Occupied

(A Friend Story)

By Nicholas Escobar

Note: Begin playing the music before you start reading. The short cue is meant to sonically set the scene.

The plane was packed. The air was moist. Outside the circular windows, waves of heat floated languidly above the tan tarmac.

The man ventured forward down the aisle. His hair was greasy and unbrushed. His eyes crusty. His suitcase rocking uneasily from side to side and his sweatshirt unavoidably caressed passengers on his left and right. They smudged their eyebrows together and created hard lines with their mouths.

The short flight attendant with a ponytail was pressing on unperturbed.

“There should be some extra overhead baggage space over here in the back. Just you see.”

The man glanced on either side of the aisle up ahead. All the bin doors were closed except for one in the far reaches of the plane. The flight attendant turned back.

“Four? Correct?”

The man nodded. So did the three people in front of him. The flight attendant hoisting up three suitcases. The third one barely fit. All of them looked down at the man’s green-brown suitcase. Scratched with dozens of holes. Weathered and well-traveled. The flight attended smiled wider.

“I’m sorry sir. This hasn’t happened before.”

“It’s ok.”

“I can take it to the back with me if you’d like. It will be safe. I will watch over it. No need to worry.”

“Ok.”

He rolled the suitcase towards her. Glad to have the whole thing over with. Made his way to 24E. A middle seat. A woman with large eyeglasses and a sweaty brow sat in 24D. He scooted past her, collapsed into his claustrophobic space and settled in for the long flight.

Take off was smooth. Once cruising altitude was reached, beverages were brought out. He got a Bloody Mary and spilled vodka on his khaki pants. The lighting dimmed in the cabin gradually, lit with deep reds and oranges. A majestic sunset. Some people started to fall asleep while others stared at their entertainment screens with glazed expressions.

After what seemed like hours the man jolted out of his travel daze. His left leg was asleep. He tried to stretch out but accidentally brushed legs with 24D. She snorted and adjusted herself, her face now inches from his. Her breath smelled like that evening’s dinner: chicken piccata.

He checked his watch. One in the morning. He realized that he had to pee. He poked 24D lightly on her shoulder. Her eyes shot open.

“What?”

“I have to use the restroom.”

She looked her her small watch. Squinting in the dim darkness.

“It’s 1am.”

“So?”

“We are all sleeping. It’s sleepy time.”

“It’s a plane. No one actually sleeps. Now please get up.”

In a huff the woman obliged.

The man trudged down the aisle, and walked towards the restrooms.

Passengers snored. Babies whimpered. Air conditioning hummed like the sea.

The bathroom light was red. Occupied. Damn. He turned towards the one of the left. Also occupied. Shit.

He stood awkwardly in the aisle, moving side to side, his bladder expanding and contracting. The passengers who were still awake looked at him. Smiles on their faces.

He kept waiting. Lulled by the hum of the plane. Finally, he put his head against the door. Didn’t hear any movement. He knocked a few times. Nothing.

Suddenly, the occupied light turned from RED to GREEN. He breathed a sigh of relief. But no one came out. He knocked again. No answer. Gingerly, he opened up the door and looked inside.

It was empty.

He did not dwell on the oddity of this. He peed instead. A lot. And then felt way better.

The toilet flushing sound was deafeningly violent. He turned and looked in the mirror. The unflattering flourescents illuminated his tired face. There were deep shadows under his eyes. Multi-day patchy stubble was spreading like wildfire across his chin. He grimaced. Didn’t look great. His mother would be worried. It had been three years. Rome was like a distant daydream in his mind, replaced by the towering buildings and glassy metropolis mirrors of Chicago.

He washed his hands and splashed water on his face. Looked up again. His face had been…shaved. The shadows under his eyes were gone. He felt his jaw. Spotless. Smooth. He even smelled the shaving cream.

He looked around the cubicle. No one else was there. Obviously. He shook his head. Dried off his face with a paper towel. Suddenly the plane started to shake. The lights flickered. The turbulence worsened and the man lost his balance, slamming his shoulder into the door. Then the lights turned off and the cubicle was enveloped by darkness.

Silence. Only the low rumble of the plane engine could be heard, but it was muffled and sounded very far away. The man looked towards the mirror and saw a white grin luminescent in the air behind his head. The grin breathed light in waves, water droplets falling in a mist.

Do you like my shave?

Its voice was gravely. Like hard parchment.

The man didn’t answer.

Your mother will be not be worried.

The man didn’t respond. Mouth agape.

Because you looked pretty bad. Let’s be honest.

The smile smiled wider.

Where is your bag?

The man licked his lips. They were chapped.

“With the flight attendant.”

The smile smiled.

Actually it’s right here.

The flight attendant’s chipper voice emanated from its mouth.

The man looked down. There was his bag. Next to the toilet.

Open it up.

“It’s too cramped in here.”

Just do it.

The man felt a strong force in his muscles and he knelt down, hitting his knee hard on the toilet seat.

“Ow.”

Sorry. My bad.

He opened up the suitcase. Inside there were no clothes. No toiletry bag. No birthday card for his mother. Just a mirror. And ornate, golden mirror clouded with desilvering. It was illuminated by the silver sheen of the smile.

He saw his reflection morph in a the reflective surface. His eyes bulged. His skin blistered. His mouth slackened and then widened into a smile that was pained yet full of pleasure.

Now you look like me. We are twins. We are Friends.

The man touched the ancient glass, staring at his distorted face.

Your mother will be proud.

“Will she?”

You will look like how you feel: HORRIBLY HAPPY.

The man felt a hand touch his shoulder. It was ice cold. The long fingernails clenched his skin. Leaving deep welts. He screamed but didn’t make a sound. His eyes bulged, his skin blistered, his smile widened, tearing tenders and splitting his teeth in half. His tears hit the pale grey floor and disappeared like snow on hot pavement. The floating smile smiled wide and whisper-SCREAMED quietly-LOUDLY:

It’s important to be hOneST.

The voice shattered.

The man’s form dissolved into nothing.

The bathroom was silent.

Empty.

Cramped.

Cold.

Outside the light switched to green.

Not occupied.

THE END

(Click the smile to hear the Song of the Friend)