By Jeff Gard
Carter walks through the terminal doors and blinks. One minute ago, he was stumbling around in the dark, lost in a briar patch along the Appalachian Trail. Now he’s standing in what looks like an airport from the 1970s. A group of stewardesses in robin’s-egg blue uniforms giggle and wave as they pass.
Golden light slants sideways through large windows and spills onto the polished floor beneath his muddy and torn hiking shoes. He wriggles his toes. One big toe waves up at him from a hole.
“Malaysian Flight MH370 arriving at gate thirteen in twenty minutes,” announces a monotone voice from a loudspeaker. “All displacement counselors report for duty.”
Carter limps over to the large board filled with flight numbers, destinations, and times. Sure enough, MH370 is due to land in just a few minutes. Then he notices all the destinations are the same: arrivals at this terminal, but no departures.
Travelers hug bags to their abdomens as they stand in line for coffee at a cafe. They hunch over in their chairs and crumple the edges of newspapers with their fists, wide eyes scanning the headlines. Carter spots a kiosk with the word “Information” flashing in bright red letters.
As a DMV employee, Carter recognizes the bored, weary look of the woman behind the kiosk. He takes a deep breath and smiles.
She mirrors the gesture. “Can I help you, hon?”
“Where am I?”
“Nowhere.”
Carter blinks. “And where is that?”
“Somewhere between Here, Ohio, and There, Arkansas. We are equidistant from East and West, North and South. If there is somewhere, someone, or something you are looking for, then we are the last place, person, or thing you will find.”
In the background, people gasp and chatter excitedly. A crowd converges on a woman in an aviator’s jacket. She looks kind of tomboyish with her closely cropped hair and freckled nose. A sense of daring and adventure infects her grin.
The kiosk worker rolls her eyes. “That’ll be Amelia Earhart. Right on time. Shows up every day about now to sign autographs and make the tourists gape.”
“But she’s dead.” Carter searches his pockets for a pen or scrap of paper, then stops. “Does that mean I’m dead?”
“Do you feel dead?”
“No.”
“Well, there you have it.” The kiosk worker’s practiced smile suggests it is time to move on and stop pestering her.
Carter glances over his shoulder and sees a family of four join the line. The children hold their phones in the air, searching for signals while the husband and wife argue about asking for directions. The kiosk worker smiles amiably at them. Carter turns back to the worker. He has so many questions, and he needs answers. Now.
“But Amelia died in 1937.”
The worker raises an eyebrow. “Did she now? Or did she get lost?”
A man in a disheveled suit with wind-blown hair enters the terminal. His mirrored aviator glasses are askew. He clutches a briefcase to his chest, and a parachute drags behind him. Carter knows he’s seen this man somewhere before, but where?
“I’ve got a bomb!” he shouts.
Travelers scream and scatter. A child in knickerbockers dives under a row of benches. Carter crouches and looks for cover, but the kiosk worker laughs merrily.
“Ah, that DB.” She sighs dreamily. “He’s such a rascal, isn’t he? If he were going anywhere, I’d go with him.”
Carter peeks over the edge of the counter. “But what about the bomb?”
The worker waves a hand dismissively. “There’s no bomb in that suitcase. Everyone knows it’s filled with unmarked twenty-dollar bills.”
Carter stands and tries to muster the calm he doesn’t feel. “Is this the afterlife? Where are we?”
“Let’s try this again, hon. You are nowhere. You are post-pre-natal and pre-post-life. You are in the timeless anywhere. No matter where you go, from now on, you’ll be in the last place anyone, including yourself, is looking for.” The kiosk worker pauses, red-faced and panting from exertion. Her forehead crinkles as she presses on. “You are like a missing sock from the washer. Nobody knows where they go, they just disappear. That’s it.”
The worker is definitely trying to tell him something; Carter is sure of it. Perhaps, she is under some sort of compulsion. If he can ask the right question, a loophole might allow her to help him.
Carter looks toward the doors at the end of the terminal and the honey-gold light pouring through. The glow is too thick to see any landscape beyond the windows. “And if I walk toward those doors?”
“You’d be right back at nowhere,” she says through a clenched jaw.
“So those doors lead to here?”
She grunts as if trying to lift a large weight off her chest. “To nowhere.”
“And nowhere is here?”
The kiosk worker leans over and places her hands on her knees. She pants as if she recently completed a marathon. “The… last place… you want to be.”
The last place… Carter smiles. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
He passes Amelia and DB on his way to the doors. He pauses and concentrates on the thought of nowhere, of this terminal with all its lost travelers. He should get an autograph from Amelia when he winds up back here—something to look forward to. When he steps through the doors, he appears at the DMV. The lines in the queue stretch around the room, and the air smells of frustration and burnt coffee.
Carter looks down at his grungy hiking pants and his big toe poking out of the ruined shoe. The relief spreading through his chest feels like jumping into a cool pool on an oppressively hot day.
A disgruntled old man with caterpillar eyebrows shakes his head in disgust when he sees Carter. “Are you lost?”
“Not anymore,” Carter says brightly. “Just in the last place I want to be.”
The old man snorts. “Aren’t we all?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Very creatively done! Especially for a theme that can be anywhere … or nowhere!
Thanks, Arlan. My choice of destinations probably reflects my indecisiveness given so many wonderful options.
I love it! What an interesting concept.
Creative! I really like the twist in this one! Great story!
A fun read! I enjoyed it :)
Fun story!
Really enjoyed this.
Really enjoyed this one!
(Also, love you bringing in DB Cooper. My brother and I were discussing lost treasures recently and his (currently) million-or-so came up in conversation…)
Yes! I was totally thinking “he’s where the missing socks and Tupperware lids go.” Interesting story!