In Transit [FICTOID]

The guy sitting beside Desmond at the airport collapsed -- literally.

First he slid off his seat, falling into the gap between his chair and Desmond’s.

By all rights his body should have lodged there:  A man of average height and slightly heavier build, with a round face and a flat crew cut.  He wore black clothes:  T-shirt, shorts, sneakers.

The guy fell into the gap and should have wedged there, but to Desmond’s surprise, his body began collapsing in on itself, his head flopping back as if his neck was broken, his legs folding under him like an old carpenter’s rule, bending where they shouldn’t bend.

Desmond’s first reaction was annoyance at the intrusion into his personal space followed by dismay and concern as he wondered if his seatmate suffered a heart attack or stroke.

That changed to amazement and shock as the guy’s torso collapsed in on itself like a building imploding by demolition charges.

The guy collapsed into a flat pile on the floor between the seats, his lifeless expression facing upwards. Desmond watching in numb disbelief as the guy’s body…evaporated?  Melted?  He couldn’t tell which, but the flattened body quickly disappeared, the face being the last to go, never changing expression.

The guy left no trace behind.  The airport’s sturdy industrial carpet showed no dampness, no dust, no debris.

“Did you see that?” Desmond asked the counter clerk.

“See what?”

“That guy!”

“What guy?”

“The guy right here.”

“I don’t see anybody.”

“He was right here!”

The counter clerk arched an eyebrow as if to say:  “And…?”

“He disappeared.”

“’Disappeared.’”

“Yes!  He just…”  Desmond’s voice trailed off.  He knew what it would sound like if he said “melted away.”

“You must have dozed off, sir,” said the counter clerk.  “Had a dream.”

Desmond, still feeling un nerved, grabbed the sanity life ring.  “Yes…that must be it…dozed off…”

He sat, puzzled and flustered, trying to convince himself that was what happened when two burly airport security officers stepped up to him.

“Would you come with us, sir,” one said.  He didn’t make it sound like a request.

“Why?”

“Come with us, sir.”

“But my flight…”  Desmond glanced at the counter clerk who astutely refused to look in his direction.

“Don’t worry about your flight,” said the other officer.  “Come with us.”

Clutching his carry on bag, Desmond went with the two officers.

They took him deep into the maze of the airport, way down where passengers never go.  After a confusing series of twists and turns they brought him to a small unmarked door.

The door opened ti a windowless cube-like room.  A sturdy metal table and two equally sturdy metal chairs sat bolted to the floor in the middle of the room.

A pale wiry man in a black suit with a black tie and -- incongruously enough -- dark wraparound shades sat in one chair, looking at his phone.

The man put his phone screen down on the table.  “Sit,” he said, making no gesture.

Desmond sat.

“What did you see?” the man asked, drawing out the last syllable.

Desmond hesitated.  He sensed the truth would not serve him well.  “Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing?”

“A dream,” Desmond said.  “I had a dream, nothing more.”

“Nothing,” said the man in black again.  “You would sign a sworn affidavit to that.”

“I don’t want to miss my flight…”

“That’s the least of your worries,” said the man.  “The affidavit.”

Desmond acquiesced and nodded.

Without a word or signal from the man, the door opened and a young woman came in, laying a multi-paged document and a pen in front of Desmond.

Desmond flipped through the top three pages.

“You don’t need to read it,” said the man.  “Just sign it.”

The document appeared densely typed and filled with jargon Desmond didn’t understand.  “If I sign, you’ll get me on my flight?”

“Sign.”

Desmond sighed and signed.  The young woman took the document away.

“You’re free to go,” said the man, checking his phone again.

“And my flight?”

“That’s your problem,” said the man.

“How do I -- ?”

“Out the door, to the left.  Go to the first T-intersection and take the right-hand corridor.  Keep taking right turns until you reach the main concourse.”

Desmond picked up his bag, stood, and put his hand on the doorknob.  “Not a word of this to anyone,” said the man.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Desmond.

© Buzz Dixon