A Brief Explanation of My New Face Tattoo

or, Living In The No.

I am writing this post from Seat 35C on a plane which I am terrified is going to crash.

I was not terrified it was going to crash when I packed for the flight. I was not terrified when I went through security, and I was not terrified as I boarded. I was quite looking forward to the flight, in fact; a few hours alone, a chance to write without interruption, and an endless stream of bitter coffee, just the way I like it.

Just before takeoff, though, when the doors had closed and it was too late to run screaming from the plane, the flight attendant – let’s call her Shirley – made her way to the front of the aircraft, asked for our attention, and said the following:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am sure you all heard about what happened yesterday, a terrible, terrible tragedy.”

I had not.

I glanced about at the other passengers, who glanced around at the other passengers with anus-clenching worry.

“On behalf of the entire crew,” Shirley continued, “I would like to tell you that your safety is our top priority and we will do everything in our power to ensure a safe and secure flight.”

I avoid the news religiously. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I could be in the know and have my finger on the pulse of the nation, but I’m not sure the nation has a pulse, and being in the know makes me anxious, depressed, unable to sleep, unable to write and unable to be a decent husband, parent or human being. And now, thanks to Shirley, I was anxious, depressed, unable to sleep, unable to write and unable to be a decent husband, parent or human being.

What happened, I wondered? Another 9/11? A bombing? Did a wing fall off, an engine fail, a pilot drop dead? WHy the fuck wasn’t I told? What am I doing on this godforsaken plane???

My heart began to race, and panic began to claw at my insides. I had no idea what tragedy Shirley was referring to, and couldn’t even ask the passengers around me because then I would have to admit that I don’t follow the news and they would beat me to death with their water flasks.

It seemed like forever until we reached cruising altitude; every jolt I felt, every clang I heard I was certain would be my last. I thought about Orli and the boys, I imagined them getting the news. At last we were permitted to take out our laptops, and which point I paid $10 for dial-up-speed wifi, only to learn that the previous morning, a passenger plane had tragically collided with a Black Hawk helicopter. I also learned there were no survivors.

And so I sit here now, as I write this, glancing nervously out the window for stray military helicopters that Shirley, bless her safety-minded heart, can’t do a fucking thing about. She can’t, Frank the pilot can’t, the crew can’t. I know she was only trying to help, but the looks on everyone’s faces said the same thing:

“Shirley, why don’t you shut the fuck up?”

I have no need to know about that heartbreaking, hideous tragedy. My knowing doesn’t help the families, and it doesn’t hep the deceased. It doesn’t make me safer, it doesn’t make me calmer, it doesn’t help in any conceivable way. Whatever fuck-up led to it needs to be investigated and corrected.

But not by me.

I do not work for the FAA.

I do not fly Black Hawk helicopters.

I sit on planes and shit myself.

Perhaps you are able to live in the know. Perhaps it doesn’t blacken your heart or turn your love to hate, your day to night. Perhaps you think I should, too. Many who live miserably in the know seem to think it a moral imperative that everyone should live as miserably as they do.

Me, I live in the no.

And if this plane lands without exploding, nosediving, crashing into the Pentagon or being struck by a Black Wing helicopter, I have decided to have the following tattooed on my motherfucking forehead:

No, I didn’t hear about the tragedy, no I didn’t hear about the attack, no I didn’t hear about the awful new disease, no I didn’t hear about the bitter cold, no I didn’t hear about they stifling heat, no I didn’t hear about the terrible accident, no I didn’t hear about the brutal murder, no I didn’t hear about the stupid thing the stupid politician said in response to the stupid question, no I didn’t hear about the joy that turned to sorrow and the love that turned to hate and the hope that turned to dread and the dream that failed and the future that is no more. So fuck off.

It’ll be pricey, and a tight fit, but well, well worth it.

Yours in the Fetal Position

S.

illustrations by orli auslander

NOTE: The “In The No” coffee mug above was a gift from Orli some time ago, a gentle daily reminder to me to avoid the Shirley’s of the world as best as possible. Alas, she knew not of Shirley.

Orli has a great piece in Mutha Magazine this week - “The Life-Saving Practice of the Twenty Second Mummy Shit Fit.” Be sure to check it out here.