CAEULUS
Short story for Creative Writing Class. 1k.
I met an old god on an American Airlines flight to Jacksonville, Florida. He greeted me, as flight attendants do, as I lugged my heavy tote higher onto my shoulder to make room for the skinny aisles. His gaze was longer than the average person’s. It was almost penetrating, as one might describe, and it felt like in the single moment that I stared into his oddly light brown eyes that he was reading me. The smile on his face was like one of a knowing grandmother, too smart to know what you were up to, but too wise to tell your mother. I walked away with a sense of loss, like stepping out of a steamy bathroom into a winter chilled bedroom. I felt the electricity and vitality that surged at the doorway drip off my shoulders like pool water. He stared. There was a glint in his eyes. I swore it shined with reflections of gold.
His voice was the one that came up over the speaker, low enough that you had to strain to listen. It was soft, almost enchanting. Each word was woven with an accent I couldn’t place--perhaps Arabian. It was only strong enough to come from a fantasy, luckily not heavy enough to block out the instructions that he perfectly articulated. I didn’t care to look around to see if any other passengers were in the same trance I was because I knew. I felt the pull from the speakers, like a genie whispering the three wishes we always wanted. Each word was enunciated with a drawl that elongated each word. He spoke like he could lull not only a baby, but the harshest of creatures, the deadliest of monsters, to a sweet and peaceful sleep.
The flight attendant came with the drink cart about half an hour into the flight. He pushed it like it weighed nothing at all, walking with such poise and structure that he could have said he was a runway model that ran away to fulfill his lifelong dream of being a flight attendant and I would have believed him. Shoulders back, chin high. Power filled each step, each action. He chose each step carefully, as if a missed footing would unleash such wrath among us mere mortals. The calmness of his body was almost unnerving, like the type of character that is often paired with assassins or sociopaths. He could break you down in a fight with one hand and without getting a single drop of blood on his suit.
Flight attendants are known for looking nice, clean, and, well, uniform, but I couldn’t help but notice how finely tailored his uniform was. I imagined famous tailors, ones that were in the business before the big names like Valentino, burning candle light as they weave stitch after stitch as payment to this god for luck and fortune. His raven black hair, cascading in glossy locks that shampoo ads would only dream off, was pulled back into a neat ponytail at the center of his skull. It was too clean to be humanly possible.
He asked for my drink order and the pristinely shaved dark stubble across his sharp jaw was almost jarring. It looked as if this man had just shaved his face, even though it was half past eight at night. His eyebrows were as defined as his beard, highlighting the sharp brow bones he possessed. They were arched in a way that was both mischievous and intimidating, like you’d never know if he was going to laugh or shout at you. I thanked him profusely for the pretzel bag he offered, taking it from bronzed hands with an array of different jewels cased in gold, varying in color and shape, adorning each of his fingers. He reminded me of the cunning charm of a genie, pulling you in to suck you dry of twisted wishes.
The man, enrapturing us all in his actions, parked his cart in the middle row of coach, right behind the emergency exit row. He walked to the back row like he had conquered a feat of many men, turned on his heel, and asked the last row what their drink order was. Then, instead of filling out the order, he asked the next, and the next until he was back at the beginning. Then, in his ring adorned fingers, he balanced handfuls of drinks, bringing correct order after correct order to about fifty passengers.
He even remembered the middle aged man next to me and his request for extra ice.
I seemed to be the only one who paid enough attention to this feat. There was a quirk in his lips, like a kiss of a smile. He eyed me out of his peripheral. A silent promise was exchanged. I only realized later, upon meeting up with my mother, that I had no turbulence whatsoever. Quite odd for Florida air, as she pointed out, but not quite odd enough for me.
I once read a story about old gods living among us. It was complete bullshit, but I spent that night tossing and turning. The well weathered hands of a man with too young of a face pried at my thoughts. Perhaps the author had seen one too, an old god, allowing a human to see a glimpse of him in his power. Perhaps Athena is out there in the crowds, leading protests and wars for social justice. Perhaps Hermes is running the gossip sites, giving tips and tricks to the sleuths and the spies. Perhaps Hera is the one saving those in domestic abuse, saving those kids in broken homes. Perhaps the Muses are alive, weaving and inspiring the famous and infamous of our generations. Perhaps it was Caelus in his full glory, god and guardian of the skies. Perhaps the gods have always been among us. Perhaps, we just have to pay attention.
