Now it is the middle-sized hijacker’s turn. He looks over the stewardesses, then begins walking up the aisle, eyeing passengers. It is silent except for the humming of engines, the sound of his slow steps. He approaches; I watch his scuffed boots. He is almost past me when I remember the Girl Scouts sitting near the back of the plane. Pretty braids, skinny legs. Lips scented with cherry lip gloss. The retarded one. I raise my hand like a schoolgirl, then undo my seat belt. It slides down my thighs and I stand up. He turns his head and gives me a nod.
We walk together down the aisle. He in his black executioner’s hood, I in my white linen suit crumpled from sitting. We walk with a slow, measured step. I stare at the passengers as I pass, but the women look away, breathing small guilty sighs of relief.
To the back of the plane we go, then through a secret door and down a ladder into the baggage hold. It is dark here; the suitcases are stacked up in hulking, uneven piles. I can see a narrow path winding mazelike among the mounds.
The hijacker removes his hood and his black leather gloves. He comes close and grabs my arm, his breath hot and heavy with peanuts. His sweat is rank like the sewers of a foreign country. Without a word, he licks my face and starts to tear at my clothes.
I begin to form a fantastic plan.
I push him away—gently. I give him a big smile and take off my jacket, dropping it on the floor. The shoes go next. He watches suspiciously. I start to unbutton the blouse, retreating into the luggage. I drop it on the floor and walk farther into the darkness. He begins to understand the game, and follows the trail.
He finds my skirt next, then my bra. This he holds in his hands a minute, trying to judge its size. The light is dim; we can barely see each other in the narrow passageway, a dark tunnel in the middle of the sky.
I leave my slip next; he fingers it, rubs it against his face. I pull off my stockings. The next bread crumb is a glittering pile of jewelry. I can hear him breathing harder now, getting excited as he imagines my bare body waiting just ahead.
Next I drop a girdle in his path. This confuses him; it takes him a moment to figure out what it is. He holds it in his hands, trying to remember how I looked in the lighted cabin. He squints now, trying to see me. He is wondering if perhaps this woman he is following is older than he thought. Perhaps she is not what she seemed.
Next he finds the panties, and these reassure him somewhat. They are skimpy, silky; they have a certain smell. He walks faster now, perspiring with desire, eager to reach the naked perfect woman waiting just around the bend, splayed out on a garment bag.
I have not yet laid myself completely bare. I now leave for him: false nails, a dental plate, corn pads, contact lenses. A tampon. He slips and skids on this litter. It disturbs him, and his mental picture begins to crumble. Yet he doggedly pushes onward, still hopeful that his goal will be curvy and intact.
But I have only begun to strip down; I am peeling myself like a complicated fruit and leaving the husks in his path. So many layers: scrapings of makeup, blobs of cellulite, breast implants like two clear disks of Jell-O. Scars, tattoos, an IUD.
Now I begin to pluck out the deeper things, which grate against my bones and aggravate my stomach. The things that fester in my cramping brain. Barbed memories, secret thoughts, hairy hands, thickened skin, dirty secrets whispered drunk late at night. Abortions, braces, blood tests. I am plucking these things out with tweezers; I am throwing them down in a flood of tears and mucus and menstrual blood. Here I am: This is my pure center, the fruit’s core, the inner nugget.
Down here in the luggage hold, I am unloading my own personal baggage and strewing it at his feet. And he—at the sight of this blinding nakedness, this shocking intimacy—flees, howling.
He races away, and I chase after him, scratching at his back with rough-bitten nails. He tosses the gun aside and vaults up the ladder. I follow after him, wild and cackling.
We dash through the cabin, past rows of surprised faces. The hijacker is raising his hands in surrender. I run faster; I am nearly upon him.
Then the shoe salesman leaps to his feet. He sticks his foot into the aisle and trips up the hijacker, who falls flat. I am running too fast to stop. I plow straight into the shoe man, who catches me in his arms. The passengers applaud wildly. He pushes me aside and plants a foot on the hijacker’s rump.
I look down and see that I am no longer naked. I am as I was before—sheathed, concealed; only bits of my clothing are missing. Passengers crowd around. The heroic shoe man nods and beams, accepting high fives and slaps on the back. The captain awards him an airline pin. Children beg for autographs.
I twist about, trapped in the crush. My blouse pops open and men are staring at my breasts. The stewardesses are passing out free cocktails. People are dancing around with oxygen masks on their heads for party hats, the elastic straps beneath their chins. The plane dives and loops; people raise their hands and whoop as if they’re on a roller coaster. The in-flight movie begins. I’m blinded by dancing colors. “You’re blocking the screen!” somebody yells. The passengers cheer as the opening credits scroll across my chest.
Framed in the window is a sunset, with the words The End sketched across the sky.
And then suddenly there is a whooosh, a great blast of air as the hatch is opened. Everyone turns to stare. The twelve Girl Scouts, fully equipped with parachutes and helmets, spring out into the air. They’re looking ahead, squinting, sunlight glinting on their braces. They float down two by two, holding hands. Sailing free and brave in the wide-open sky.
This is a city of many faces. It folds itself into dark corners. It stretches out its fingers of neon signs and asphalt. It unrolls itself like a magic carpet. It changes from day to day. It had a heart that beats in the center, though no one knows where the center is. This is a city of paths and destinations. A hundred thousand people make their way through the maze. Their paths meet and cross; they leave their trails of broken hearts and bread crumbs behind them. They think their ways are secret, their desires unknown. But they are like the ants in an ant farm: Anyone watching from above can see exactly where they are going and where they have been.
Mr. and Mrs. Clark stand on a street corner. They are looking for the Theater District. They are visiting their daughter here in the city for the first time. They are to meet her for an evening show. She had offered to make arrangements for them, but Mr. Clark said, “What? Do you think we’re senior citizens already? We can take care of ourselves, thank you.” But now they are lost; they have wandered far from their hotel and the streets are unfamiliar. The boys playing on the sidewalk speak in foreign tongues. Some have no shirts; some have no shoes. Mr. Clark has a thick red neck. He is perspiring a bit. Mrs. Clark clutches his arm, not because she loves him but because her new shoes are too tight. Now Mr. Clark looks for a cab, then tries to make sense of the street signs. Mrs. Clark tries to ask directions of the boys. They laugh and call her “fat lady” in their own language, but she understands anyway. She turns away from them, lips trembling, and says, “We’re going to miss it, aren’t we? We’re going to miss the show.”
You’re lost. Or you’re looking for something. You’re trying to find your way. You turn a corner, then another—no, that’s not it. The streets all look the same, but they change their stripes as soon as you turn your back. You need a guide; you need a map. You walk with your collar turned up and your chin sunk in. The sun’s going down, the streets are empty, and it’s getting later and later. The something that you’re looking for is waiting for you to find it, but it won’t wait forever.
Gordon sits on the examining table in his underwear and a paper robe. His feet are very, very cold. “I’m sorry,” says the doctor.