The Book of Leah

Time For Me To Fly - Chapter 3

Jake chuckled, "Think I'll be alright, thanks though."

"Great! Just hang tight for a few minutes. I'll be making an announcement soon to get this Chicago-bound stampede started." Her eyes held a hidden glint of excitement as she thought of her own return home. "And hey, thanks for flying America West."

With a nod of thanks, Jake retreated back to his seat. He unzipped his backpack, the familiar scent of leather and worn notebooks greeted him. Pulling out his trusty Discman, he flipped through his CD wallet, the worn Metallica CD catching his eye. Black Album it was, then. He plugged in his headphones, the comforting hiss a shield against the pre-flight chatter.

Florence's voice crackled over the loudspeaker a few minutes later, her announcement about boarding flight 235 to Chicago O'Hare a welcome interruption. Passengers needing extra assistance, families with restless toddlers, and those with the magic of frequent flyer status were called first. Jake dug out his boarding pass, the bold 14A  for his coveted window seat. Soon, the call for rows 10-15 echoed through the terminal, and Jake joined the shuffling line, a knot of anticipation tightening in his gut.

As he settled into his seat, the familiar outline of the Superstition Mountains greeted him through the window. They wouldn't be in sight for long. An older gentleman slid into the aisle seat next to him, briefcase firmly in hand.

"Afternoon, son," the man greeted, a warm smile crinkling clear to the corners of his eyes. "How's it going?"

"Good," Jake replied politely. "Heading to Chicago for business?"

The man chuckled. "Yup, though I might sneak out of a meeting early to catch the White Sox game. A's versus Sox, you follow baseball?"

"Absolutely, sir," Jake answered, a flicker of surprise crossing the man's face.

"No need for the 'sir,'" the man laughed, extending a calloused hand. "Call me Dale. You a baseball fan yourself then?"

"Huge fan," Jake grinned. "Saw the A's in spring training back in Tucson. Even got to see Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire hit some monster homers. Met Jose's twin brother too – super nice guy."

Dale's eyes lit up. "That's fantastic, son. I actually met McGwire myself at an event in Phoenix a while back. And speaking of..." he reached into his briefcase, a flourish in his movements. Out came a crisp baseball card in a hard plastic holder, the familiar blue border and crisp white corners were perfect. "1985 Mark McGwire rookie card," Dale announced proudly, the inscription on the front reading "To Dale, Mark McGwire."

Jake's breath caught in his throat. "Wow, that's amazing!"

"They having an amazing season this year," Dale agreed. "Bit of luck, a couple of solid hitters and pitchers – you know the drill." He paused, the captain's voice filling the cabin with the announcement of their imminent taxi to the runway.

"Well, Jake," Dale said, settling back in his seat, "hopefully we have a smooth flight. Thinking of taking a nap myself. Got the latest Sporting News here if you'd like some reading material." As he removed the latest issue from his briefcase.

Jake accepted the newspaper with a grateful nod, carefully folding it and tucking it into the seat pocket in front of him. As the plane roared down the runway, the familiar thrumming a lullaby in his ears, Dale was already lost in sleep not long after takeoff. Jake thumbed through the "Sporting News" as he slipped on his headphones, the pounding rhythm of Metallica drowning out the world. He flipped through the pages of the newspaper, the names and stats soon blurring together until his eyelids drooped shut, succumbing to the lull of the airplane's engine.

A gentle tap on his arm roused him from his slumber. Florence stood in the aisle, a kind smile on her face.

"Time to stow your headphones," she said softly. "We're preparing for landing soon. Adjust your seat and get comfortable."