4.1
The flight was, as expected, coach, paid for by the Spliphsonian. Rupert sat in the middle seat on the right side for the hour and a half flight—breathing in more recycled air, though with a more repulsive, organic flavor than the museum’s—then endured a four-hour layover in Atlanta, where he was assaulted by 24-hour news. A P-47 Thunderbolt had just crashed into the Hudson River. Sure, it was a Second World War-era fighter plane, but it was a plane, and sure, it was in New York, but the pilot was from Florida—bad juju. Businesspeople loud-talked self-importantly into their cell phones, and a large group of high school students traveling to compete in some worthless, inane sport milled about in cliques, screeching. It was co-ed, so whatever the sport—presumably cheerleading—it couldn’t have been good. Once in the air again for the forty-five minutes it took to finally reach the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport, Rupert had sardined himself into another middle seat. Fortunately, he’d refilled his Xanax prescription two days before this surprise mission, not at all because he was afraid to fly, but because his large physical presence already put him in too close a proximity to the rest of humanity. A flight, no matter how short, would have been unbearable without being drugged enough to drool a little.
The entire ordeal was a perfect panorama for his field of expertise: Everyone boards in a somewhat organized fashion, and from there, it’s a quick descent into madness. Seats are switched, or downright stolen, shoes are removed, there’s yoga in the aisles, all asses and armpits and toenails. Then, as the plane finishes taxiing to the gate, seatbelts click open in a chorus and the slow-motion stampede commences, picking up as the mass of greasy, stinking humanity closes in on baggage claim, despite the fact that each and every one of them know full well that no one’s baggage is even there yet. Still, they jockey for position, getting as close to the edge as possible without rolling onto the belt (usually).
Rupert stood as far away as possible, numb and hypnotized by the rotating luggage on the belt, still somewhat sedated by the Xanax, half-listening to the din of the people around him and their various conversations. He thought his large duffle bag had made it to the carousel, but he wasn’t about to push through the too-tan locals coming home or the gelatinous, pasty Clevelanders going on “vacay.” He was already mentally exhausted. People talked on their phones to those whom they would see in five minutes about the flight and whatnot, which was uneventful. If human beings have mastered nothing else, they have certainly outdone themselves in the art of talking about nothing.
As everyone took way too long to retrieve their plastic and zippered vinyl boxes of travel garbage, Rupert wondered if he could fit his head between the side of the carousel and the belt, and if he could, was the belt moving fast enough to slit his throat? Passive suicidal ideation was so routine, it had been years since he’d been troubled by it. As that morbid image passed into his subconscious, he heard someone say something useful.
“Well, I didn’t have time to arrange anything. I don’t need a rental. I won’t be here long enough. I can hail one out front, with the pick-ups. Great. Thanks. See ya soon.”
Rupert rifled through the things in his cross-body bag—”no, sir, my carry-on is not a purse”—and located the file. He found his flight schedule, and various other disturbing, but already-known information, but no car rental paperwork.
“Fucking Spliphsonian,” he said out loud and a pink-haired old woman that came up to his hip tsked him. He didn’t want to, but he felt ashamed. He supposed he shouldn’t swear around his elders—old women in particular for some reason—although his mother was old and she swore like a . . . well, worse; she used expletives as frequently as prepositions, and occasionally as their substitute, which, he had to admit, did require a certain skill level. And he was in Florida now. Sarasota was included amongst the nation’s top ten counties with the largest populations of Over-65s. Rupert wondered if this woman would appreciate being called an “Over-65.” Or maybe she’d be okay with it, because he was pretty sure was she also an “Over-95.”
Much of the fleshy mass had cleared, and good thing, too, as his Xanax was wearing off (and he tried not to take too many—that stuff’s addictive!), so he eased his way forward. Most folks parted for Rupert, perhaps an intuitive measure, an unconscious fear of someone, or something, so large suddenly next to them. This was one of the few perks of his size. He grabbed his duffle bag, swung it over his shoulder, and hurried out front, following the taxi-hailing lady he’d overheard on the phone.
The heat hit him like a quark-gluon plasma experiment at CERN’s Large Hadron Collider—9.9 trillion degrees Fahrenheit. Rupert squinted against the blinding, seashell-peppered asphalt, and cursed his extensive knowledge of the trivial and mundane, which apparently superseded his ability to plan ahead, particularly with such small notice. He did not own a pair of sunglasses, nor had he sunscreen to pack—as reclusive as he normally was, why would he? He hailed a cab and paid a ridiculous amount of money to be carted twelve miles from the airport to—Rupert looked through his file—the Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet. Well, that sounded nice.
* * *
“Me and a guy were laid up in a Royal Courtyard Econo-Regency Chalet for about three weeks once,” Shit Pail interrupts, then puts her head back, mouth gaping. She seems to be thinking, but the pause is long. Too long.
Rupert can’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses and thinks perhaps she’s fallen asleep. Or died. Just when he thinks being trapped here—potentially for days—with her and her shit pail is the worst that could happen, he can’t face accidental self-confinement with a corpse and its intestinal contents.
“I think his name was Stevie,” she finally continues. “He kept talking about space, but I was pretty spun, so I don’t remember much. We checked in to fuck, but just couldn’t get it going—go figure, aimiright? Next thing we knew, it was three weeks later and neither of us had gotten laid.”
“That’s . . .” Rupert begins, but stops. Then: “That’s a real shame.”
“Yeah, but the rates were reasonable, and not a bad place to work.”
“Oh, you also worked there?” He doesn’t know why he’s prolonging this conversational interlude.
“Nope,” Shit Pail answers abruptly, in a way that indicated the line of questioning had come to an end, and requests he continue with a level of irritation that suggests it was he who’d interrupted in the first place.
Lee Harper Oswald 
Sock it to me...