Filing In To A Finale

My suit was itchy. I’ve never understood the practice, this idea that a certain type of clothing somehow elevates your appearance or your perceived status in the world. But my mother had dragged me from store to store last weekend, asking advice from every underpaid retail employee we came across.

When I sighed, she shook her head and said “Tomasz, suits make you dignified. And this family needs all the dignity it can get right now... proszę.” So I followed her around and indulged her making me try on suit coats whose colors varied so slightly it might as well have been those paint splotch samples people stare at for a ghastly amount of time. As if the color of your wall somehow dictates your destiny. 

I’m relieved to see my sister Roksana, and I smile slightly in her direction. Unsurprisingly, she does not return it, and looks away, tugging slightly on her blonde braid. Her boyfriend is here, which I find annoying. He always needs to be involved in everything, as if he doesn’t my sister will just fall apart, which just proves he doesn’t know her at all. When I tried to call her last night, he picked up the phone for her and said “it wasn’t a good time.” Does she even know he did that? He is of course, looking at her. 

Roksana never liked our traditional Polish names, so when she was 4 and I was 7, we came up with nicknames. I started going by Tom and her Ro. I never minded my name as much as her, but she liked the idea, and so I went with it. She never wanted anything to hold her back. Mom refused to use them, but she’s always been more proud of our heritage than the rest of us. 

I was pleasantly surprised by the turn out in the room overall. It was a silly thing to care about, but was somehow comforting nonetheless. My impression on the world had inspired some feigned interest, if nothing else. 

I wasn’t expecting boredom to be one of the emotions I would feel during this process - but there was a lot of it. Not that I wasn’t actively engaged, but it didn’t feel like my involvement would particularly do much, so it was easier to keep my mind busy in other ways.  I had tried to make small talk with Chloe, but that didn’t really seem to her thing.

Instead, I occupied my mind with fake, picturesque oceans I would surf. This seemed like the most peaceful option, despite my experiences with other sports. I liked thinking about the sun on my face and the pulsations of the tide. The high when you reached the top of a wave. I was never that talented, but it didn’t matter, because this mental escape wasn’t about winning. 

After a quick mind session, I spotted a reporter in the corner. He tried not to look like one, but I could recognize them enough now. He had “the look” - he needed a story. Maybe he had struck out earlier and was worried about a quota. I didn’t blame him- was his job. I was never someone too hung up on privacy anyway. People knowing something didn’t change the fact, and reported lies shouldn’t matter to those I care about.

As my scan continued, I suddenly noticed Phoebe walking in, and my heart began to beat in her direction. She looked at me, her eyes wide, nervously sitting in the back row. Her black hair was slightly matted, as if she had come here straight from a night of restless sleep. Had she been eating? She was trying to mouth something to me, but either she sucked at silently ennanucating or I had poor mouth reading skills (or perhaps both).

Determined to pass along a message during this interim, I quietly stole a page from Chloe’s large pad. She wasn’t paying attention anyway, writing emails or something on her phone. Since people were still filing in, I knew I had time. This was an opportunity I hadn’t anticipated, and I felt a sense of urgency.

On the paper I wrote “Please take care of my lizard. I know Ro won’t be able to. P.S. I’d do it again.”

I wanted to write more, but nothing felt profound or meaningful enough, so I left it at the vague pleasantries with a small dose of deeper reassurement. Plus, didn’t know my message wouldn’t be intercepted.

As I folded the yellow paper into an airplane, I was struck by a memory of my father. When I was five, he taught me how to make one. I laughed because he could only make the simple ones, not the more complicated wings and designs I had seen at school. He looked at me and said, “The key is not in the construction, but in the aim. A good pilot can still land an old, damaged plane.” 

While I felt that was perhaps a little insensitive to people who died in legitimate plane crashes, the sentiment rang true as I got older. You have to do the best with what you have - which is why I was here in the first place. I wish he would understand that, but I knew there were much deeper seeded beliefs that stood in the way. I took a while to fold out the wings, stalling what could be my last correspondence. 

After a few minutes, Chloe was giving me the side eye, so it was time for lift-off. I locked eyes with Phoebe again, who was no longer trying to mouth a message to me. It didn’t matter, I felt the message anyway. 

 I tried to make my smile comforting as I aimed my makeshift carrier pigeon and watched it fly over the rows in front of her. People looked mildly confused, but no one one tried to grab it. Maybe it was too solemn of an occasion to inspire much curiosity.

Still looking at me, Phoebe grabbed the plane from the aisle where it had landed. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my aim, coming through when it truly mattered. She read the ink splotched words and held it close to her chest, taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes. She reached into her purse and took out a pen. 

I hadn’t expected some kind of response, and my heart flipped. Was her aim as good as mine? Oh, the joy it would be to have something she had written close to my heart - a reminder of why I sat here, why it was worth the glares of my sister or the absence of my father. She was scribbling quickly. 

I was broken out of my hopeful wanderings by a loud sound. The metallic clank against wood meant it was my time. My ears began to ring, and my heart, which had never landed from it’s flip moment ago, was now sort of frozen, instead of hearing it beat I wasn’t sure it was at all. Any noises after that “clang” seemed muffled and far away, so I didn’t hear the question - not that I needed to. What mattered was the answer - and I heard that loud and clear. 

“On the count of 1, second degree assault, we find the defendant guilty.”