Companionship (nanowrimo practice)
I was walking away from the wreckage when I realized I hadn’t looked for my cat. Making my way through the fifteen feet of shrapnel was bad enough, but calling Max! Max! as loudly as my bruised vocal cords would allow made for harsh breathing and a very tired mommy. I never should have flown to Phoenix.
It all started January 2, 1998. I was an aerial technician (that’s stewardess to you non-airline folk) aboard one of the commercial airlines. Traveling between coasts gets busy and I never could pin down a man long enough to raise a few rug rats of my own. That’s when I found Max. Having only two hours between flights, I stepped out on the veranda for a quick smoke. While smiling at a captain or three, and intentionally ignoring a whining stewardess I found a small ball of fur underneath a seat. I tied my shoes by-way-of-apology and bent down to look. Max must have been all of five pounds, shaking like a leaf, and screaming quietly by the whining technician.
I wondered how the cat had gotten into an airport, who had left him here, and whether I was outside my mind, but I grabbed the cat and took it to the lounge. The stares I got were punctuated by oohs and aahs as I shared my discovery with everyone there, and an instant camaraderie developed. We all adopted Max.
Right from the start Max liked me. I’d pass him around and he would grace everyone with some measure of patience. Inevitably he’d get antsy or hungry or irritable and would complain mercilessly until I took notice and lifted him up. Then he’d purr like he’d just caught a dozen mice in some cat Olympics, and all would be right in my world.
A year later it was regular protocol to sneak Max on board. One of us would talk to the pilot and let them know what was up. Another would make sure extra food was brought on board ‘just in case.’ It was amazing how much help Max provided as well. I remember it was late May and we had one of those women who brings WAY too many kids on board. She was sitting several rows from the back, kids strung out like tissue paper on a midnight raid, when the smallest starts to scream bloody murder. Maybe it was the change in air pressure or she hadn’t been in a week. All I really knew is that her mom wasn’t doing anything about it and I felt that someone had better do something. Softly, Max had popped out of his hiding place, walked down the aisle, and drew the stare of every passenger he passed. He didn’t acknowledge a single one. He slowly made his way to that little girl’s seat, and looked up at her. Between hiccups and bellowing, Max jumped on her lap and began to purr loudly. The little girl didn’t know what hit her, and looked at Max with the biggest eyes I had ever seen. And she didn’t look up from Max until the plane touched down. I can still remember the silent thanks those passengers gave me.
A year after that and Max was given his own uniform. Complete with little pocket and hat, Max would fight whenever I put it on him; after it was in place, he obviously enjoyed it. He would visit the cockpit during boring moments in the air and would always find the one passenger who seemed the most likely to be unhappy. Inevitably Max would walk down the aisle to sit and wait, the passenger would be distracted from their rant, and Max would plant himself in their lap.
August 31st was the worst day of my life. I was in Terminal B during a layover, sitting in a sunlit corner, petting Max, when some idiot with the mind of a hamster starts complaining loudly. I never quite caught what was said because the next thing I knew, the terminal collapsed in on itself. My ears were ringing so loudly that I could barely stand, and there was blood and crying everywhere. Phoenix was particularly hot and with the Terminal now in blisters and leftovers around me, I left my baggage and my mind and clawed my way out of the pile of second hand walls. Nothing looked at all like it had five minutes ago, and I felt a dull ache that didn’t seem to have a name. I wonder what I missed.