Character Sketches

Author's Note: These are a series of character sketches written in Julie Nichols' "Writing of Fiction" class when I was an undergraduate. I've always meant to write something with them, but for whatever reason it always flames out when I try. Maybe I'll give it another try.

Fred is the picture of calm as the cabin tears itself to shreds around him. He tries to look out the gaping hole in the side of the plane, but there’s just too many people running around in panic, or in some cases flying. It annoys him for a few seconds, but then he shrugs and turns to face forward. Story of his life. Any time something interesting might happen there are always too many idiots running around in a panic to see it.

He buckles his seat belt because the flashing sign above him says so. It might be more interesting to get pulled out of the plane by the rushing air, but hey, you wouldn’t want to go against a flashing sign. People might start to call you crazy. He does take off his tie and fling it into the air, watching it float out into the night. At least he didn’t have to wear that damn thing anymore. He tries to picture his funeral, but he’s too distracted by the woman sitting next to him screaming for Jesus to save her. Oh well, it’s not like anyone would be there anyways. You have to have friends, or at least some relatives to expect anyone at your funeral. He’s not too upset about that, though. After all, it’s not like he’ll be there to be offended by the turnout. “Screw it,” he says out loud and leans back into the cushion to enjoy the show. This is the first interesting thing that’s happened all day, and he’s not about to miss it.

Bill’s sitting on the toilet when he hears the engine explode. The cabin rocks and pitches him to the floor, and the first thing he thinks is how unfair this is. He has way too much to do to be in a plane crash right now. The Boeing account is only days away from being landed. He’d single-handedly have brought in more revenue in one deal than the companies gross output over the last quarter! He has a wife, kids, and a career. These types of things don’t happen to people like him! God damn it, it isn’t fair!

He reaches for his belt loops, and tugs his pants back up to his waist. He’ll be damned if some search and rescue guy was going to find his charred corpse with his damn pants around his ankles. Once they’re secure, he fights off the wild pitching of the plane to try and get to his feet. He tries to pull the door open, but the roar of rushing wind, the screaming passengers, and the slosh of the chemical toilet liquid over his shirt and pants makes it so he can’t even pull the knob over to release the door. It’s a pointless task, and it won’t save him, but it’s suddenly more important to him than anything else. He thinks that maybe, if he can get this frigging door open, he’ll find a way out of this mess and he’ll be able to get back to the perfect life he’s made for himself. He screams with fury as he pulls the locking mechanism, only to have it tear free into his hands. He falls back onto the toilet seat, his pants coming undone and falling back around his ankles, and he can do nothing but hold his head and cry as everything falls apart.

He’s smoking in the middle of a crowded airport terminal. Not only is this illegal, it’s sure to offend at least one person who’s allergic to cigarette smoke. He should have been stopped a long time ago, but no one’s said a word to him. Maybe it’s his steel grey eyes that seem to dismiss anyone who looks at them. Maybe it’s the way he stands in the middle of the lobby, a rigid, unmoving statue outside the rhythmic movements of his gnarled fingers lifting the butt to his wrinkled lips. Maybe it’s the way he pulls each drag off slowly, deliberately, and holds it for a few seconds before blowing it out of his nostrils, as if daring anyone to try and stop him. In any case, no one says a word as he continues to puff away in the middle of the crowded terminal.

He’s been here for an hour now. He walked in, wearing the type of heavy felt overcoat that’s to be expected in the icy weather outside, but would easily make the hot, crowded room into a sauna. He doesn’t seem to notice. He just looks out the window, and occasionally checks his watch and mutters, “They should be arriving any minute now.”

Flying Towards Yesterday

Flying Towards Yesterday


It is five AM in Oxford, England, my last morning here. Bittersweet goodbyes have been exchanged with the new friends I've made, and my things are packed. I'm coming down from the buzz of an all-night bender, staring down the barrel of a nine hour flight back to Chicago with no sleep and no desire to partake in it. The town of Oxfordshire is quiet at night, one of its many charming qualities. The peace tonight, however, leaves me with too much time on my hands to think. I wish with all my willpower to keep the dawn away. This place, and the time I've spent here, have been the only bright spots in my life since the divorce. I'm moving on in a matter of hours, but the grass on the other side of this fence is decidedly brown.

It feels like I've been here for a year. There is no way my perceptions could have changed so much in only five days. It doesn't seem possible. The man who landed here Tuesday at noon might not even recognize the person holding the pen right now. I've spent a week drinking in pubs, making friends with people from all around the world, and shedding the shell of shyness and introversion that have been a constant mantle and companion my entire life. Somewhere between having the locals teach me the rules to cricket (which they did with a groan, since I was the ninth American to bother them with the question that day) and this final evening drinking and laughing under the stars in the center of St. Catherine's college, something about me had changed. I knew this much. I was free now. My soul felt lighter, more full of joy than I had ever known. It had been, quite literally, a life changing event for me.

But reality is about to intrude, and I'm dreading it. Waiting for me at home is a couch for a bed, no home, and the bitter weight around my neck of dealing with my soon to be ex-wife. I find myself hating her more and more each day. I don't entirely understand where the anger comes from, to be perfectly honest. I've accepted the reality that we are better off without each other. Our anniversary came and went while I was here, and I barely marked the passage of the day. It occurred to me somewhere around the second or third day of our journey, as we were drinking pints in the King's Arms pub and writing suggested questions for one of our friends in our abstract books (Question 1: What the hell is she talking about?) I realized that if I had brought "The Plaintiff" with me, as I had originally intended, none of this would have been possible. We would have spent the time together, sitting around in our rooms or wandering through endless shopping centers, wasting the opportunity in mindless consumerism. Or worse, we'd have fallen to bickering as we always seemed to do. Her way of making herself feel equal to me was by tearing me down, typically in front of people I respected. There would have been no taking off for a run in the mornings with my camera, shooting pictures of the interesting nooks and crannies of the town I had come to adore. There would have been only her, and her constant needs for attention, and my bitterness at never being able to supply enough of it.

No, life was better now, I was sure of it. A moment ago I stood at my window, looking out at another of the beautiful sunrises they have in this country, and I thought, "I am alone." But this time something was different. There was no twinge of pain. I don't fear it anymore the way I did for so long. I embrace it. But yet I know I am not out of the woods yet. A moment later, unbidden, the thought of jumping from the balcony and sparing myself the life reset that was waiting for me at home entered my mind. It was banished immediately, but it was the first suicidal thought I've had since I sought help for the depression that was my ex's ultimate gift to me. It was enough to scare me, and remind me of how far I still have to go.

I can make it. I want to make it. Life is too good for me to give up on it now.

So I close this brief interlude to finish packing my things. A plane awaits, and the next chapter of my life lies waiting around the corner.

Note: This was a journal entry dated 7-19-09, modified slightly from it's original form and rewritten to improve the content. I have some interest in someday publishing some elements of this story, paired with the rest of my recollections of this seminal event in my life. Comments and criticism are welcome at adamrogers2@gmail.com.