. I’d report that woman to Delta. I’d tell them how she bore a smile despite life’s unforeseeable externalities and had a knack for dealing with difficult passengers in a civilized manner. I’d tell them I’d be privileged to receive her service again in the future. It was my somewhat unusual equivalent of an apology, but I certainly owed her that. The baggage claim belt swirled around like the nebulous thoughts in my head as I looked through it, not at it. It was foolish to make overarching assumptions about a person’s demeanor based off of a few isolated indicators. Personalities are too multidimensional and stratified to be immediately categorized, and I should have known that. I saw my black, hard-plastic suitcase snaking around the conveyor belt but made no effort to retrieve it. Mathematicians always account for variables and outliers in their equations. Scientists always have a control in their experiments. I should be no different. I sighed and walked over to my piece of baggage, taking care to bend at the knees when lifting it. The weight limit was 50 pounds, and I certainly took advantage of every bit of that (maybe even a little more, but the baggage clerk kindly looked the other way). Assuming I had nothing to declare, I bypassed customs and exited the large double-doors into the airport’s unsecured area. I scanned the crowd. My uncle was here somewhere, and though I had no idea what to expect, I had to find him.