I play the Moonlight Sonata in the Hyundai Sonata, bidding it farewell. I say goodbye to the spider that lives beneath the side mirror. I walk away from my companions, the time we had together now separating, but for each of us our time would continue beyond the end of the quest. I take a last look over my shoulder at the car, standing by itself in the airport lot. A fog had descended over the city, though it was just visible beyond the veil, like part loaded geometry beneath the skin of a game. I smoke a cigarette on the post-American soil, wondering what was next for the nameless landmass that had been the fifty states. Perhaps it would split, as the Byzantine and Roman Empires, or East and West Germany, or Ireland and England. Or perhaps it would shatter, hundreds of citadels rising from the ashes at a constant state of war against one another, eventually evolving into orcs. Or perhaps it would enter a Renaissance, leading the way for other collapsing empires in the 21st century, drawing upon the grief of losing one’s country as being reflected by, and therefore in solidarity with, all other people around the world experiencing their homeland be taken away from them. Or perhaps the First People retake their land, returning North America to how it had been for millennia, bringing about a new age of Nativistic Excellence, forged in the fires of dead Empire.
The country formerly known as the USA had been humbled. Its citizens no longer shouted, but spoke softly, carefully. They no longer demanded Uncle Cunt-Butts Chipotle & BBQ Spiced Gravy all over their food, instead they would nod in appreciation at the sacrament of a crumb of salt. The Post-American tourist now spoke multiple languages, enjoyed local culture and travelled with only what they could carry. The world noticed.
I entered LAX, trying to open the airlines app so I could check-in, though after forgetting my password, resetting it, going through two-factor authentication, logging in again, the password not working and starting the process again, I realised I had walked all the way through security. I looked around, nobody was working. A few other travellers passed through, equally perplexed by the lack of security, but we laugh about it and walk on. Empty shelves that once held perfume, cigarettes and V-Bucks were now covered in candles piled on top of each other, the glow lighting the way through a twisting corridor and out into the airport terminal.
The building had been turned into a Cathedral, with great stone columns supporting a ceiling frescoed with planes and clouds set against a sky of blue quartz. Enormous stained-glass windows are dedicated to the science of aeronautics, with the Wright Brothers standing as saints aside the first aircraft, tilted upward so it resembles a crucifix. I walk across the floor decorated in representations of the mathematical equations of flight when I hear footsteps run behind me. I turn around.
“Hey, it’s you!” they say.
“What!?” I shout.
“I like your writing.”
“You’re welcome! Thanks for reading. I don’t really think of myself as being involved in the process really, more that I sweeping away stone that has already been chiselled, we get to find out what’s beneath together, you know? That’s fun, isn’t it. Do you write?”
“Yeah, I used to, but you know, it’s hard, I don’t like what I write.”
“Ah, who gives a fuck. If you want to write something down, do it. There’s plenty I’ve only thought about and not written down, it disappears. Give writing a go. You can do whatever you want.” I say, winking. I pull out a pack of cigarettes, offer them one, and we smoke as I wait for the plane to come in. Just as they are about to leave I shout at them to stop. Turn around. I throw something in the air. They catch it. Pull their hand down, it slowly opens. It’s the keys to the Hyundai Sonata. They look back up, but I am gone.
I go up the stairs one at a time, sighing quietly at how inefficient boarding was. Could they not see that I was fast? I could get my bag in the overhead storage, sit down and look at my phone in less than four seconds. At the speed we were going I would never get on the flight, living the rest of my years halfway up a mobile staircase. Eventually, miraculously, I board the plane and make my way to my seat.
I look around at the people nearby. Some alone, some in
couples, others are families, friends, we are all sitting down and waiting
patiently to leave what had been America. Part of me is nervous, expecting
Armitage Shanks to appear from behind a curtain or some other atrocity to
happen and once again I would travel thousands of miles in the air, violently convulsing for hours. But instead, nothing does. The plane reverses from LAX terminal, approaches the
runway and takes off. I look out of the window, back at the city, the hills,
the mountains, down at the desert, down at the clouds, down at nothing. There
is nothing. I turn on the in-flight movie and watch a limousine covered in blood arrive at an airport.
