YD6~29 Erin's Enigma: A New York Return Flight

 In my seat, squeezed among strangers in the wide-body cabin, I resorted to fixing the porthole. Jan Smuts International Airport terminal rotate in the distance, pressed in my seat, soar from the ground flattening, lock onto a highway, but I failed orient myself on these roadways I drove mapping in my mind construction sites, toying splashed and enmeshed suburbs, with far-scattered yellow mine dumps. Reminiscent of the Mercedes’ rear doors fling open. Before I caught up with Lionel and Gavin, they onslaught the mine dump, returning to the car, the sun reflecting gold, glittering the pores of their palms. Leaving my little boys, growing in stages, saddened for leaving them behind. ’_I’ll be back?_’ clutched my open-ended globetrotter return ticket, a silent vow that despite the miles and divorce, tethering at heart.

After a night flight North across the African continent. On my last leg, in contrast, flying west Helios in suspense, shading the porthole frame. With a brief concern grappling on my return, for taking an extended “vacation.” I pushed the inevitable away, before landing, and faced a discontented employer.

My mind drifted to Erin’s absurdity of the situation. When at traffic’s red hand lenses toggle, Erin steps off the curb. Erin took the lead, guiding me through the break in traffic as headlights paused and grills gleamed. Stepping to the opposite curb, turned up Fifth Avenue and a few doors down, she reached out, pushing open a classic door and clearing a Parisian-style sidewalk cafe.

I’m following Erin to the hallway, adorned with framed Parisian scenes. She pauses a few round, dainty terrace tables. Further unfazed, she grips the dainty rounded backrest; the legs screeching on the floor, lowering herself with a mischievous smile. ‘_How am I going to afford lunch for two here?_’ Rasped my mind, after a bank statement flips. ‘_four-hundred dollars and some change._’

Afar behind Erin, a “Garçon” detaches himself from a back wall to a bar counter, vanishing in the crack to a dining hall. Approaching along, paired backrest huddled to the terrace tabled along the hallway curtain wall, lowering myself along the illuminated wall to face Erin’s enigmatic smile. She picked up the menu, her eyesight trailing, as I’m scanning the ruinous prices listed in the margin. The effeminate Garçon stands by our table. ‘_What can I do for you?_’ He greeted us before voicing his thoughts.

Erin glances up at the Garcon. “A coffee, please,” she whispers. Garcon turns his head. ‘_And you?_’ His eyes inquired, which I second, the garcon turn away. distancing to disappear into the restaurant.

Erin smirked. “You can work for my father.” Behind her, the Garcon returns, serving our coffee, left our side. ‘_I’ve spoken to him._’ her gaze smirked between sips, as she resonated. “He’s in import-export.”

Entering the administrative offices of an old warehouse, my mind raised another head of the hydra. Which reared its eyes earlier, sniffed out to sight, Erin meeting with her father. Short of entering a glass-partitioned office, my other mind recoiled, shily finding myself on a first day introduced to the staff.

Secretary-accountant, a woman, scooched around a desk to sit emersed in a spill of papers. As if, the cluttered walls’ yellowed papers cascaded from overflowing file racks from the ceiling, spilling folders on her desk.

A male employee materialized in front of the cluttered shadowy corner, standing back, masking his face with a folder, His glare regurgitating envy. ‘_What guts of the owner’s stepson, to just walk in this place and take, which I deserve. I spent years building up this business!_’ The warehouse, with its overflowing files and its envious denizens, wasn’t what concerned me.

Although I came out richer at sharing a coffee, Erin relished her outing. I couldn’t imagine sacrificing my passion for the fluent language of concrete and bricks rising from the ground. As the idea, of working for Erin’s father was nurturing in mind. We returned to her Fiat Uno. She drove to her apartment for the evening. Fueled by a surge of resentment, her four in the morning call to leave. As I’m hit by fresh air, my mind cooled to enjoy my way home.

Unmoored in my seat, I’m glancing out the porthole. The coastal contours faded into the Atlantic Ocean’s vast blue hues. Erasing the memory of Erin’s bizarre Parisian cafe. After a prolonged stare, I sat back, returning to that Saturday. Erin had pulled up in her car, beside a grassy park. We got out, and she led me toward a crowd gathering on the edge of a pond.

People turned away as others arrived. ‘_This is strange?_’  I thought. In my approach, people picked up what I presume were pebbles off the ground, and threw it into the water. We came to stand amid people at the water's edge. Not wanting to feel out of place, I mimicked the crowd throwing a pebble myself. Not before Erin turns to me. “Don’t you know. . . What to do?” she asks.

Erin explains the ritual. “It’s Tashlich,” she explained. “A way to cast away your sins from the past year.” Her words hung heavy in the air. My mind scrambled to understand the scene, and I felt the biggest idiot out, shaking, as we turned around, heading toward the parking lot, climbing into her car and driving away.

On Fridays at sunset, Erin parks her car on the street, and we head across the street toward the synagogues’s portal. The heavy wooden doors of the synagogue loomed before us. Erin weaves through the crowd in the hallway. emerged on the other side, without her picking a conversation with the people. While I sidestep, following a man’s lead, picking up a plain white yarmulke to my palm pressing to the top of my head. I caught up with Erin. walking down the middle aisle past men far scattered across pews. Short of seating near the bimah, Erin turns left, sidesteps, to lower herself to the front seat. I joined her, feeling an exposure cold under my skin. Watch a few men with prayer shawls wrapping shoulders, move with an increased urgency, their eyes darting toward the backdoor, as they call out in an incessant rhythm, urging people to take their seat to start the Shabbat service.

The cabin aisles’ air hostesses materialized. Serving the rows of seated passengers. At my turn, I reached past my neighbor to accept a plastic dish and a mini bottle of red wine, to a children’s tea party in my cramped corner.

In a swift aftermath, used trays, and cups, in an exchange of hands to the air hostess’ swoops away crinkling wrappings the empty trays to her earlier food trolley. Passengers rose, buzzing aisles, wrestling  luggage in overhead bins. shuffled to cramp spaces near the toilets.

Ahead of the silver wing, to open skies, a stopover bridged three continents. On my last leg, my mind, however high above the sun’s light in the fleece of scattered clouds, and skimming the cerulean Atlantic ocean, through jets’ drone fuel Erin’s subtle assurance, her waiting for my return pricked my conscience.

My perpetual job concern removed from consuming my life, my mind seeking its own distraction, I’m reminiscing about Erin when she exited the gleaming marble lobby of her apartment tower. She stepped out the plate-glass doors, and by stark contrast alongside the front yard greenery enter the juxtaposed garage open door. In the gloomy interior, a stocky shadow emerged from behind a forest of concrete columns. The man paused, greeting Erin. Who else but an admiring concierge? after Erin’s warm response to his greeting. Erin, by the far taillight fender, contoured her white Fiat Uno, while I stepped along the near flank. Lowering ourselves into the front seats - Smack, Smack - closing the door.

Erin reverses, drives away toward the concierge’s stare. His gaze averted from me, as my window passed by the man. We exited the garage. She steers past the bushy island into the street, leaving the garage’s plinth to the apartment towers, engage the street toward Queens Boulevard. Clearing Manhattan’s distant jagged skyline, she turned away from the city, merged in a weekend’s trickling traffic.

“This is Long Island,” Erin exclaimed, voicing a faint echo in memory. As Erin’s drove me to the novelty of the Verrazano bridge, over the wide body of water. I enjoyed the thrill of an adventure on the broad riverbanks. Laughed inside. Her lips sealed her intentions. All felt distant, in my confined airplane space.

“Right,” I acknowledge as the road narrowed, swallowed by the dense foliage of towering hedges. Off right, the distant waterfront gleamed through gaps in the trees. After a stretch bends away. We passed sprawling estates with looming mansions, as I’m laughing off. ‘_My Teddy Bear! Where are you taking me to?_’

From the water the gleam vanished, to edge a belfry above the woods’ canopy. In our approach, we reached the corner of a matching pink hewn stone fence wall. 

“You’re not romantic… ‘_Are you?’_” Erin’s teasing lilted voice broke the silence. 

I couldn’t find the right words, thinking. ‘_My Teddy Bear? What do you want me to do? You’re the one driving?_’ The gateway crack opens, to display a driveway to a setback’s entrance portal, a stone-carved plinth to the belfry. 

“I work here.” Erin announces her profile against the stone belfry framed in her window with a glimpse at me. I caught a sliver of the building wing’s rows and columns of small windows. Which triggered my nephew, Paul, hospitalized in Weskoppies mental hospital, in Pretoria. Other than asking, ‘_Is that an asylum?_’ Speechless, my mind journeyed to a moist cobblestone Parisian back street. I blocked the details, from visualizing Erin’s traumatic experience, which she said led her specializing in the psychology of rape cases. When her gaze flicked to mine, seeking to decipher my thoughts. My eyesight took the relay for that moment, venturing deeper into the countryside. 

‘_Is that why you drove me out here?_’ My question hung in the air, until I voiced with a single, “Right?” 

“I’m negotiating with the clinic’s head to have my working hours reduced to 10 hours. With 10 hours in my private practice. . .” Erin continued explaining her ‘20-hour week’ Elicited a chuckle self-made man. As I’m contemplating above the running wall, the pitched terracotta tiled roof extended the institution’s wing afar, to an abrupt end of the peripheral wall. 

The Atlanta rises with the birds ever since I was an apprentice. Crisp air crackled in my lungs as I cycled off freezing fingers from Kyalami, wavy hills rolling out before us. In Pretoria, I dropped Igor at Hatfield to attend high school. I continued to various construction sites. Removed my sandwich under my leather bomber jacket. Wet in sweat, I’m beginning laying bricks. Helios crossed the skies. At five pm I saddled my road-race bicycle pedaling home. Arriving with the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues.

Thriving on the relentless grind of contracting, I despised the idleness weekends and vacations brought. freedom descended into boredom, a stark contrast to Erin’s desire to whittle more leisure time out of her workweek. For better or worse, egoistic, the relationship needs to snap into my workaholic tendencies.

Wonder filled me as I sat in the passenger seat. Erin drove toward a clearing bathed in a golden glow. We emerged from the dense oak canopy, the car into a shady spot beneath the trees. Stepping out, she headed toward a verge, her gaze flowing over the green lawns sliding under the sky’s reflective pond. Erin lowered herself to the grass, pulling her knees close, embracing her legs. I lowered myself beside her. As she retracted her gaze, her eyes fixed on the feathery ducks alongside a gaggle of geese edging the water at rest, with Helios high in the skies.

After a long dream, Erin unlocks her arms. She rose and walked toward her Fiat Uno. We split by the fenders’ taillights opening our doors - Smack, smack - of closing doors, she turned the ignition, shifted gears, reversed, drove forward across the resort’s asphalt parking lot, and merged the deserted countryside road. a short stretch further, appeared a circling strip of shops nestling beneath the bending canopies of trees at the back.

The clothing store left me baffled. Erin, however, seemed overjoyed, plucking hangers along the racks, fluttering clothes in front of me. ‘_You look well in this!_’ Her gaze spoke. Her eyes shifted. Flamboyant jumped racks. Busy hands guiding me to a change room, with an armful of clothes. I sustained autumn’s morning and evening shivers, such as people’s eyes reflecting my wearing, with indifference in jeans for a crawl in the grim underneath of a greasy car, or stepping onto a construction site’s demolition dust. Although dancing a Viennese Waltz in a tuxedo had its charm. In the spirit of a compromise, My stomach churned, as I stood with Erin at the cashier. With the woolen coat I wore into winter, that wouldn’t fit in my suitcase.

Exiting the store, Erin circled her Uno and slid behind the wheel. She drove from the curb of parked cars, the car ducking down the shady country road. Pulled into the Texaco’s driveway to stop beside fuel pumps. In unison, we stepped out of the car. I felt the need to attend to Erin, gazing over the car roof. “Fill her up… ‘_Be a man, pay for our outing!’_” Her gaze spoke.

After calculation, my $200.00 Dollars coat, to a mere $7.00 balance. To my relief, Erin didn’t persist. I’m in a wave of disappointments. I left her to pump’s nozzle - clang - remove the fuel cap - clang - filling her tank, clanging the return nozzle, to pay the pump - smack, smack - the doors closed. She drives away and continues on the county road, timing her words. “We’re going for lunch. . . Do you like Chinese?”

Off the country road, Erin steered the car down a narrow road. I’m telling myself. ‘_Erin has to know the milieu._’ We reached a clearing in the woods, to a charming red wooden veranda. We get out of the car and walk toward the entrance. She pressed open the heavy wooden doors, to a deserted dining hall splashed with Chinese characters.

As Erin ushered along empty tables, a thought flickered to mind. ‘_We could have gone for a walk in the woods._’ A slit-eyed Chinese waitress approaches, as Erin took a seat. I’m lowering myself into the chair opposite her. 

“What are you going to have?” Erin throws at me.  

‘_I don’t know?_’ Came to my mind, cowering from replying to Erin. Her gaze questioning my silence. The slender young waitress stood by our table. Erin looked up at her. “Can I have some Water?” She whispered.

The waitress swiveled away from my sight. “Well!” I muttered, a touch of sarcasm lacing my voice. “That’s all we have money for. We’re going to wash dishes.”

In Erin’s silence, she dangled a riddle in front of me, and I’m not voicing. ‘_Who’s going to pay?_’ The waitress returned with a glass of water. Together we scanned the menu, too pricey and out of mind. Erin placed her order. I requested the same dish as her. Telling myself. ‘_She’s mature enough to figure out I can’t afford this meal._’ The waitress returned, placing our plates of shrimps and cokes. While Erin kept me uncomfortable while eating. Ending with the graceful waitress’ placing a saucer with two butterfly cookies topping the bill. Erin’s secrecy twisting away in her seat from the waitress and my praying eyes. Reaching into her purse slung over the chair's backrest. She uncoils, handing across to the waitress her credit card.

As the waitress cleared our table, Erin picked a cookie. Between her fingers, cracks the butterfly biscuit open. Retrieving a sliver of paper. “ Your feelings will sort themselves out.” She read out loud as I cracked mine, saying. “Your job will improve.” Rose from our seats, nurturing to mind the meaning. We exited the dining hall. Walked through the parking lot, toward the awaiting white Uno. Erin slid behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and drove away, Aetheria’s silent message though cryptic, niggling to mind — a promise, or warning? Only time would tell.

In the shadows of towering apartments, Erin steered the car around the shrubbery island and parked among concrete columns. We got out, stepped outdoors, to the juxtaposed bright lobby interior. Pushing open the glass doors. We crossed the gleaming floor to the elevator tucked away in the far corner. The doors sighed open. Stepping inside, we emerged into the familiar corridor. Erin unlocked her front door, as she crossed the threshold to her studio. Erin broke her thoughtful silence, her exasperation sighing. “I don’t want to be poor.”

Erin’s lazy voice. “You better leave.” She urged me to jolt to my feet. With her heart pound, I scrambled across the room. Threw on my clothes, slipped into my shoes, inching off toward the shadowy door. Eased close behind - twock - the door closed. Unable to chill my heart, my wristwatch showed four a.m! Struggling to process while standing by the elevator. I stepped out with an eyesight leap across the lobby to the distant street lights beckoning beyond the glass door.

The crisp morning air calmed my frantic strides, greetings chirps from the branches of sidewalk trees calmed my frantic strides, to a pleasurable walk. Reaching a ghostly Queens Boulevard, and in its spirit, I descend underground. weaving empty fluorescent tunnels to stand on a deserted platform. bare tracks emerging and disappearing into dark tunnels. My mind spreads a web for the remaining few hours before a bustling city. The arrival heralded by the weary driver in the squarish windshield trundled past. Windows cinematographic cleared few people, to a stop. Doors opened, and I boarded. Far from a handful of homeless riders, I’m turning to sit, as we pull away the ride home to a new day.

Fledging Aetheria’s reflection, in our late morning lucky sun flight. We duck through a sequence of white fleecy clouds, raising the discreet Atlantic blues. My mind abandoned figuring out Erin’s usual luring me in all discretion. Leaving the bunker-like garage behind, she steers toward the distant jagged skyline. Soon, we’re among the skyscrapers and stalling her car. Stepping out, I’m awaiting her surprise.

We emerged on Broadway, classic building shadows in the night, highlights the fascia splashing and underneath the canopy, the theater entrance. Erin leads me, silent amidst the people in evening dress, through the foyer. Down the theater’s center aisle we walk, past scattered patrons, to a pair of vacant chairs in the front-row. Erin engages in a conversation with the man, while swiveling and sitting, as I guess the next seat reserved for me.

Lost, my eyesight wanderers across the stage’s dropped curtains. An elderly, well-rounded woman leans to my lap, wanting to talk about her rich life experience. Questioning me, I caught her eyes, after I flustered, mumbling a response. The curtain rose, plunging the stage into the renaissance splendor. Before I realized how confused watching Les Misérables’ musical, which I associated with French culture, with Moliere to shame by my ignorance. At intermission, Erin stepped into the lobby engaged in random conversations with people, before we returned to our seats, watching the play out. Stepping out in the night. Across the street, 42nd Street’s neon light flashed and danced. Erin retrieved her car, to drive back to her apartment.

The coastline dwindles from the airplane’s porthole, rising from the brownish ground. Rising a fragmented cubist of dense suburban street networks, onto touchdown. taxiing past New York International’s terminal, a nervous impulse free talking to the man besides me. “The terminal is a shoddy piece of architecture!” As I couldn’t withdraw my words from the man’s face drops, shading his homecoming joy. Shame washed me down with anxiety. Scolding myself for criticizing another man’s cultural touchstone.

We’re taxiing roundabout to a stop by the terminal’s spreading wing. passengers rose from their seats, cluttered the aisles, gazing after their hands, open bins, pulling out bags, to trail past aircrew’s farewells. Passengers distancing through the narrow jet bridge, veering to a trickle along the walkway. Until, people backwash. Herded at the glass booths of a barrier, with too few passport control agents. My first arrival’s fear of crossing into the country was diluted. I hand my passport to the controlling officer, waving me by his glass cubicle to proceed fetching my suitcase out of the terminal to the driveway to call for a taxi.

Driving toward the city skyline, a jagged silhouette against the flocky sky, loomed. Without wrestling, how Erin will perceive my return to New York, unannounced at rewinding with my work here, from my hectic experience with my family in South Africa?