Erika Lloyd

March 18, 2011

Heading Home

The jagged jaw is crushing, pressing, masticating; one row of teeth after another row of

teeth gyrating, chewing and grinding the next row of teeth. I stare at the mighty jaw, poised to

take a gentle step forward. I shiver as the next row of teeth grinds the ones before it into the

black gums, and I hesitate. You might, too. You might draw one foot back, and shuffle from side

to side, feeling the hesitation turn your face hot red, like chewing cinnamon gum when the heat

rushes to the back of your tongue, with your teeth clenching and grinding the hot and sweet pulp

between your teeth. I stare up at the metal monster towering over me two hundred feet into the

air, and my breath clenches in my throat like I’ve swallowed the cinnamon gum.

The escalator looks as if it’s ready to snatch me up and tear off my limbs and it is as if I

am six years old again, pulling on my stark white Easter dress, chewing gum on the muggy

church porch while trying to get past Jimmy Anderson in the church door.

Jimmy is staring at me, and he blocks my escape; the door frame does not support his six

hundred pound body. His one lazy eye rolls to the side, observes me and doesn’t observe me, all

at the same time. He arches his neck and hisses like a snake as his body shifts four hundred

pounds to the left. His red hair mattes over his eyes and sticks up in odd spikes, like prairie grass

trying to escape a prairie fire. Touches of grey spot the ends of his hair.

“Ones things for sure” he drawls, adding an s to every word.

I wanted to shove past him into the church’s lobby. You might be scared to shove past

him into the church’s lobby because you have to go pee. You might be scared to ignore him, like
I was. You might be scared that your god, or your parents, would give you a speech about loving

your neighbor and being kind to the needy. At six, a lot of things scare you, and Jimmy did scare

me.

“Stead I just lost me hand” Jimmy creeps forward on his walker, and shoves even more

of his massive frame into the doorway. His bulbous body leans on the walker. The aluminum

strains under the pressure. The rubber pegs on the legs creak and grind into the church’s white

linoleum lobby.

I shift from side to side, bored with what he is trying to tell me. I peek and peer around

the walker, around the mounds of fleshy skin that barely fit into his suit. I can’t find an escape

route to the bathroom without touching his bulbous body. When I contemplate shoving past him,

my gaze catches his hand, or where you would expect to see his hand. The stump is wrapped in

Ace bandages, and sticky yellow pus leaks from the edges. I step back and wrinkle my nose at

the pungent odor that seeps from the stump. My eyes start to water and my bladder can’t take

much more punishment. I scan the crowded porch for my parents, ready to cry and pee on

myself. They stand a ways off on the porch talking to the church’s pastor, and my mom’s one

careful eye is locked on me. My hands begin to shake and I look back at the man. I wonder why

my mom let me speak with him, why she doesn’t come over and ask him to move. I wonder what

happened to his eye to make it roll around in his eye socket like a kitten playing on the carpet. I

wonder what we were having for dinner that night.

And now, as I stare at the white linoleum floor of the Atlanta Airport, I wonder how I am

going to make it up the escalator, the same escalator that took Jimmy Anderson’s arm, without

gagging as I remember the odor that seeped from Jimmy’s sticky Ace bandage.
 My hands shake around my IPod Nano, and I turn down the volume of B.o.B’s

“Airplanes.” I attempt to step onto the rotating teeth, but get shoved aside and fall face first on

the linoleum floor. I’m close to the black gums of the escalator, so close I can hear the gears

rotate and attempt to chew off my limbs. The angry businessman, who apparently shoved me,

gets his tie caught up in the escalator. With a growl, he jerks the ends of the tie. He takes a look

at it and runs his hands up and down the ends of the tie. He shrugs and does not seem to care he

messed up his tie, or does not even know he did. I can tell he messed up his tie as my face hovers

over the gums, because shreds of bright yellow threads are stuck to them.

The man huffs, and shoves his suitcase right before the first step of the rotating jaws. He

will get eaten, this angry man. As a woman in a bright pink cocktail dress steps behind him I

start to think. He will be a snack for the escalator, and the elevator will eat him and the woman

with him, like cotton candy at a carnival. You might care that he had a wife at home; the man’s

wedding ring dangled off his finger, like a gaudy Christmas ornament off a pine tree. You might

care, getting shoved aside by the man and the high heeled woman that lacks a gaudy wedding

band. You might care as he grabs the back of her dress and grins, and know he probably has

children back home. I care because my face is so close to the dangerous jaws that took Jimmy’s

hand.

I take a terminal step forward, and I’m committed to this excruciating and sickening ride

to the top of the airport. I clutch my carry-on to my body as the black gums whiz past. The gums

threaten to swallow my fingers, my arms, my carry-on; the gums had swallowed the sunshine

yellow threads, and I am convinced that they would swallow me, too. My throat feels as if there

is an apple lodged in the back of it as the escalator reaches the halfway point.
 The room begins to spin about halfway up the escalator. I close my eyes, and I feel as if

I’m fifteen and once more I’m on The Claw at the carnival.

It is the second time I have ridden a ride at the fair. My boyfriend laughs at my

discomfort, and my stomach lurches one hundred feet in the air. I feel sick, like any sane person

should on these death traps as the machine spins us three times up in the air. As it comes down

and bottoms out, you might feel as if the world had been turned upside down, and wonder why

he laughs at the twisting and turning of the ride. How long could the relationship last if he could

be so cruel and spiteful to make you get on the ride? I wonder this as my head is snatched up into

the air for another three rotations. I wonder why my friend Stina could not make it to the fair

today, for the double date we had planned; I wonder for about another three seconds. And then, I

puke hot chunks of apple pie all over the guy in front of me. The ride slows out of the rotations

and everyone begins to moan and boo. The technician stops the ride and lets me and my

boyfriend off. My boyfriend scowls, his hair dangles like noodles over his face and I lurch

toward the restrooms. I call my parents, and the usual yelling begins about my irresponsible

choices. In the car, my mom’s eye looks with disapproval at my messy shirt and pants.

“We didn’t want you going in the first place” my mom says to me from the front seat.

“It’s your own fault for going, now stop acting like you are dying, and get your skirt back on.

You look like a heathen.” Tears begin to well up in my eyes and I struggle into the long denim

skirts. You might cry if you had puked all over the old man in front of you on the ride, and then

were forced to put on a long, heavy skirt.

All I had wanted was some sympathy, some kind of understanding from my parents. As

the escalator at the airport rounds the top and I jump over the last row of teeth, I let out a huge

sigh, and hope I won’t puke on the pink dressed lady.

 “Attention Atlanta Airport. We are now at code Orange. Passengers should brace for

security related delays during the day. Longer lines are expected and traffic leading to the

terminals could be slowed by random vehicle checks. Security is at a normal level. Have a nice

day” the man on the speaker calls.

I wonder why normal threat level is orange instead of green. I wonder why they even

bother to tell you it was normal. I wonder what is normal. As I catch my breath, I wonder what

gate my flight is leaving from and pull out my ticket and drivers license from my left pocket of

my tan dress coat for the fourth time that evening. The numbers 4364, Gate C are yellow on the

ticket and a red stamp is brushed across the bottom corner. I continue walking and shove the

ticket and my driver’s license into my faded blue jean’s right pocket.

I look around for a sign with directions or someone in charge to tell me where to go next.

A black security woman in a blue and tan uniform stands a little ways down from me. She chews

on a granola bar and my stomach growls. As the only person around that looks friendly, I decide

to ask her where to go next.

“Excuse me, Can you tell me where to go to get to Gate C?” I ask as my eyes dart over

the granola bar.

“Yes’m just go down the hall and to the left, and take the train. Now if you see the

bathrooms, you’ve gone a little too far,” she says as her mouth munches on the granola, and spit

builds up on the corners of her mouth.

I nod, and thank her for her time. She might be the only one you would want to talk to, if

you were there. You might look past the guy skateboarding through the airport, past the Asian

business men, past the family with three kids, and talk to the security woman instead. Hungry, I

look past the rows of shops, knowing that they were overpriced and that I didn’t have a dime to
my name. I keep on walking deep in thought, and miss the train station. I see two maintenance

men, arguing over how to hang the airport’s new bathroom doors, trying to install the new doors

as they argue.

When I look at the arguing men, verbally assaulting each other, I feel as if I am 19 again,

on my own and living with my sister.

The door is off its frame, like the door of my sister’s bedroom. My sister Veronica’s eyes

are open wide, and she twists the cord of the telephone around her little finger and clenches the

mouthpiece closer to her face. Veronica is an enthusiastic liar, and at this point her lies and the

childish games she plays have ticked me off. Her bright green shirt looks like the grass outside,

faded and yellowing from bleach that had gotten into her laundry. My breath is quick and

shallow as I storm up to her and shove her into her closet door. I hear her shoulders pop as I

scream at her.

“What is your problem?” I screech, ripping the phone out of her hands and throwing it to

the other side of the room. “I said I had to use the phone and you just go and keep using it and

think… THINK… that you are going to talk about me while I’m standing here and then that you

are just going to slam the door and hit my nose?”

Veronica whimpers, and then with cat-like reflexes starts to throw wet clothes at me. I

yell as the clothes hit my face and drench my shirt. Veronica darts past me, screaming like a

banshee out the front door and to the neighbor’s house down the street. I stand there at the door

for a moment. You might stand there and wonder what you should do. I chuckle over the

comedy of the situation and then I get really scared. I turn and realize that I just messed up big

time.
 I turn around and dart to the door. Now, as I stand in the airport, I realize I have gone too

far, just like that day with Veronica; I turn around and find the train station.

. The train doors slide shut behind me as I stumble in. I scramble onto the crowded train

and struggle to keep my footing as the train races underground. I squeeze my eyes together and

search for something to hold on to. There are no bars on the train for me to grab. Every inch of

the train is packed with the bodies of sweating people. I squeeze past their hot bodies and about

fall as the train started to pull out of the station. Pictures of people and faces flashed past as the

train lurched into Gate C. When the door opens, I march past the people walking out of step, past

the gate, and shove my ticket at the counter to get my second red security stamp.

I plop three grey tubs on the conveyor belt in front of me. I place my liquids in the shiny

plastic bag in the first tub, along with my coat. The second tub takes my laptop and the third my

shoes. I walk through the security counter, trying to avoid the security man’s gaze. I tremble, not

because I have anything suspicious, but because the scrutiny with which he stares at people

makes my insides crawl. The long tongue of the security belt swallows the three grey tubs. I

watch my things, and hurry to push through the metal detector. What if someone steals the

computer? As I dart over to the tubs to grab my things, I hear the pinging of the metal detector

and groan. I stop and remember in horror that I forgot to remove my navel ring. My stomach

flips and I gulp. I hear a gruff voice behind me.

“Hey, Miss!” The guard calls me, making me turn around in horror, thinking I was about

to be stripped searched.

“I forgot to remove the ring I had in,” I say as I tug at the ring on my belly, trying to

wrench it off my body before I am stripped searched.

 “No problem.” He smiles and holds up a mini-metal detector wand. The ring comes off,

and I hold out my arms so that he can wave the wand over my body. He waves it up and down

my body, and the buzzer does not go off. “Looks like you’re good to go then! Have a nice flight

Miss,” he says as he turns around to the next person in line.

My shoulders unclench and relax. For the fifth time that day I take my tickets out of my

pockets and check the number on the flight. I wipe the sweat off my face. You might be

sweating, as hot as it was in that airport. You might look at it and wonder what was special about

the destination, but would remember the flight number and know exactly where to go.

Instead I am lost, like I became lost when I was four years old in Sears during Christmas

time, with my friend Katie tugging at my arm.

“Cummon Lori, they won’t know where we at, won’t it be funny to see their faces?” she

giggles as our parents walk off from the cash register after they finish paying.

At first, it is funny. Katie and I sit on a rack of teddy bears and giggle as our parents walk

away and leave us behind. But then, Katie jumps up and sticks her tongue out at me. Before I

know it, Katie disappears behind a mountain of clothes on a rack in the children’s department. I

run after her and call for her to wait. The clothes swallow my vision, making it impossible to see

more than two feet in front of me. The clothes make it difficult to breathe. My mom has my

inhaler, and it is getting harder to pull in a breath of fresh air. I begin to have an asthma attack

right there in the middle of Sears. A nearby man with bright red tennis shoes stops and helps me

catch my breath. All I can do is cry, and the man with the red shoes reaches down and takes me

by the hand. He hands me a peppermint which helps me to breathe again and calms me down. He

walks me over to the counter where he attempts to hand me a phone. I shake my head at him,
confused. I don’t know my parents’ number. He takes the phone back and then the lady running

the register makes a call over the intercom.

“Flight 4364 will be boarding in ten minutes at Gate C” the lady calls over the intercom

at the airport. Her voice sounds eerie, like the Sears lady. I wonder if they could be the same

person as I pop a peppermint into my dry mouth.

The terminal is already packed with people from all different nationalities and ages. I

walk over to the long line and take out my tickets. A family of six stands in front of me. Two

twin boys stare at me as one of them holds a green sucker in his mouth, occasionally taking it out

to lick it. The one without the sucker pulls his sister’s long brown braid hard and grins back up at

me. The little girl shrieks and the mother reaches back and pops the boy on the hand. He scowls

and stands quietly for the rest of the time. The other twin stares at me and sucks on his green

lollipop, making obnoxious slurping sounds. Eventually, the family of six goes through the

terminal and boards the plane. The twin boy who pulled his sister’s hair stomps on the porter’s

feet, and the lady grimaces and ushers him on to the plane with his parents. The porter snatches

the tickets from me and points to the door where the passengers were boarding. Out of the corner

of my eye, I see the porter bend over and rub the top of her foot. I sit down at my seat on the

plane and take a deep breath. The plane takes awhile to get boarded, and as I wait I read travel

magazines. One magazine in particular catches my interest. The cover has a picture of Madrid on

it and shows two smiling and happy people taking photos in front of a very architectural

building. The man in the picture has a margarita and the woman looks happy. I suddenly begin to

rethink my destination, wishing I was headed to Madrid instead of to Oklahoma. I flip through

the pages of the travel magazine and try not to sigh. I have always wanted to go to Madrid. By

the time I reach page 27, the porter comes on to the plane and makes an announcement.
 “Ladies and gentlemen, Delta overbooked this flight. We are offering 400 dollars to

anyone who wants to leave tomorrow morning, in the form of a travel voucher. Also, anyone

who does so will be given a hotel and three meal vouchers.” The lady turns and exits the plane. I

hold my breath, thinking of the possibilities. My ticket to Oklahoma was over four hundred

dollars. I could give up the ticket, and get a nearly free trip to Madrid. You might consider giving

up the ticket, and I wouldn’t blame you because I consider it too. You might do it in a heartbeat,

take your four hundred dollars and walk off the plane happily.

The choice is difficult; I don’t have a dime to my name to go to Madrid on, and I don’t

want to go to Oklahoma City, but I am obligated to. As I sit on the plane with the kid behind me

kicking the seat, it is as if I were back home at 18, watching my bags hit the floor.

My four bags hit the floor of the garage with a resounding thud. My mom screams at me,

yells and curses and gets angry at anything and everything that I had done in the last ten years.

My dad stands quietly by. He is a Master Sergeant in the Air Force, and I had never seen him this

close to crying.

“Fine. She wants to leave! Let her leave!” my mom screeches, throwing more stuff out

onto the garage floor.

I cannot remember what the argument was about. I’m no longer mad, and my mother

continues to insult me. She flings things out the door and swings her hands around. I try to pick

up a bag and leave with my stuff, and my mom jumps up and slaps my hand off of the bag.

“No. You can’t take it. You want it; you will have to carry it away from here. We aren’t

going to drive you to the gas station and your boyfriend is not allowed on my property. He comes

here and I’m calling the law!” She shrieks this at me and goes to find the phone.
 I throw more insults back at her, but in my heart I am tired of arguing. I grab the most

important bags and begin walking while she is inside finding the phone. It is a hot Georgia day,

and her insults are still being screeched at me when I reach the corner of the quiet cul-de-sac. I

march angrily onward into the mouth of the neighborhood; hot tears pour down my face. I do not

understand my parents and they know and understand even less about me. Gone are the days my

mom’s careful eye watched over me as I tried to shove past Jimmy in the churchyard. I am

through with the skirt wearing and the church going. I brush the tears off my face, mutter and

curse under my breath. Halfway up the road, about half a mile, a white work truck pulls up next

to me. The gas exhaust from his beat up truck smells nasty and makes my head spin.

“Hey, sweetie, need a ride to the gas station?” he smiles, and places one hand on the

window seal of his truck. I shake my head; no, I wouldn’t ride with him. My mom had taught me

not to ride with strange people and I am an over-cautious person. His nails are crooked and

unclean. Dirt is crusted underneath them in a ghastly fashion. Thinking of my mom makes me

wince, which the man misinterprets and gets insulted. He drives off, slowly at first as if hoping I

would jump in with him and change my mind. He beeps his horn twice and drives down the road.

You might not have made it to the gas station if you were there, but might have turned around,

and possibly apologized to your mother. You might have made things less difficult and taken the

time to turn around and make things right.

I am not that person. The possibility of Madrid makes me twitch in my seat as I try to

make up my mind.

When the lady comes back on the plane, I tap the side of my seat and think things

through one more time. She makes another announcement, this time offering six hundred dollars

to anyone who might cancel their flight. My mind is made up. I jab the call button and jump up.
 “I’ll take it ma’am,” I call out to the front of the plane. She nods and takes my ticket.

“Next flight to Oklahoma City is tomorrow at 9:20 a.m. Would you like to switch

flights?”

“No, but I will take the travel voucher ma’am.” I shift back and forth on my feet, and

dream of my flight to Madrid while she cancels out the ticket. The heat rushes to my face, and

the plane begins to get stuffy as I second guess my decision.

“What was in Oklahoma?” she asks nicely as she punches in numbers on her handheld

device.

“Nothing important, just family.”