“Did you see that?” he umpfs.
“No.
What?” I answer as my foot casually pushes my bag under the seat in front of me.
“Fallen
Solider. Just put on the plane.”
“Ohhh-“
“F**king
cardboard box.”
“What?”
I swivel.
“They
always say, don’t they, ‘Don’t end up in a cardboard box,’ and that’s what he
was in a cardboard box,” he looks right through me, continuing, “Cardboard, and plywood frame. Not a
plywood box, but a frame of wood so I guess he doesn’t roll out, with a stamp
that says ‘Extreme Care,’ and a baby blue handle.”
“To
grab –“
“No,
just a trimming, just a bit of trimming. The stewardess says that sometimes the
captain of the plane will get out and salute him, but they are tight on time
today,” his eyes, still moving, meet mine.
“That
is incredible, I –“
“You
should have seen it. I mean on tv they show you all of what they want you to
see, but they don’t want you to see that. No they don’t want you to f**kin’ see
that. You would think a family member or someone from the service would – “
“If
the government won’t pay for a box, why would they pay for someone to fly with
the body?”
“You’re
right,” he laughs uncomfortably. “Ain’t that the truth. You’re right. What a
fool.”
Forty-five
minutes later, I discover the man’s name: Michael. He is a successful lawyer, travels
avidly, surrounds himself with fascinating people, enjoys financial freedom,
blackjack, boxing, cigars and affairs, living in a loveless marriage of twenty
years with a woman he compartmentalizes his respect for as a “phenomenal
mother, but not my match as a partner.”
It’s
amazing what we will tell strangers, is it not?
“Now,
I’m not judging, but the affairs, really twelve?”
“If
I’m honest,” he sips his Gatorade, “but the last one is the only one I would
have left my wife for.”
“Huh.”
