The First

by Glen Kenner

  Getting through TSA is a breeze. I have almost nothing on me. A wallet, my passport that I picked up before meeting Sarah, keys, and an old, melted and misshapen mint from Olive Garden that was stuck inside my front pocket. Must have been there since I took Angie out for her birthday months ago. I suddenly realize that I haven’t thought about Angie in days. Huh.

  Sarah puts her big bag on the conveyor belt next to the small tray holding my things. She pulls out a see-through toiletry bag and I see some tampons. I can’t fathom a way to ask, but I’m seriously interested to know if she will continue to get her periods since she’s now a First. Assuming that she is a First and not something else waiting to happen. Thirty thousand feet in the air, over the Atlantic Ocean, would be a really bad time to find out. Well, what happens, happens. But if she gets her next period, does that mean she’s fertile? Because no male Firsts are. Except for The Father. If he’s really a First.

  Fuck if my head doesn’t hurt.

  We take off our shoes and neither one of us is wearing socks. She’s been wearing sandals. I stare at her toes. They’re perfect. And she’s wearing a gold ankle bracelet with a Japanese fish. A gold koi. I know this feeling that’s spreading throughout my body. Damnit.

  We get through the body scanning equipment that’s probably giving everyone other than me and Sarah cancer. Gather up our few belongings and put our shoes back on. I suppress the urge to make a bomb joke to the TSA agent next to me. It wants to come out so bad. And it’s a hilarious joke about an old lady, a proctologist and a goat. But I’ve read that bomb jokes are apparently frowned upon these days, unless you enjoy cavity searches and missing your flight. Fucking terrorists took all of the fun out of flying.

  We have almost three hours until boarding. I tell Sarah let’s do some shopping.

  At a small women’s clothing store, Sarah picks out a pair of slacks with wide legs. She tells me these aren’t in style. I tell her it doesn’t matter. Then I help her decide on a large head scarf and a pair of big Jackie O style sunglasses. She loves the sunglasses.

  The flight to Detroit is just barely an hour and a half. Sarah and I hardly talk. She brought one of her law books and has it open in front of her most of the flight. I keep meaning to ask her when her classes are, what classes is she taking and so on. I’m interested. I love those courtroom shows. But shit keeps happening.

  In Detroit we have almost an hour before boarding for the flight to Paris. At our departing gate, we grab two seats. Sarah sits down and opens her law book again.

  -Hey, I’m going to find a bookstore and get something to drink. Maybe something to snack on. Want anything?

  -A Dr Pepper? And crackers of any kind. Lots of crackers. And if you see a book on Arabic, get one.

  -You read my mind. I was actually going to look for a book with a CD and try to find a CD player. We can share.

  She smiles and goes back to her book. The bookstore has a few choices and I pick up the Berlitz phrase book. Common phrases, pantomime, and a lot of attitude have saved my ass more than once over several millennia. I find a CD player with a crappy headset included, batteries, earbuds, and even soda and snacks. No Mountain Dew. Just Coke products. The total is over eighty dollars. Not sure if my tax guy will agree this and the tickets are all business expenses. On the way back to the gate, I pass a Pepsi vending machine and buy a 20 ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. I only drink alcohol of any kind, Mountain Dew, and water. In that order.

  We board and walk all the way to the back of the plane. Window and middle seat. I ask which Sarah wants and she takes the window. A middle-aged, Middle Eastern man takes the aisle seat next to me. We smile politely at each other. I ask him in English if he speaks Arabic. He responds in English, yes. I hold up my phrase book and tell him I’m going to be fluent by time we land. He says something in Arabic and laughs. I laugh too. Ha ha! I turn back to Sarah who was watching and tell her that I think he called me a son of a whore. Or told me good luck. Not sure.

  Sarah and I listen to the CD and flip through the book as the plane flies east over the Great Lakes and then over the North Atlantic. We can watch the flight path on the monitor built into the back of the seat in front of us. I think we’ll go over Greenland. I tell myself to make sure to watch the monitor from time to time. I’d like to see Greenland, even if it’s from 35,000 feet.

  Sarah turns to me and leans over and cups her hand next to my ear and puts her lips close to me. A shiver runs from my ear and into every singer finger and toe.

  -Would we, you and me, people like us, would we live if we, uh… you know…

  I know but I want to make this moment last as long as possible. I turn and give her my confused face.

  -You know, if the plane…

  She takes away her hand and makes the universal sign for a plane diving down out of the sky.

  I lean toward her and cup my hand like she did and speak into her ear.

  -I don’t know. Probably not. I’ve always heard that hitting water from this height would be like hitting concrete.

  And then I use my hand to make the plane dive and then flatten out my hand and splay out my fingers like a big splat. I glance sideways at the man next to me and he’s watching my hand. Shit, hope he doesn’t think I’m a terrorist.

  I lean back over and put my hand to her ear.

  -Even if we did live, we probably would break every single bone in our bodies. And then we’d just sort of bob up and down and finally go under and drown. I’d rather go quick. Splat.

  We sit still for a bit, our necks angled and our heads almost touching. Then she seems to relax her a body a bit and her head touches mine and rests.

  -You never told me how old you are.

  -I know. It’s complicated.

  -We have 11 hours. It can’t be that complicated.

  -It is. Sorry.

  More quietness. Our heads stay touching.

  -Let me tell you about some of the famous people I’ve met over the years. Cool?

  She nods her head and settles into her seat a bit.

  -I lived in New York for awhile. From 1664 to 1924. In 1860, February, I think, rumor was that Lincoln was coming to New York to test the waters for a presidential run. The mayor, this guy I didn’t care for named Fernando Wood, asked me for a favor. I knew every mayor of New York, from Willet in ‘65 to Hylan when I left. There’s something about New York City that brings out the corruption in a politician. And they all eventually asked for favors. So Mayor Wood, a Democrat, hated Lincoln, a Republican. Loathed him. Wood supported the South. This was before the political parties sort of switched sides to what they are today. So Wood supported the South in the days leading up to the War. Even tried to get the state of New York to secede with the Confederacy. So here was Lincoln coming in and, because Lincoln really was a simple man, he came alone. No aides, no secretaries, no advisers. Just himself. So Wood asked me to tail him. Find some dirt on him. Plant some dirt on him. Anything.

  -Was Lincoln really as ugly as they say?

  -Hell yes. He didn’t have a beard then. Best thing he probably ever did was grow that beard. Anyway, he came into New York by train from Springfield and the rumors were right. He was alone. As I walked behind him from the station to the cabs, I didn’t see anyone give him more than a second glance and that was probably just because of his height and half-dead facial features. The man was ugly as hell. But I followed him and watched everyone around him. On the second day, after I had tailed him from the Astor to a supporter’s home and back again, Lincoln stepped into an alley. It was so fast that I thought he might have been grabbed. I shot ahead and took the corner into the alley and slammed right into him. We both went down. I think he was surprised about that, but he jumped up fast for a tall guy with a sickly look and demanded to know who I was and what I was doing following him. I told him I was tailing him at the request of the mayor. I said it just like that. He shook my hand and said fine, he didn’t want to keep a man from doing his job. And so for the next few days, until he le
ft, he pretended I wasn’t there and I pretended he didn’t know that I was. Except one morning he ordered me a coffee at breakfast at the Astor and had it brought to my table. Anyway, I didn’t get any dirt and didn’t plant any. He seemed like a good guy.

  -That’s your Lincoln story? I thought it was going to be about John Wilkes Booth. His assassination. All that.

  -No. That was in DC. DC was a shit town. A fucking swamp. I stayed in New York as much as I could back in those days. I did see Lincoln again after he was elected but before his inauguration. He came back to New York several times to give speeches. I turned down the job of tailing him again. But I was in Delmonico’s one day, the one on South William, when he came into the dining room and saw me from probably fifty feet away. We nodded heads at each other and then he sat down at his table and started reading his paper and I went back to my Chicken a la King.

  -Seriously? That’s worse than the first story. Is living for thousands of years going to be that boring?

  What do I say to that? Yes?

  -It’s what you make of it. Fifty years or 5000. It doesn’t matter. Want me to tell you about my time with Thomas Hobbes?

  -Nah. Old white men are boring. Did you ever meet the philosopher Catharine Trotter Cockburn?

  -I don’t think so. What did she write?

  -I don’t know. I just remember her from an undergrad philosophy class because of her name. Cockburn.

  We both start saying cockburn. Cockburn. Cockburn with an English accent. Cockburn with the burn held out for several seconds. We laugh like idiots. Sarah grabs the sick bag from the seat pocket in front of her and draws a nicely detailed erect penis engulfed in flames. She lets out a snort and then so do I and we laugh out loud far louder than we mean to. I look to my right and see that the middle-aged guy next to me is asleep. But then I glance up and the flight attendant is standing there looking at Sarah’s drawing and frowning.

  Sarah turns over the sick bag and I ask for a beer. Sarah elbows me. Two beers.

  We snack on the crackers and sip our beers to make them last. Sarah pats my thigh twice and then scoots toward the window and closes her eyes. She seems to doze off within seconds. I reach into the seat pocket in front of her and pull out the sick bag, fold it over once, and put it in my back pocket. I know the feeling I’m having is stupid. Maybe even dangerous. But right now it feels good. And good feelings rarely last. You have to grab onto them before they evaporate.

  The flight into Paris is smooth. Or I guess it is. I must have slept most of the way. Once we land, we have just forty minutes to find our gate for Tel Aviv. De Gaulle is huge, but it’s made worse by the fact that everyone seems to be in as big a rush as we are. Civility disappears when you fear that you’re going to miss a flight. We find our gate with ten minutes to spare before boarding. We both hit the restrooms and then I find a small shop and buy two Sprites. No Pepsi products in France, I guess. Then we board and Sarah takes the window seat again. I told her to. I’ve been to France, I told her. I think it was about 800 years ago. Not sure. Regardless, other than the Eiffel Tower, I doubt much has changed.

  The flight out of De Gaulle was fine but descending into Ben Gurion is bumpy as fuck. We’re in a row with just our two seats and I take Sarah’s hand and tell her everything is ok.

  -You and me are going to be fine. Not sure about these other fuckers, though.

  That put a smile on her face. But the turbulence is bad and is rattling a lot of passengers. We finally hit the runway and there’s a collective sigh throughout the plane. Then, like flights all over the world I guess, everyone jumps up to get their bags and get the fuck on solid ground. We do the same.

  8 - Taking The Scenic Route

  Ben Gurion is clean, bright and airy. Lots of light. And there’s a kosher McDonald’s. We grab some burgers, split a large fry and get two large Sprites. The driver is supposed to meet us outside of customs in 20 minutes but we’re famished. The airplane meal served somewhere over the Atlantic was just as bad as stand-up comics say they are. After devouring the burgers and fries, we join the long customs line and get through without any problems. On the other side, we find our driver. He’s holding up a sign that says Sonny & Cher. I elbow Sarah and nod toward the driver as we head his way.

  I’m Sonny, I tell her.

  -In case you’re wondering.

  If the driver thinks it’s odd that we have no real baggage, just Sarah’s summer bag, he doesn’t say so. In fact, he hasn’t yet said one word to us. Not even in the airport. His taxi is spotless on the inside and out and it’s a nice ride out of the airport, over some small city streets lined with shops and apartment buildings and then onto a freeway. Ten minutes later we’ve gone west and then a bit north when he pulls off the freeway, down several small city streets and into an alley. No one said anything to me on the phone about a detour. Sarah gives me an anxious look and I nod to her and mouth, it’s ok. The driver gets out and opens Sarah’s door and we both get out. He closes the door, gets back in the taxi, and pulls away.

  What the fuck did I just let happen?

  And just then another car pulls into the alley and stops. It’s a rusted out piece of shit sedan. The driver rolls down his window and motions to us. He seems like he is in a big hurry and possibly isn’t supposed to be here. Funny how we trust this all to mean we should get into his car. Not funny ha ha. Just funny like oh shit, I shouldn’t have gotten in this car, as a bullet blows your brains out. But we jump in and take off.

  The driver drives twice as fast as the last guy and soon we’re back on the highway headed north. He looks at me in the rearview mirror and smiles.

  -Sonny and Cher. I got you babe!

  We both laugh and then I turn to Sarah and shrug.

  After another 10 minutes or so, I scoot over to Sarah and in a soft voice start to tell her where we’re headed and why.

  -For several thousand years, I don’t know exactly, there have always been two History Keepers. These guys are Firsts that kind of store all of the various stories about Firsts, from information about The Father all the way to who’s done what in Bumfuck, Egypt last week. If it involves a First, they want to know. They verify what they can and compile it all. They’re oral historians, just like existed in pre-literate times. The current two History Keepers live in Aleppo. Aleppo, Syria. I passed through Aleppo a few times a long time ago. It was a beautiful world class city. Amazing for the time. Right on the Silk Road, you could buy anything and meet anyone from anywhere. Now it’s a bombed out shithole.

  -No, no.

  The driver suddenly joins our conversation.

  -Aleppo beautiful. Very beautiful.

  I guess the fucker overheard everything.

  -Beautiful? Oh, has it been completely rebuilt?

  He’s quiet and I’m just about to continue with Sarah when he holds up a finger as if to make an important point.

  -Some parts Aleppo beautiful. Very beautiful. Some parts.

  Sounds like he works for the shittiest tourism agency in the world. Some parts.

  -So anyway, the History Keepers live in Aleppo. I’ve never met them but History Keepers have a reputation for their knowledge and discretion. I want to ask them about something. Something that I can only ask about in person. Afterwards, I promise to explain it all to you. Ok? But until then, it’s best that you keep out of sight. So when we get to Aleppo-

  -Maybe four hours.

  The driver says this loudly over his shoulder.

  Fucker.

  -When we get to Aleppo, some parts beautiful, in four hours, just stay in the car. Maybe read your law book. Or nap. But don’t get out, don’t wander around, don’t talk with anyone, whatever you do don’t let anyone know about you.

  I say this quietly and nod with my eyes wide and she nods back understandingly.

  -And don’t take off your scarf. In fact, now’s a good time to put it on. And the slacks, just put them on under your sundress. We’ll be crossing into Syria soon. Americans openly traveling in Syri
a would raise all kinds of dangerous flags, and not just with the government. I didn’t have time to get new passports, so we’ll let our driver do the talking. Right driver?

  -I got you babe!

  He half sings, half yells over his shoulder.

  I settle back into the seat and close my eyes. I had some good times and some bad times in Aleppo way back in the day. I’m hoping today is more of the good. Those bad times were plenty bad enough.

  I guess I dozed off because when I open my eyes we are stopped. The driver is speaking to a thin, older man at a makeshift checkpoint. Behind the man is another man and then a few more sitting on folding chairs in the dirt with nothing around. They have rifles. The driver and the thin man seem to know each other. Maybe not friends, but not strangers. I don’t pick up any anxiety in their voices. We pull away and the driver leans back and turns his head.

  -Uncle. My uncle. He says, I kill Americans.

  -He wanted to kills us? Why?

  -Don’t know.

  The driver is silent a few seconds and then he holds up his finger again.

  -He bored. Very bored.

  -What did you say?

  -Not Americans. Canadians! He doesn’t know Canadians. So, it’s ok. Everything ok. Sonny and Cher! Canadians!

  I know what’s coming next. Here it comes. Here it-

  -I got you babe!

  We hit a highway and pick up speed. Pass some cars, others pass us. I lean forward to see how fast we’re going and see that the car doesn’t have a dashboard. Just a piece of wood fastened to the frame with a hole cut for the steering wheel. Probably half an hour goes by and we pull off the highway. More city streets but nearby I see bombed out buildings. Whole blocks demolished, the buildings piled high in concrete ruins. We’re headed that way. But then we pull into another alley. This one has an untouched but empty building on the right and a shell of an apartment building on the left. The driver says over his shoulder, time, and points to a Timex nailed to the wood between the steering wheel and his window. I can’t make out what time it is. Sarah leans forward but can’t either. I ask but the driver just shakes his head and repeats the same word. Time.