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The Butterfly Trap (an excerpt)
By Dennis Jon

The first security guard checks my passport and boarding pass. The second checks it again and lays my bag flat on the conveyor belt. The third x-rays my belongings. The fourth stands by with a machine gun. The fifth waves an electronic wand over my body. Beep, beep, beep. I wish I'd taken my belt off. "Please step to the side, sir. Arms up. Legs spread. Lift your left foot, now the right. Remove your shoes and belt. Is this your bag? Open it. Fingernail files are not permitted in carry-on luggage. Okay, you can go."

The sixth guard leads a German Shepard to sniff my luggage. The airline clerk at the gate calls my name for a random baggage check. The seventh security guard repeats the search routine of the fifth. I'm sure someone feels safer because of this rigmarole, but a sharp pencil is deadlier than a fingernail file, and who says my water bottle isn't filled with napalm? I don't feel any safer; I just feel annoyed. Two more passport checks to get on the plane and the War on Terror is over. We lost.

The digital map on the seat back hypnotizes me into tranquility. Every pixel the plane icon moves is evidence of progress, though not many of us progress; the plane is half empty. We pass Oregon, Washington, then Vancouver Island. I wait for the pilot to turn left and head across the Pacific, but he never does. I look at my ticket to make sure I'm on the right flight and then out the window at the Alaskan peninsula. Snow-capped mountains plunge into Bristol Bay.

I pick up my newspaper. If the point of this trip is to get away from reality, I may as well know what I'm fleeing. Among today's headlines: "More SARS Outbreaks in South East Asia" and "State Department Issues Terrorist Alert for Thailand." No wonder there's so many empty seats; all the worrywarts are staying home.

There's no reflection on the Pacific when the pilot announces the International Date Line. The ocean a blank slate as today becomes yesterday and we cross into tomorrow. It's the closest I'll ever get to time travel. I like the idea of going into the future, but when today's gone, where does it go? And where does the big dufus in the red sports jersey think he's going?

He saunters past me, into first class, and slides into a leather recliner.
He doesn't look the part: shaved head, sailor's earring, neck tattoo, baggy satin shorts, and plastic sandals with socks. A fashion statement no one wants to hear. What kind of jersey is that anyways? It has a big white 7 and says Beckham across his shoulders. The leather creaks as he leans back and pretends to sleep. Damn, that looks good. Maybe I should try it.

A passing flight attendant stops next to him, looks down, and then waves to someone at the front of the plane. She taps his shoulder. "Excuse me, sir."
He keeps the charade up, but she doesn't buy it. "Excuse me, sir, I need to ask you to please return to your seat."

He opens his eyes and coos, "C'mon love, I’s just getting comfortable."

He's English. Must be a soccer jersey.

"These seats are for paying first-class customers only, sir."

His attitude changes in a flash. "So the lot of me aren't good enough?"

"That's not what I'm saying, sir. It's airline policy…"

"Bollocks! This seat's empty, why can't I sit here?"

"Sir, please calm down, I don't want to make this difficult."

Beckham crosses his arms. "Then piss off. I'm not moving."

"Sir, the other passengers would appreciate it if you lowered your voice and returned to your seat."

"Tell the other passengers to kiss my hairy arse!"

The flight attendant shakes her head and strides toward the front of the plane. Beckham settles back into fictitious slumber—victorious—for the moment. He's got nerve, I'll give him that, but this battle isn’t over.
Reinforcements arrive in an officer's uniform. "What seems to be the problem here, sir?"

Beckham reverts to sweet-talk. "No problem guv'nor. Just catching a wee nap."

"Sir, I need you to return to your assigned seat, right now."

"I'm not going."

The pilot’s eyes widen in disbelief. "I'd advise you to reconsider, sir."

"Or what? You going to boot me off? Huh?"

A hush falls over the plane, heads pop into the aisle to hear the response.

"No, sir. What I am going to do is return to the cockpit and do the job I was trained to do. And if Miss Scott reports to me that we have an unruly passenger on board who refuses to cooperate, that job entails notifying the airport police at our destination. They will also do their job, which means they will most likely detain the troublemaker for questioning, and quite possibly send him back to wherever he came from under police custody. Now if you'll excuse me I need to get back to the cockpit. Enjoy the rest of your flight, sir. Miss Scott, please report to me in five minutes."

The pilot walks toward the front of the plane and the flight attendant toward the back, but Beckham stays put. He's lost, and unless he's incredibly stupid, he'll know. He sits, and sits, and sits—then curls slowly out of leather luxury, and strolls back into livestock class. He disappears behind me and I'm sorry to see him go; if nothing else, he was entertaining.

The food-carts make the rounds and the anticipation of being fed settles the cabin down. I peel back the pre-fab meal's foil cover and try to figure out what it is. Two rows back, a familiar voice says, "Ello, luv. What have we got here then?"

"Would you like a meal, sir?"

"It's about fookin’ time. What are me choices then?"

"Your choices are yes, or no."

An excerpt from the book The Butterfly Trap, and this month's travel writing pick-of-the-month.

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