Everyone smelled it at take-off. The whole plane. And it never went away. Through the vents crept the stench of death, strong enough to taste. What a place to stew in rot, locked in a box thirty thousand feet up.
“Oh God, what’s that smell?” the lady with the rat dog on her lap behind me gags.
To me it’s lovely. Complex. “Smells like someone should have kept their shoes on,” I smile over my seat, rat dog nipping at my face like the mossies back home.
The man beside me is obese, covered with leprosy or some other skin disease, necklaced in strands of tooth and bone. Boils stretch his skin, darker than mine, and I blame him, each wound steaming a preview of his odor to come. He doesn’t even notice, so I try a conversation over the rat's incessant yipping. “Cozy flight, huh?”
He squirms, "I suppose," and adjusts his lumpy body.
"Are you from Zambia?"
Between yips, the dog licks the Braille on the back of his neck.
He doesn't hear me, so I tap the biggest sore on his arm. "Excuse me, sir. Are you Zambian?"
"Please," he shifts his weight for the window, "I hate to fly."
"Right." For a moment I return to the statue on the cover of my tour guide. Then I lean in. "Surely flying is no more frightening then your affliction."
His eyes meet mine, wide.
"Your skin." Again, I poke the sore on his arm, this time harder, and the rat goes mad. "We can all smell it."
He stares, cysted eyelids quivering. "Th-that's not me."
"Of course it is."
"Ladies and gentlemen," a stewardess interrupts with the intercom. "There is an odor on the plane. Please bear with us while we identify the trouble. Air sickness bags are in the seatback in front of you, or you may request one from a flight attendant, if need be. And please feel free to enjoy an expanded drink menu, compliments of the crew."
"Of course it's you." I take the air in deep.
He stares at me. Silent.
"You know, there's more than one kind of meat. Two types of carnivores, too. Some eat the living," we watch the stewardess pass. "And some eat the dead."
He scratches his arm.
"Diseases scavenge. They feed on the dying." I put down my tour guide. "And that's what you are."
His eyes well as he tells me his sores started on his arms six months back. Then his face. When he found one on his crotch, he started eating. Really eating. Fifty pounds in thirty days.
"We are all animals," I tell him. "Wounded, you became a hunter. A leopard. Embrace it." Clasping his hands, I add, "Prey."
The rat dog jumps and jumps, yipping to the point the stewardess approaches. "Miss, please. You need to quiet your dog."
After a spat, she puts the rat beneath the seat in front of her, which happens to be mine. Loud at first, it quiets to a whimper before the leper replies.
"I am not wounded." He stops scratching and sits up straight.
Laughing, I reply. "Really?"
Something stirs beneath me.
"Oh God," the lady behind us gags again, this time as if she's drowning.
He grins.
The woman's in hysterics, waving a pet-size carry-on, "Where is she!? Where's my baby!?"
But the bag's not empty.
I catch a glimpse. It's full of feathers and the smell is putrid. Turning to the fat man, I retch at the sight. He's gone, in his place a swollen vulture carcass, diamond-studded dog collar tight around its neck.
“Oh God, what’s that smell?” the lady with the rat dog on her lap behind me gags.
To me it’s lovely. Complex. “Smells like someone should have kept their shoes on,” I smile over my seat, rat dog nipping at my face like the mossies back home.
The man beside me is obese, covered with leprosy or some other skin disease, necklaced in strands of tooth and bone. Boils stretch his skin, darker than mine, and I blame him, each wound steaming a preview of his odor to come. He doesn’t even notice, so I try a conversation over the rat's incessant yipping. “Cozy flight, huh?”
He squirms, "I suppose," and adjusts his lumpy body.
"Are you from Zambia?"
Between yips, the dog licks the Braille on the back of his neck.
He doesn't hear me, so I tap the biggest sore on his arm. "Excuse me, sir. Are you Zambian?"
"Please," he shifts his weight for the window, "I hate to fly."
"Right." For a moment I return to the statue on the cover of my tour guide. Then I lean in. "Surely flying is no more frightening then your affliction."
His eyes meet mine, wide.
"Your skin." Again, I poke the sore on his arm, this time harder, and the rat goes mad. "We can all smell it."
He stares, cysted eyelids quivering. "Th-that's not me."
"Of course it is."
"Ladies and gentlemen," a stewardess interrupts with the intercom. "There is an odor on the plane. Please bear with us while we identify the trouble. Air sickness bags are in the seatback in front of you, or you may request one from a flight attendant, if need be. And please feel free to enjoy an expanded drink menu, compliments of the crew."
"Of course it's you." I take the air in deep.
He stares at me. Silent.
"You know, there's more than one kind of meat. Two types of carnivores, too. Some eat the living," we watch the stewardess pass. "And some eat the dead."
He scratches his arm.
"Diseases scavenge. They feed on the dying." I put down my tour guide. "And that's what you are."
His eyes well as he tells me his sores started on his arms six months back. Then his face. When he found one on his crotch, he started eating. Really eating. Fifty pounds in thirty days.
"We are all animals," I tell him. "Wounded, you became a hunter. A leopard. Embrace it." Clasping his hands, I add, "Prey."
The rat dog jumps and jumps, yipping to the point the stewardess approaches. "Miss, please. You need to quiet your dog."
After a spat, she puts the rat beneath the seat in front of her, which happens to be mine. Loud at first, it quiets to a whimper before the leper replies.
"I am not wounded." He stops scratching and sits up straight.
Laughing, I reply. "Really?"
Something stirs beneath me.
"Oh God," the lady behind us gags again, this time as if she's drowning.
He grins.
The woman's in hysterics, waving a pet-size carry-on, "Where is she!? Where's my baby!?"
But the bag's not empty.
I catch a glimpse. It's full of feathers and the smell is putrid. Turning to the fat man, I retch at the sight. He's gone, in his place a swollen vulture carcass, diamond-studded dog collar tight around its neck.
Photo by Alan Vernon
