Plane of Existence

Nothing will happen on this flight. There will be no calamity, no undo turbulence, no snakes in the overhead, no hijacking. This plane will not crash into the ocean, nor scrape its belly on the tarmac in a trail of fire suppressant foam. Despite an uneven distribution of passengers wearing hospital grade N95 masks, no one will contract a deadly virus, and only the passenger in seat 15A who was already incubating a cold, will feel congested, somewhere over the Las Vegas.

Apparently, nothing will occur—apparently being the keyword here— and yet every passenger, from the 80 year old astrologer in row 23 who found a tarot deck in a seat-back pocket fifty years ago that inspired her prosperous career, to the toddler in 7D who will win a Pulitzer Prize in thirty years, but is currently napping in his 7 year old sister’s lap —everyone—will be affected by their proximity to one another, as if quantum-entangled on Flight 316, from San Francisco to New York.

The plane is aloft, has been for two hours. It is 3am Pacific time on this night flight, a red-eye out of SFO. The ambiance in the cabin is dark blue. Most of the plastic window shades are drawn. Most of the reading lights are off. Most of the passengers are asleep. That is, with the exceptions of the night owl occupying row 8, empty, but for a musical score spread across all the tray tables. His ticket identifies him by name and destination, Ricardo de Mas- New York City, JFK. But he would argue that destination is not Destiny. Destination, he would say, describes a journey to a known end, while Destiny describes a journey into the unknown. Destinations were predictable; Destiny was anything but. He should know.

He is a brilliant, but undiscovered composer of avante-garde electronic music— so for now, he gigs as a bass player in a rock band, and teaches guitar at a community college. And he is unaware that in twelve years, the little girl in 7D with the hazel eyes and auburn hair, will not only be the lead singer in his band, but the soloist in the world premiere of his Concerto for Voice and Synthesizers. In truth, there is a special relativity entraining the composer in row 8 to the three sleepy beings in row 7, but he’s currently in a mind-meld with a melody that has his full attention.

He does not hear the toddler fussing when his binky falls into his sister’s lap, nor does he see how instinctively she catches it and pops it back into his cherubic mouth. He does not hear the little girl humming in her sleep as she hugs a threadbare brown velvet spaniel and dreams of singing on a global stage. And he does not realize that the music he is composing will mend the broken heart of their mother in seat 7C, nor that one day she will stop for an espresso at a local cafe where this music is playing on auto-repeat, and find herself so utterly heart-struck and transported that she will spend the next year searching for its composer— and the rest of her years devoted to him. But for now, in the constant blue hum of Flight 316, with the undiscovered love of her life composing in the row behind her, she’ll surrender to sleep.

The plane is flying over Salt Lake City. It is 2am Mountain Time and the congested passenger in 15A sneezes. The seat next to him is empty, but the lady reading A Handmaid's Tale in the window seat offers him a tissue. By Wednesday she’ll be running a low grade fever and wish that she had changed seats, but the head cold will be a gift of sorts, providing the perfect excuse for missing a retirement party she was dreading.

In bulk head seat 1A an anxious first-time flyer is struggling with the arm contraption that holds the TV and tray table. He’s managed to unlatch them simultaneously and they are stuck midway between the arm rest and their normal upright position. Everyone around him is asleep, including his emotional support dog, a golden retriever called, Muggs. Across the aisle in seats 1D and 1E, two impossibly tall college basketball players sleep with out-stretched legs, their size 17 and 18 shoes wedged up against the bulk head. They each wear sleep masks and UCONN logo hoodies and are due back at the team’s training facilities in several hours.

At 3:30 Central Time, the call buttons on seat 1A, 4E, and 22C, pop on. Requests for extra blankets are met with the cheery disposition of the cabin attendant and a quiet burst of activity. After that, it’s smooth sailing over the Great Lakes, sprawling inky pools in the darkness below.

The plane begins its descent. It is 5:15 AM Eastern Standard Time. The cabin lights flicker on. Window shades are opened at random, revealing fragments of sky in a blushing dawn. The tilt of the starboard wing points toward the Manhattan skyline below where a million windows gleam in first morning light. It will be another forty minutes before the plane touches down, but there is a general stirring in the cabin as the dormant collective consciousness of the passengers separates into distinct waking personalities, all with starring roles in their own life stories. All with places to go, people to meet, things to accomplish.

In business class, the stewardess offers each of the passengers a warm wash cloth dangling from a pair of silver tongs, hot coffee or tea, (with or without cream and sugar), or reconstituted orange juice, which no one chooses. The early bell at the NY Stock Exchange has yet to ring, but the international markets have been in full thrum all night. Laptops emerge from under seats and yawn open revealing calendar invites and meeting agendas. Then, are snapped shut by well-manicured hands and stowed in pricey carry-ons. It is a well-rehearsed choreography that simulates control, for those who can disregard their lack of it as they hurtle across the sky at 575 mph in a metal tube 33,000 feet above the ground.

Back in economy class a queue has formed for the loo. The composer is not in his seat when the young mother stands up to gather the children’s comforts and distractions into their miniature backpacks, but she notices his score, now collated and held by two large binder clips with the title page clearly visible. It reads, Illumination Opus 1. The composer’s signature is scrawled beneath. She can make out the loop of a capital R followed by several squiggles and a flourish. She’ll remember the title though, because as the plane banks toward the airport, a beam of sunlight shivers across the word, Illumination, and gives her goose bumps.

The captain has turned on the seat belt sign and the steward, in a futile game of wack-a-mole, is shooing passengers down into their seats as quickly as they pop up to grab their carry-ons from the overheads. In the rush, the young mother seizes her gig bag, a red duffel containing her concert flute, alto, and piccolo, a collection of orchestra parts, a collapsible rehearsal stand, and her daughter’s one-quarter size violin. The bag is awkward and lurches out of her grasp, grazing the shoulder of the composer who has just returned to his seat.

“So sorry,” she says, embarrassed, as the children, now awake and hungry, vie for her attention.

“Can I help you with that?” he asks, the weight of her prize possessions briefly in his hands.

She holds his gaze for just a moment, as if she recognizes him in some ineffable way, but the captain breaks the spell, admonishing the seat belt stragglers to sit down and buckle up, or risk possible injury while the plane taxis to the gate. A little hyperbole goes a long way and suddenly the cabin is quiet and orderly.

In row 23, the astrologer, known to her loyal clientele of celebrities and financiers by the mono-moniker, Hope, rummages in her purse for a special pack of tarot cards. It is a deck that contains fifty-two copies of the same card, the Ace of Pentacles. Although the card is as familiar to Hope as a self-portrait, she pauses to appreciate the artwork: a delicate hand emerging from a cloud over a bountiful garden, offering a five-pointed star to a seeker. The garden, lush with ferns and flowers, is crossed by a mossy path that leads to higher ground. The Ace of Pentacles, card of opportunity, prosperity, and abundance, is Hope’s anonymous gift to the next passenger to occupy seat 23E, on the plane’s return trip to San Francisco. Perhaps, she thinks, if it is meant to be, they will spot the card and pluck it out. What would happen after that? What influence would it have? Well, Hope would never know. Her satisfaction was in the gesture, and she had long ago learned to let go of outcomes.

The plane is touching down, right on time. It bounces a bit until the hydraulic activators in the landing gear release 3000 pounds of hydraulic fluid, forcing the brake units to slow the wheels. Flight 316 glides toward the gate.

The passengers are, in effect, intimate strangers. They’ve spent the night together. They’ve shared the same air. While they may not remember why, they will always recognize each other— a whimsical smile, a quizzical look, a funny feeling — when they pass on the street, exchange a glance on the subway, offer a helping hand in a moment of need. Some will come to see the whimsy in it, some the synchronicity, others will ignore it. Two will find their lives entwined, choosing each other at some point in the future. One will make a risky investment based on a tarot card and reap a fortune, creating generational wealth and a desire to give back. One will leave the plane drained and queasy, but grateful to be on solid ground.

It is 6:30 Eastern Standard Time. Flight 316 is about to deplane. The passengers in the aisle are pressed tightly together cradling carry-ons, untangling jackets, retrieving glasses left in seat pockets. The beautiful girl with the hazel eyes and auburn hair is about to forget her stuffed dog, Brownie, which has fallen beneath her seat. She will tear up about it as the crowd pushes her little family forward toward the exit, but it will be alright. The composer has been watching them drift away and is still within arm’s reach of her stuffed dog. It won’t be the last time he comes to her rescue.

Hope leaves the exiting queue and takes seat 2B in business class. She studies the procession of passengers, silently wishing them well as they contemplate connecting flights, or car rentals, or reunions. She is invisible to most of them, although the toddler leans off his mother’s hip to touch her cheek as he passes by. Their eyes meet. Hope senses something auspicious about him and an image forms in her mind. It's a tarot card: The Sage presenting a Glowing Orb. You're the Storyteller! she realizes as the little boy is carried forward out of sight. Then it’s time for Hope to move on, too.

Nothing but life happens on Flight 316. Some will see it as an endless series of coincidences: You bump into a stranger. You find a tarot card. You give someone a cold. You give someone hope. Others will claim there is no such thing as coincidence, that destiny and destination are eternally linked, like strands of DNA, or cause and effect, or chewing gum stuck to the sole of your shoe. And they’d right…every single time.