D B Cooper sipped at his tea and let his eyes roam across the sun
dappled landscape. He stood and stretched languidly in the pool of
warmth radiating from the window, opening his arms to the heat, before
collapsing back into his own compact and slightly crumpled form.
He closed his eyes. Even now, 40 years later, he could feel the thrill
in his bones, the tingle somewhere between death and ecstasy as he had
stepped out into the open. He chuckled, measuring the weight he
carried now, the weight of nearly 70 years and so many thousand miles,
comparing it to the parachute and the backpack he had born all those
years ago. He had not grown fat on the proceeds, but, nothing in his
escape had helped him resist the arthritis that had slowed his father,
and his before him. It was not so bad, but he felt it and yes, it made
him doubt.
He wondered what others did--other aging men who had not hijacked
airplanes and escaped with bundles of cash. Perhaps like his father,
they carried their secrets lower, like lead in their shoes that kept
them grounded, or around their waists, where a barely remembered past
might at least keep one warm. Coop's rested squarely on his shoulders,
nudged occasionally by a shrug, or gritted teeth made to look like a
smile.
The plane outside his window was not so different from the one he had
left in mid-flight. But it was no commercial airliner. It flew hither
and yon at an hour's notice, wherever it's owner directed. The hangar
was staffed at all hours. Coop had spoken with the chief steward on
more than one occasion. Even got a peek inside once. Mostly he just
looked through the window at that hangar, though, and considered how
things changed. He had once imagined that would be him, if he played
his cards right. He hadn't flown much as it turned out, more out of
happenstance than anything else. To Mexico City of course, not long
after. To Chicago, when his daughter got married. He chuckled
soundlessly. The federal government had given up the cash with less
fight than his ex-wife. He hadn't flown first class.
The air conditioner started to rattle, as it had been lately.
Bearings, he thought. He tapped the box below the window, and the
noise settled back into it's hum. Maybe just stretching for a second
like Coop himself. Florida demanded that constant battle between
beautiful, brutal sun,and cooling but clammy compression from these
damn boxes. Like everything else, Coop felt the heat and the cold more
acutely than ever.
He set his tea down. He tore the label from the bottle and tossed the
paper scraps in the trash. He ran enough water to rinse it and threw
it in the can marked recyclables. The lunch bag he zipped up still
held two cookies, for his break later. Coop glanced up at the bulletin
board, and the photo tacked there. It was scratchy and gray, eerily
reminiscent of a wanted poster. But it bore no resemblance to anyone
that mattered. It had been printed for his birthday, four months ago.
It suggested that a poor old man like Coop might wander off,and, if
found, could be returned to the address of a local bar.
He'd kept the name as a joke, mostly. Of course he was Brian now, but
everyone called him Coop. In 1971, he could have picked any name. He
shuddered to think how he would have done it now. And he did think
about it. When his shift ran long. When his back hurt most. When he
wasn't sure he could look one more Monday in the face.
"You ready Coop?" The head peering around the door frame was
blonde,bespectacled, and about 45.
One more stretch. "Ready as I'll be. Afternoon crowd look like a
bunch of mad bombers?"
She brought the rest of her body into the center of the doorway.
"They just came from Disney World. The parents look broke and the kids
look nasty."
"That settles it then," he said. "Let's catch the next one leaving for
God knows where." He held up his bag. "I have an extra cookie."
She paused to think. "Tempting. Can I get back to you?"
Coop gave a little shrug. "Sure, but no promises. I'm a wanted man. I
can't hang around forever."
She smiled broadly. "I'm sure you'd be quite a catch," she said, and
disappeared around the corner.
He followed her out and back to his station. A few hellos along the
way (Coop from the older ones, Mr. Cooper from the younger. One Brian
from the girl at the deli. He slipped on to his stool and caught the
eye of the next man in line.
"Good morning, sir. Can I see your boarding pass?"
dappled landscape. He stood and stretched languidly in the pool of
warmth radiating from the window, opening his arms to the heat, before
collapsing back into his own compact and slightly crumpled form.
He closed his eyes. Even now, 40 years later, he could feel the thrill
in his bones, the tingle somewhere between death and ecstasy as he had
stepped out into the open. He chuckled, measuring the weight he
carried now, the weight of nearly 70 years and so many thousand miles,
comparing it to the parachute and the backpack he had born all those
years ago. He had not grown fat on the proceeds, but, nothing in his
escape had helped him resist the arthritis that had slowed his father,
and his before him. It was not so bad, but he felt it and yes, it made
him doubt.
He wondered what others did--other aging men who had not hijacked
airplanes and escaped with bundles of cash. Perhaps like his father,
they carried their secrets lower, like lead in their shoes that kept
them grounded, or around their waists, where a barely remembered past
might at least keep one warm. Coop's rested squarely on his shoulders,
nudged occasionally by a shrug, or gritted teeth made to look like a
smile.
The plane outside his window was not so different from the one he had
left in mid-flight. But it was no commercial airliner. It flew hither
and yon at an hour's notice, wherever it's owner directed. The hangar
was staffed at all hours. Coop had spoken with the chief steward on
more than one occasion. Even got a peek inside once. Mostly he just
looked through the window at that hangar, though, and considered how
things changed. He had once imagined that would be him, if he played
his cards right. He hadn't flown much as it turned out, more out of
happenstance than anything else. To Mexico City of course, not long
after. To Chicago, when his daughter got married. He chuckled
soundlessly. The federal government had given up the cash with less
fight than his ex-wife. He hadn't flown first class.
The air conditioner started to rattle, as it had been lately.
Bearings, he thought. He tapped the box below the window, and the
noise settled back into it's hum. Maybe just stretching for a second
like Coop himself. Florida demanded that constant battle between
beautiful, brutal sun,and cooling but clammy compression from these
damn boxes. Like everything else, Coop felt the heat and the cold more
acutely than ever.
He set his tea down. He tore the label from the bottle and tossed the
paper scraps in the trash. He ran enough water to rinse it and threw
it in the can marked recyclables. The lunch bag he zipped up still
held two cookies, for his break later. Coop glanced up at the bulletin
board, and the photo tacked there. It was scratchy and gray, eerily
reminiscent of a wanted poster. But it bore no resemblance to anyone
that mattered. It had been printed for his birthday, four months ago.
It suggested that a poor old man like Coop might wander off,and, if
found, could be returned to the address of a local bar.
He'd kept the name as a joke, mostly. Of course he was Brian now, but
everyone called him Coop. In 1971, he could have picked any name. He
shuddered to think how he would have done it now. And he did think
about it. When his shift ran long. When his back hurt most. When he
wasn't sure he could look one more Monday in the face.
"You ready Coop?" The head peering around the door frame was
blonde,bespectacled, and about 45.
One more stretch. "Ready as I'll be. Afternoon crowd look like a
bunch of mad bombers?"
She brought the rest of her body into the center of the doorway.
"They just came from Disney World. The parents look broke and the kids
look nasty."
"That settles it then," he said. "Let's catch the next one leaving for
God knows where." He held up his bag. "I have an extra cookie."
She paused to think. "Tempting. Can I get back to you?"
Coop gave a little shrug. "Sure, but no promises. I'm a wanted man. I
can't hang around forever."
She smiled broadly. "I'm sure you'd be quite a catch," she said, and
disappeared around the corner.
He followed her out and back to his station. A few hellos along the
way (Coop from the older ones, Mr. Cooper from the younger. One Brian
from the girl at the deli. He slipped on to his stool and caught the
eye of the next man in line.
"Good morning, sir. Can I see your boarding pass?"
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