2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) Read Free Page B

plane could not be trusted unless
carbonated. Airplane coffee was mealy and the orange juice often
had a metallic taste or worse, had to be consumed from a miniscule
plastic tub.
    After nodding, smiling, and tipping the
burly shoeshiner in a grand act of escape, Mr. Dupree strode across
the wide corridor breaking through streams of early-morning
travelers without much notice to family integrity, shopping bags
bearing the visages of cartoon characters, or the momentum of
gaggles of flight attendants with their wheeled carry-ons. All the
various looks of disgust were lost on Hollace Dupree who moved
through life from one destination to another head down and
inattentive to others. Coffee. Small. Black. Thank you.
    Once seated on the plane after a suitable
wait at the gate and the usual boarding of the vessel by rows
starting from the rear, Hollace Dupree watched the airport staff
from his window without interest. He kept an eye on the conveyor
belt half hoping to catch sight of his own bags being loaded onto
the plane. He was uneasy and thought that if his bags were on the
plane then he was certainly going to the right place.
    As interesting as the search for his luggage
was, it was the men who were working under the plane that
eventually held his attention. The gloves and the uniforms and the
grease were all such glorious accessories to the fuel lines,
baggage carts, meal trucks, and so on which were teeming around the
huge jet. A man holding fluorescent flashlights stood back from the
crowd adjusting his knee pads. His brown curls set themselves free
of a cap and then disappeared again, sweating. As the jet engines
began to roar several of the workers, pulling off gloves and
turning their faces toward the cold morning sun, laughed together
over something easily understood while wearing ear protection.
    Upon witnessing their laughter Hollace felt
himself the intruder. He looked away quickly not having meant any
harm. He concentrated instead on the crease in his pants, pinching
it together at various points and assuring its crisp
respectability. Then he turned to the safety card for a minute and
focused thoughts about a water landing. It seemed an impossibility
that his seat could in any way become a flotation device. Some
child had left a drawing in the seat pocket. It was a bawdy array
of ogres and what might have passed for either a princess or a
rather sick-making pile of fruit. Hollace reviewed the sheet from
several perspectives and replaced it gingerly behind the onboard
catalog. He ran his finger across the bendable wire that would
close the bag which Mr. Dupree had always thought suited popcorn
more than human emesis. His eyes avoided the window. But he decided
that once the plane was on the runway it would be okay to watch
during takeoff. For now he just waited.
    It was a business flight in 1999. Virtually
every passenger had some combination of the following items: power
suit, laptop computer, Wall Street Journal, important-looking data
sheets, stapled piles of something or other to review, and coffee.
Hollace Dupree was not an exception. Hollace Dupree was never an
exception. He wore a gray suit and a white shirt. His tie was
interesting but conservative and most likely was purchased in a
department store. He had not traveled beyond what his business
required, and this morning he was returning home from somewhere
else. He did not have gifts to take home for anyone and would not
consider finding anyone for whom to take gifts home. Hollace
unknowingly defined himself through his career. He attended charity
functions with clients, played golf and tennis with clients, went
to an Episcopal church to meet new clients, and sent sympathy cards
when his clients passed away. He was an accountant.
    Without another thing to look at in order to
pass the time, Hollace wondered whether it were worth soliciting
some amenity from the airline woman who was near enough to be
asked. But as he tried to decide between creamer which he