YOUR STORY IS ABOUT A FREELANCE WRITER ON FLIGHT 132 SPENDING MONEY.
My perfect drink has all the mixings of life.
It started when I was twelve and I found an empty wine bottle in the basement. The first things I put in it were a few coins, a piece of purple ribbon I‘d stolen from a crush, and the pins that once held up my locomotive poster.
As I headed into highschool, I added more and more to my little bottle; a strip of paper with my locker combination; one of the laces that’d ripped from my cleats; a piece of hard candy my sister’d brought back from China; the pin I got when I lettered in basketball; a tube of strawberry chapstick that belonged to my first kiss.
And as I ran into adulthood, the donations grew morbid: my first receipt from a purchase more than a hundred dollars; the key to my car that’d been stolen from my driveway; ashes from my parent’s house that‘d gotten burned down; a wilted rose from my fiance’s bouquet when I was left at the alter; a previously lit cigarette for each time I tried to quit smoking.
It didn’t matter if anything I put in my bottle was significant or not; as long as it held some meaning to me, in it dropped. In my mind, it still isn’t full; there’s always more to add and there’s always more room. But just a week ago, I’d mixed in one final element - the title of my manuscript torn from the cover page - and corked it.
That’s why I’m here now, at the loading dock of flight 132, on my way to meet with my recently-signed editor - my only carry-on an old glass wine bottle I still can’t believe they let me bring on board.
I walk back to row 14, just a hair behind first class. So close to success, and yet… not there yet. I may never get there. I situate myself in the aisle seat, glad the flight’s a late one and most of the seats are vacant, like the adjoining ones.
The flight takes off and I sit quietly, listening to the overwhelming white noise of the plane; the propellors, the engine, the baby in the back, the black-and-white movie in the front. After a while a flight attendant comes by with a cart and asks if I would like anything.
“Just a Sprite,” I say.
I hand her a few dollars as she hands me a cup.
I take a sip of the heavily carbonated drink, wincing as it goes down. It’s good, but it’s not the best; it’s not my perfect drink.
I set the glass on one of the fold out trays and pick up my bottle. I stare into it, making out the individual marks of my growing years. Everything I had worth saving; everything that would fit.
A passenger leans over from the seat across from me. “Excuse me, but what exactly is that?” he asks, pointing at my bottle - wondering what’s in it.
I think about that. Really, it’s a lot of things; near the bottom is innocent hope and a future, which grows dimmer and dimmer as the layers build up until it reaches a peak of desolation; it’s full of heartache and unnecessary trouble, lost love and misunderstandings; depression and triumph and falling repeatedly; and at the very top, just a smidge of - perhaps - a success to come. Perhaps.
“It’s…” I trail off. “It's nothing much, I guess. It’s just the life of a writer.”
