Day 167 – Writing exercise – And the door stayed closed

…

That was the thing about people who always said their door was always open.

It was, until it wasn’t.

And sometimes the reason why it closed was a misunderstanding piled on top of pride.

In a way, it cost me everything, but in another, I would not be the person I am now, with the people I know now, and those I had left behind were the poorer for it.

…

As doors went, I didn’t understand the metaphorical meaning until late into my teens.  I don’t think it really mattered, not until I discovered that my father had set goals for each of his children, and if they achieved those goals, they were rewarded.

My oldest brother, Rory, called it the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

My eldest sister, Emma, called it the harbinger of broken dreams.

My next elder brother, Jack, didn’t care.  He had decided early in life that he was not playing the games our father set.  His joy was watching my elder brother try to meet that expectation and failing to quite make it.

I was the youngest, and as my father constantly pointed out, ‘the mistake’.  He said it so frequently that Rory just called me ‘mistake’ and rarely by my real name, William.

I was too young to understand, but my mother constantly warned me that my turn was coming, to get good grades and be a good son.

The reality was that the ‘mistake’ would never amount to anything, and therefore, my father just ignored the fact that I existed.  His only priority was the prodigal son, Rory, and he poured all his attention and resources into him, following in his father’s footsteps.

And up until Christmas, just before Rory was starting his graduation year at the High School, nearly the best quarterback since his father, ready to lead the team into the championships, the Broadhurst family were riding high.

…

Emma casually said morning, while she and I were shovelling snow from the front gate to the front door, “What could possibly go wrong?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question.

A month earlier, we had woken to the news that our grandparents on my father’s side had been killed in a freak road accident. 

It had shattered my father.  He had idolised his father, perhaps because, as my mother said, very quietly, that he had spoiled her husband rotten.

Or more to the point, she was secretly pleased after suffering the demise of demeaning comments from him.  His son had deserved better.

But it left us with good news: he had left the four grandchildren a college fund, the family farm to our Uncle Roy, my father’s only brother, and the rest to my father.  Reward, he said, for obedience and hard work.

There had been discussion at the dinner table, Emma saying that when she graduated, she wanted to go to college, study law.  It was no coincidence that her best friend had the same plan.

My father had laughed.  “Why on earth would you want to work?  Your role is to be a mother and look after your family.  Your mother never saw the need to go gallivanting off to college.”

I was going to add a few words of my own, like the time I heard her talking to one of her lady friends, that she resented the fact that she had got pregnant almost immediately after the prom, and took any chance of her doing anything with her life.

My father, in one version, had deliberately set out to trap her, leaving her no option but to marry him.

I thought it best to keep that gem to myself.

Emma saw the writing on the wall.  Not for the first time, he had intimated he would not support her if she did.  Now, there was the college fund, to her, that settled the matter.  She had been wise enough not to bring it up.

I answered her almost rhetorical question with, “Rory might actually do something completely stupid.”

He had before, messing around with his stupid friends, much to father’s dismay, because any injury could ruin his trajectory into the big league.  Like the last one, six months before, when he twisted his ankle.

But last night, the other contentious issue was that Rory wanted to go skiing with his friends after Christmas.

That was never going to fly.  Just the slightest error could ruin his career.  Of course, Rory was probably the best skier in the state, but that wouldn’t matter.

She shovelled the last scoop onto the lawn, now completely covered, and leaned on her shovel. It was Jack’s chore, but he simply shirked it, and it fell to Emma.  I always helped.

“What Rory wants, Rory gets,” she muttered, not for the first time. 

She was finally realising that our father’s world revolved around his firstborn son and heir.  Jack understood early and simply ignored his father.

“You have mom wrapped around your little finger, you know.  Perhaps your path lies there.  You saw how she glared at him when he gave his married with children speech.”

“I didn’t, but I’m not surprised.  His obsession with Rory is annoying her.”

I’d noticed that too.

Of course, my comment was not without merit.  Sneaky as I was, I managed to ‘infiltrate’ my eldest brother’s friend group, and overheard their plans for the skiing trip.  It was widely known that Rory’s father would ban him from joining them, but Rory had a plan.

It wasn’t going to end well.

…

Christmas Day was predictable.  As long as I could remember, it was held at the farm, presided over by the patriarch, Grandfather, at one end and our father at the other.

The old man ruled with an iron fist, leaving all the organising, cooking, and serving to the women, namely, grandmother, mother, and Emma.

This year, it all fell to our mother and Emma.  I helped.  My father was the patriarch, not Uncle Roy, whose place it was.  He didn’t get to sit at the other end of the table.  Rory did.  In the hierarchy, it was he insisted, father and son.

Roy wanted to argue the point, but he didn’t.  If he’d been married and with children, he might, but as a bachelor, he was simply relegated.

Christmas morning wasn’t the leisurely lie-in as it was for most people, followed by a leisurely breakfast and opening of presents before the arrangements for lunch began.

Presents took very little time.  We received clothing or something practical.  Everything else was deemed a waste of resources.  We had hoped that with the grandfather gone, the rules would change.  They did not, but for one exception.  Rory got a new pickup truck, and now he has a licence. 

In our family, it started at 6am.  It wasn’t just family attending, there were what mother called ‘the hangers-on’, grandfathers and fathers favoured few, driven by what the guests brought to the table.

The football coach was just one.

We were catering for 20.  Mother and Emma did the hard work, I did the table set-up and in the days before the decorations.  Roy had a farm to run.

Grandmother was finally at peace away from the man I felt she had come to loathe, loud-mouthed, autocratic, opinionated and outspoken.  Her opinion was his.  Publicly.  Privately, it was something else.

She had, in the last few years, been surreptitiously sowing the seeds of revolt in the Broadhurst women.  I heard a lot of cursing during prep.

Through good luck and better management, the food was on the table on time and ready for the patriarch to carve the Turkey.

After grace, the honour falling to the eldest son, the lunch continued along the predictable lines, my father controlled the conversation, about Rory’s coming year, and how Roy was going to need help on the farm, and it was up to the three other children to step up.

After all, we had nothing better to do, especially hanging out with the other good-for-nothings.  Neither Uncle Roy nor our mother had a say in the matter.

At the end of the day, I had that last look of the family united together in a family photo that Emma insisted on taking.

After everyone had scattered, I asked her why she had decided, this year of all years, she had taken the shot.

“To remember us all together in a semblance of unity, before everything changes.”

“You’re expecting trouble?”

“I had a dream last night.  Next year, Rory will be leaving, football and all, and Mother is not happy.  I woke up, and I was alone, in a very different place.”

I shrugged.  “Children get older and leave.  It’s what happens.

She didn’t seem convinced.  But later, wandering back to our house, I remembered that fateful statement Emma had muttered not so long ago, “What could possibly go wrong?”

The answer to that, of course, was quite simple. 

Everything.

…

Three days later, Rory disappeared, or, that is to say, he sneaked out of the house and went with his mates to the ski fields, completely ignoring his father’s strict veto.

Of course he did.

Rory rarely listened to his father’s edicts.

I overheard part of the conversation between father and Rory, and I counted at least ten death threats.  At the very least, given the propensity to injure himself, it was foolish.

His father had outright promised the coach on Christmas day that he would not allow Rory to harm his or the team’s chances of a championship and drafting.

Now he had egg on his face, and we suffered for it.

But as outrage goes, our father let him stay.

Until we got the call on New Year’s Eve.  The call no one wanted to get.

Rory had an accident. 

An accident.

No details, just get there.  Mom and Dad were in the car and gone.  It was like the rest of us never existed.

Emma and I watched the car head off, going faster than it should

“Told you,” she said.

“It’ll be nothing.  You know what his friends are like.  I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re just being the idiots they are.”

“Rory knows better.”

“Rory, full of beer, is just as stupid as they are.  We’ll wait and see.”

She was sceptical, but it alleviated the anxiety that her dream might come true. 

…

Although we didn’t know it yet, Rory’s accident was like a seismic shift in the tectonic plates.  In other words, it was the beginning of the end.

Rory had sprained his ankle badly, the sort of sprain that, if not managed properly, could cost careers.  It’s why, for the next six weeks, we did not see Mom, Dad, or Rory.

They took him straight to a specialist clinic and stayed for the intensive treatment and recovery.  No one asked what it cost.

Emma was told she had to look after us, as well as herself, until they returned.  I took myself off to Uncle Roy’s farm and stayed there.  Emma had enough of her own problems with having worry about me. 

At least Jack finally took an interest in what was going on, and said, in his opinion, our parents had finally shown who the favourite was, and had gone on vacation without us.  He divided his time between home and the farm.

His assessment made sense. Emma wanted to believe otherwise, but I think in the end she finally realised that they were never going to let her follow her dream.

That’s when I noticed the change in her.

Diffident.  Preoccupied.  And not that I know what it was, but more grown-up. She had lost that girlish look and attitude, and had to ‘grow up’.

When our father and mother returned, with a very contrite Rory, our world had completely changed.  It was like three new people had come back, people we didn’t really know.

Our father had completely immersed himself in everything Rory.  Whereas he used to notice us, it was like we never existed.  It was more of Rory this and Rory that.

Rory lapped it up, played the part of the football star who was going to be the pride of the family.  And carry on the mantle of looking after us all.  None of us believed him.

They were empty words.  He’d always been selfish, always got the best of everything, and he would never change.

The biggest change was Mom.  She was perpetually angry, and where once she accepted she was the household slave, she started saying no, and no longer went along with whatever her husband said.

She had a voice, and she used it.  The arguments could be heard in the street.  We left when the skirmishes started to keep out of the firing line.

That continued through that fateful year, where Rory played the game, the team won game after game, and where in private I saw that pain and anguish of a son made to believe he was something her wasn’t.

That simple sprain, as he called it, was career-ending, but our father refused to accept it and, along with the coach, pushed harder and harder.

He needed discipline, our father said, and continually said ‘no pain, no gain’.  I knew he would push himself to win the championship, but after that, he would become a mental and physical wreck.

I said to him once, “You should not let our father live his dreams through you; the cost is going to be more than you can pay.”

He just smirked and said, “What would a mistake like you know about anything?”

That’s all I was to him.  A mistake.  I guess then better to be a mistake than a fool looking for something that was never going to happen.

Although I hated sports and watching them, I went to several of his games and watched him. He was the best, but there was something else, and I didn’t think anyone noticed.  When he forgot, there was a very slight limp, especially when he gave the ankle a workout.

Not so much flash, a yard or two slower, the expression of a boy who knows what he was about to do was going to hurt, and steeling himself.

He was heading for destruction.

After the summer vacation, Emma brought up the subject of going to college.  Never too early to start planning, she said.  This went on until Rory’s prom.

I remembered it for a long time, because we all knew by then Rory mattered, and none of us did.  Perhaps Mom cared, but she had long since surrendered to apathy.

We sent Rory off in his tuxedo and new car to collect his date, a girl were discovered that same night he had been dating since that Christmas skiing debacle.  Apparently, he had been showing off in front of her.

Typical Rory.

We also learned about the deal our father made with the school to keep him on so that he could finish the season in the football team. 

He was going to be Prom king and star quarterback, as his father had been before him.  His father had also been ‘chatting’ to the football scouts about Rory’s prospects.  It all seemed to me the act of a desperate man, and not letting the son prove himself

To me, that was a disaster in the making.

Emma, on the other hand, was moving forward with her plans to attend college and get a good job.  It was where she had started work in a cafe, earning her own money because we’d been told money was tight and there were no more handouts.

An edict that didn’t include Rory.

She had seen our father about the scholarship fund our grandfather had left us for a college education, a meeting that hadn’t gone well.

She had left his study way too quickly and in tears.  She ran out of the house before I could get to see her, so I finished what I had to do and went to find her.  It wouldn’t be hard; lately, she had been keeping the latest foal company

She had named her Maisie.

Her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed.  Angry and upset.

“What happened?”

“Rory happened.  I’m going to kill him one day.”

“You might have to get in line.”

“I just found that our father spent all of our college funds on the medical bills to fix Rory’s ankle.”

“All of it?”

“And mortgaged the house.  From a secure future to the rubbish tip in the blink of an eye.”

“And completely wasted.  Rory will never be able to pay it back.  His ankle may have been fixed, but some forgot to tell him to let it completely heal.  He’s not a hundred per cent, believe me.”

“Not what Dad says.”

“He’s delusional.  They all are.  He keeps going; there will be no future for any of us.”

She shrugged.  “I’ll find work, get enough to start and pay as I go.  It may take longer, but trust me, the moment I can, I’m gone.  Who does that, spending their money without even talking to them?”

“What would I know, I’m just the mistake.”

…

The fissures were there for all to see.  All it needed was a cataclysmic event to break them open.

That came at the big game, the one that was going to give Rory his claim to fame, and the story our father could relate for years to anyone who would listen.

Rory had put in a flawless game, and we were just ahead on the scoreboard with victory assured. There was a minute to go, and the other team were moving the ball.

In one tense moment when Rory launched himself to intercept the ball, we all saw it, and we all collectively groaned.

His ankle finally gave out, and he collapsed. The other side got the ball, and our defence was just a few milliseconds slow to stop them.

Had his ankle held up just one more time, we would have won.  The look on my father’s face was indescribable.  The look on the scout’s face was predictable.

In that single moment, our world as it was came to an end.

What was incredibly painful was how his father just ignored him, lying on the football field in agony, the medical people trying to alleviate the pain.

He simply turned around and walked away.

Disappointment was etched on the faces of everyone who came to see the team win.  Even the coach was so shattered he hadn’t noticed Rory was still on the ground where he landed.

I heard my mother utter four words very savagely in her husband’s direction, “I hope you’re satisfied.”

She then went to see what was happening with Rory. 

Emma gasped when she saw the event, and she glared at him while watching him writhe in pain.  Perhaps the resentment of seeing her college fund spent for nothing hurt even more.

My only thought was that it would never happen to me because I was never going to play sports.

…

I was thirteen, that awkward age transitioning into the teens. I’d seen how it worked for two brothers, and now I was hoping those years would bypass me.

I wasn’t old enough to run away.  Jack was old enough and did, making good his escape while we were all at the football match.  I don’t think anyone noticed for a week.

Emma got as far as the railway depot with her life packed into a small suitcase, with no idea where she was going, just anywhere but there, in a house where no one cared.

Rory was back in the hospital and would never really recover.  Any thought of the dream to become a star quarterback was gone, with no offers from any of the scouts.

The injury was too severe to mend completely, and he would be in pain from time to time, and he would have a permanent limp.  My unspoken question?  Who was going to carry the family now?

Our father retreated to his study and very rarely came out.  Why would he?  Our mother didn’t come home from the game, or that night.  Seeing that world she had created for herself crashing to the ground, there wasn’t anything left.

I was left there on my own until Roy came over to see how we were getting on, having heard what happened, and unable to talk to his brother, told me to collect my stuff and come with him.

His brother could sort himself out.

We went to the railway depot and rescued Emma from making a mistake, went to the sheriff’s to tell them Jack had run away, and then went to the farm.

Roy seemed to know our mother had gone, and as he said, “She should have done it years ago.”

…

Exactly thirty years later, I stood on the bottom step of the farmhouse entry and looked across the unchanged fields and the grey walls of the barn.

The tractor I’d broken was still sitting beside it, rusting away as a monument to my inability to heed simple instructions.

I had just come back from Uncle Roy’s funeral, old age, and perpetually being tired, finally taking him to heaven, where generous souls like his were welcomed with open arms.

Mother and Emma were inside getting ready for the wake.  Jack and my father would have been there, except they had gone fishing a few months back and got caught in a freak storm and drowned.

It was sad, but the hurt wasn’t as bad as that when Roy succumbed.

As for Rory, he never recovered, mentally or physically.  He shut the door on us, and in the end, the disappointment was too much.  Whether it was deliberate or not, he overdosed on morphine.

Emma went to college, got her law degree, met a nice boy, and after graduating, got married and ended up doing the one thing she said she would never do.  Become a wife and mother.

I discovered a talent quite by accident, waiting, and wrote a bystander’s view of a high school football match that I gave to the editor of the daily newspaper, who had been at the very same game, and he hired me.

I married a fellow reporter, Emma, and I had our weddings together.  That was when our mother returned, and we all lived on the farm.

Happily ever after?  Maybe.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 166 – Perfection might just be impossible

…

The Beautiful Surrender: Why Perfectionism is the Enemy of Creation

“With each project, you eventually have to surrender the perfect version of the work to make room for what you actually create.”

When I first read this quote by Leslie Jamison, it felt like a gentle exhale. As creators—whether we are writing, coding, painting, or strategising—we spend an exhausting amount of time living in the “Perfect Version.”

The Perfect Version is that pristine, shimmering ghost of a project that lives in your head. It is the version where the prose is flawless, the code is bug-free on the first run, and the design captures the exact emotion you intended without a single misplaced pixel.

But there is a problem with the Perfect Version: It doesn’t actually exist.

The Trap of the Platonic Ideal

We often treat the “Perfect Version” as a gold standard. We think that if we just push a little harder, work a few more nights, or refine one more sentence, we will finally bridge the gap between that mental ideal and reality.

But as Jamison suggests, holding onto that perfection isn’t a pursuit of excellence; it’s a form of obstruction. The Perfect Version is static and sterile. It is a monument to what could be, but it prevents the birth of what is. By obsessing over the ideal, we stifle the messy, human, and surprising elements that make a project truly alive.

Why We Must Surrender

To “surrender the perfect version” sounds like giving up, but it is actually an act of bravery. Here is why it is the most important step in any creative process:

1. Reality is more interesting than abstraction. The Perfect Version is safe because it hasn’t been tested. The work you actually create, however, is shaped by your limitations, your constraints, and the real-world feedback you receive. There is a jagged beauty in the edges of a real project that a perfect, abstract idea could never replicate.

2. Perfectionism is a form of procrastination. It is easy to stay in the “planning” or “polishing” phase because that is where the work remains safe from criticism. To release a project into the world is to risk being judged. Surrendering the perfect vision is the only way to move from “dreaming” to “doing.”

3. The work needs room to breathe. A piece of art or a professional project is not a static object; it is a conversation. It needs to breathe. When you surrender your rigid expectations, you allow the project to evolve. You allow it to be better than you initially imagined because you are no longer forcing it to conform to a pre-defined mould.

How to Practice the Surrender

If you’re currently stuck in the grip of the Perfect Version, try these three shifts in perspective:

• Define “Done” before you start. Perfection has no finish line. By setting clear parameters for completion (e.g., “I will spend four hours on this draft, and then I will send it off”), you force yourself to prioritise the work over the fantasy.
• Embrace the “First Draft Energy.” Recognise that the first iteration is meant to be a rough sketch. If you treat it as a sandbox rather than a masterpiece, you remove the pressure to be perfect and open the door to being authentic.
• Focus on the “What” rather than the “How.” Instead of obsessing over whether the work is perfectly executed, focus on whether the work effectively communicates your message or solves the problem.

Final Thoughts

The next time you find yourself stuck, replaying the same project over and over in your mind, remember Leslie Jamison’s words. Your desire for perfection is a barrier.

Give yourself permission to let the ideal version die. It is only in that surrender that you can reclaim the space to create something real, something tangible, and—most importantly—something done.

What project have you been holding onto because it wasn’t “perfect” enough? Maybe today is the day to let it go.

…

Day 166 – Perfection might just be impossible

…

The Beautiful Surrender: Why Perfectionism is the Enemy of Creation

“With each project, you eventually have to surrender the perfect version of the work to make room for what you actually create.”

When I first read this quote by Leslie Jamison, it felt like a gentle exhale. As creators—whether we are writing, coding, painting, or strategising—we spend an exhausting amount of time living in the “Perfect Version.”

The Perfect Version is that pristine, shimmering ghost of a project that lives in your head. It is the version where the prose is flawless, the code is bug-free on the first run, and the design captures the exact emotion you intended without a single misplaced pixel.

But there is a problem with the Perfect Version: It doesn’t actually exist.

The Trap of the Platonic Ideal

We often treat the “Perfect Version” as a gold standard. We think that if we just push a little harder, work a few more nights, or refine one more sentence, we will finally bridge the gap between that mental ideal and reality.

But as Jamison suggests, holding onto that perfection isn’t a pursuit of excellence; it’s a form of obstruction. The Perfect Version is static and sterile. It is a monument to what could be, but it prevents the birth of what is. By obsessing over the ideal, we stifle the messy, human, and surprising elements that make a project truly alive.

Why We Must Surrender

To “surrender the perfect version” sounds like giving up, but it is actually an act of bravery. Here is why it is the most important step in any creative process:

1. Reality is more interesting than abstraction. The Perfect Version is safe because it hasn’t been tested. The work you actually create, however, is shaped by your limitations, your constraints, and the real-world feedback you receive. There is a jagged beauty in the edges of a real project that a perfect, abstract idea could never replicate.

2. Perfectionism is a form of procrastination. It is easy to stay in the “planning” or “polishing” phase because that is where the work remains safe from criticism. To release a project into the world is to risk being judged. Surrendering the perfect vision is the only way to move from “dreaming” to “doing.”

3. The work needs room to breathe. A piece of art or a professional project is not a static object; it is a conversation. It needs to breathe. When you surrender your rigid expectations, you allow the project to evolve. You allow it to be better than you initially imagined because you are no longer forcing it to conform to a pre-defined mould.

How to Practice the Surrender

If you’re currently stuck in the grip of the Perfect Version, try these three shifts in perspective:

• Define “Done” before you start. Perfection has no finish line. By setting clear parameters for completion (e.g., “I will spend four hours on this draft, and then I will send it off”), you force yourself to prioritise the work over the fantasy.
• Embrace the “First Draft Energy.” Recognise that the first iteration is meant to be a rough sketch. If you treat it as a sandbox rather than a masterpiece, you remove the pressure to be perfect and open the door to being authentic.
• Focus on the “What” rather than the “How.” Instead of obsessing over whether the work is perfectly executed, focus on whether the work effectively communicates your message or solves the problem.

Final Thoughts

The next time you find yourself stuck, replaying the same project over and over in your mind, remember Leslie Jamison’s words. Your desire for perfection is a barrier.

Give yourself permission to let the ideal version die. It is only in that surrender that you can reclaim the space to create something real, something tangible, and—most importantly—something done.

What project have you been holding onto because it wasn’t “perfect” enough? Maybe today is the day to let it go.

…

Days 164 and 165 – Writing exercise – Set a story on a plane

…

It had been a long couple of months, and having completed the mandatory training and refresher courses, locked down for the whole time at the company’s dedicated training facility, it was time for a recreation break.

For that, I was heading to a tropical retreat in Jamaica in the Caribbean.  The shack was booked, and all I had to do was catch three planes.

In other words, the next 48 hours could run smoothly, or it could turn into a bigger disaster than some of the missions I’d been sent on. 

I was hoping for the first and expecting the second.

It didn’t start well.  The taxi I caught to the airport stopped to let me off in the designated drop-off zone, but it was for the wrong airline.

The driver apologised and offered to go around again, but that was mentioned how I wanted to spend the next half hour of my life.  I paid him and got out.

I went into the airport terminal and started a long hike back to the departure area for my airline.  Fortunately, it was well signed, unlike some airports I’d been to.

Foot traffic was like the home time crush, and I had to pick my way through strolling families, children racing around bereft of parental control, elderly people who had all the time in the world, cranky businessmen in a hurry, and people who were standing around in groups cluttering the walkways.

I was glad I didn’t have any suitcases.  There were enough baggage trolleys to crash into as it was.  Including those being driven recklessly by children and almost wrecking a holiday before it got started.

My left ankle was still sore from the last would-be racing driver.

At the checking counter, I joined a long line that was moving slowly. 

It always amused me that people always spoke louder when standing in a queue.  I would have thought that such comments as the desirability of a male colleague, and 8 on the 1 to 10 scale, might have warranted hushed tones.  Along with the inference, one of the girls had slept with him.

The other was unimpressed.  He was married.  Scandalous, maybe to me, but they both giggled. 

That was in front of me.  Behind, a man was telling whoever would listen that he hadn’t been back home in three years and was expecting no one would remember him.  He was an accountant, so no one was surprised.

There were more, but I reached the counter by then and took a minute, perhaps a little longer.  I could only check in for the first flight, not all the way through.  I’d opted for cheap.

No baggage, passport in order, seat allocation and gate pass done.  I was travelling coach class and got an aisle seat.  It remained to be seen how that played out.  Travelling by any means these days was like walking through a minefield.

As it was only domestic, I went through the TSA check, getting a nod from one of the officers, as an acquaintance from another life, and went up to the departure level.  It was a bit early to go to the gate.

I’d have some airport takeout just in case the airline had nothing to offer.  Given the fare I paid, I seriously doubted they could afford water.

I settled on greasy chicken and fries.

..

Tables were scattered everywhere, and I selected one with two seats and seeing there was competition for it, hastened my pace to get there first.  It was that time of day when everyone seemed to be hungry.

Surviving the death stare from the other hunter, I sat back and contemplated the rest of the diners.  It was a habit more than anything else.  It converted about two or three hundred.

Families, children arguing over burgers, chicken and fries, large cups of sugary drinks, not the best for them before getting on the plane, businessmen, sitting at single tables with coffee and a sandwich, teenagers, a group on a tour, no doubt like Rome or maybe not, all excited at the fact they were escaping school.  Some had that doe-eyed look of high school sweethearts, and trouble looming.

I remembered the one trip my class had gone on and the fallout from that.

There were groups of elderly passengers also going on a holiday, a tour guide trying to keep them together, and women, one group in particular, that looked like trouble.  One had just returned with a dozen drinks, wiped escaping their husbands, and why not?

No immediate threats.

I looked at the chicken, shrugged and took a chip instead.  The coffee tasted like instant, water and powdered milk.  Who knew what came out of that coffee machine, but it wasn’t what I would call coffee.  Maybe my standards were too high.

Then I saw rather than heard a strange sound, and followed it to a table four along and one out from the shrubbery.  Four seats.  One man, a thug in a suit, a well-dressed man who reeked of money but not class, and a young woman who was trying not to look terrified.

I suspect the man in the suit had inflicted some hidden punishment on her because she was massaging her hand.  I looked away just before he looked in my direction.

He did the same scan I had, looking for trouble.

This could be one of two scenarios.  The girl, girlfriend or spouse had tried to run away and had been caught.  Usually, they would return by car, but maybe they were from overseas.  The three men looked foreign.

The other, less likely, was a felon being taken back to jail.  Or elsewhere, but then she would be in cuffs.  He didn’t look like law enforcement.

Another thug in a suit came back with a tray of food and drinks and distributed it before sitting.  An air of serenity settled on them.

I went back to my chicken.

…

It was a relatively calm half hour; the children at the table next to me were the typical family.  The boy wanted a hamburger and got chicken; the girl wanted chicken and got a hamburger.  The boy took a bite out of the chicken, and the girl refused to eat it.

Dad didn’t get the free toy that came with the food, and in the end, the mother had to sort it all out.  The father typically got exactly what he wanted.

Another child and another nearby table spilt his drink all over the father, and harsh words and tears ensued.

Queues for food were long, and tempers were fraying.  My new friends, four tables over to the left, left their mess on the table and walked off, the girl almost dragged away by the man in the expensive suit.

Something was definitely wrong there.

The lady who was wiping tables just had a whole lot more work added to the endless task of cleaning up spilled drinks and food scraps thrown on the floor.  People obviously left their manners at home.

I cleaned up my mess, wiped the table with a spare wet towel and dumped the leftovers in the appropriate bin.  The cleaning lady smiled in my direction. That was one less out of 200 tables.

I wandered slowly towards the gate, with a little under an hour to go.  There were people scattered in the seating area, including my new friends.  On my way in, I surreptitiously took a photograph of the rich guy, and when I sat down, studied it.

He had a familiar look, not belonging to someone I had met before, but someone I had seen before.   The seat next to me had a hostile folder of newspapers sitting on it, perhaps from the last flight out.

Maybe if they were leaving from here, they would be in the local paper.

Or as loath as I was to call upon a friend, who was a colleague who’d done favours for me in the past, I could send a copy of the photo and ask him to identify who it is.

Of course, it came with a degree of risk, especially if the person had a history.  I sent it anyway; Rodney would make an assessment and let me know.

Five minutes.  My cell phone vibrated.  “Investigating!”

Meanwhile, back in the newspaper, The Denver Post, I found it odd to be reading an actual newspaper and not the usual online services.  If I were staying instead of passing through, like some of the others on refresher courses, it would make a useful reference.

But nothing about our mysterious man or his companion.  But if I wanted to find out where the 4th July fireworks displays were, very useful.

I didn’t plan to be in the country.  The holiday had lost its significance given the times we were in, and the fact that our history was being rewritten to reflect something that was nothing like what happened.

My father, who has been an American History professor and scholar of all things American, including the so-called shameful parts of it, would be spinning in his grave.  I was just plain disappointed.

Just as the boarding call came, my phone vibrated again.  “Sam Kawalski and the woman Zuzanna Wojcik, the youngest daughter of the alleged head of a crime family from New Jersey.  They were married about a month ago.  Documents attached.”

I sent back a thanks and joined the queue.  I took the paper for the crossword and had some interesting reading.

They were sitting up front.  I was sitting in the back.  Fortunately, this time I was not surrounded by children.  I was, however, in direct line to the restrooms.  It was going to be a fun four hours.

…

I only had to stand once to let the window seat passenger in.  Our plane was not full, and a lot of middle seats were free.

She smiled politely as she squeezed past after putting her small suitcase in the overhead bin, then sat.  My initial assessment was that she was dressed to travel in business class, and maybe hoping for an upgrade.

She had that purposeful look like she was coming from or going to a meeting, what I would call an executive, though her age may suggest either lawyer or accountant.

Then I decided it was none of my business.

Until she spoke to me.  Normally, I would just ignore fellow passengers, or they would ignore me. But this was coach, I was used to business.  People around me nodded or said hello. 

“Work or pleasure?” 

It took a moment to register that she was speaking to me.  My attention was still on Kawalski, and the other passengers who brought far too much cabin luggage.  The hostesses were working overtime trying to find space and shunt tardy and somewhat confused people to their seats.

I turned to look at her and realised she might be older than I first thought.  Which had absolutely no bearing on anything.

“A business meeting, then pleasure.  Jamaica.”  I don’t know why I told her where I was going.

“Lucky you.  I’ve been there once, to a conference, and didn’t get much time to see the sights.  Keep meaning to go back.”

“If only we had 40-hour days?”

She took that in, processed it, then smiled again.  I could not imagine her being angry.

“If only.”

“You?  Business or something else?”  I deliberately threw in a curve, just to see what happened.

A momentary expression changed, just long enough for those trained to look for them to see it.  Then back again.

“I would be in a party dress if it were not business.”

Was there just a slight edge to her tone?

In any other situation, I might have said she would look nice in a party dress, but these days those sorts of comments are frowned upon.

“I’m sorry then.”

“For what?”

“Forgetting that others have to work.  You don’t need people saying they’re going on holiday when you’re not.”

“It doesn’t bother me, after all, I asked you first.”

Her tone had suggested otherwise, but then my tone would be grumpy if the person next to me started babbling on about where they were going.

But good or bad, it killed the moment, and she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a Kindle reader.

One more supposition, she probably read romance novels.  I wrestled the paper into a smaller square and started on the crossword.

All the passengers were aboard, and the hostesses were doing their mandatory checks.  The door had been closed.

We would be leaving on time.

…

The trouble with travelling in a confined space with a lot of people is that no matter how hard you try to shut people out, you can’t.

Up front of the plane, you are more isolated; back in the rear, you are surrounded.  Screaming kids, noisy parents, the one person who has the volume up high, and the kid who runs up and down the aisle, bumping people.

And as I discovered, the number of people who lurch from side to side, bumping people as they go.  And the proximity to the restrooms, people congregated, towering over you, squashing into you when they tried to move out of the way.

And the conversations they had.  People whom you’d least expect to speak like drunken sailors three sheets to the wind.  I felt it necessary to stand, accidentally standing on one of their feet, and apologising profusely, after causing her to cry out in pain, and then getting assistance back to her seat.

A half dozen people nodded in my direction, clearly relieved that they had gone away.  My neighbour thought it amusing, perhaps something she would have done herself.

People were more wary standing anywhere near me when they came, or, like sensible people, waited for the green light before coming down. 

The next time she headed down, without her friend, I stood and went down to the galley to stand by the rear exit door.  She approached very cautiously.

Lesson learned.

Shortly after, the plane dipped, and we were in landing mode.  I went back to my seat.  The hostesses passed through the plane, getting everyone sorted.

The last trolley had passed by into the galley, just as we all heard the girl who had suffered that unfortunate accident, now standing next to the last seat in business class, pointing and yelling, “You’re that horrible man who beat up my friend at Rodin’s the other night.”

She was pointing directly at the man in the suit.

Next minute, one of the thugs had her in a stranglehold, and she was screaming.  A scream that polarised the whole plane. 

The stewards were mortified and helpless at this point.  The thug was trying to quieten her, and there were groans and complaints, until the thug yelled out, “Everyone, be quiet or else.

The last two words carried emphasis and a latent threat.  The noise died down.

It drew an uncharacteristic response from my travelling companion, “What the fuck… “

“An altercation with that girl.  Seems she knows one of the passengers in business, and not in a good  way.”

The thug wasn’t letting her go, but at least the screams had stopped.  So had everything.

I turned around, and the hostess was on the phone with the captain.  I heard, “We have a situation…”

That was putting it mildly.  This was a no-win situation for anyone.  We wouldn’t be landing with passengers standing in the aisle.  The thug had nowhere to go.  The girl would be leveraged until she wasn’t.  Just the thought of that worried me.

Planes were small places where things could go wrong very quickly.

And Kowalski had become a cornered rat.

The papers on him were basically the bio of a kid gone wrong, hitching his wagon to the wrong train, marrying the boss’s daughter, and then committing the ultimate folly, thinking his status could protect him from being stupid.

On bail for the assault, he was fleeing.  If it wasn’t for the fact that his wife was running from him, also a victim of assault, he would not have been in Denver.

He was a bail violator and now a party to what could be described as a major aeroplane felony.  With a plane load of hostages.

The Captain had nowhere to go, but had to try.

“Everyone not involved in the situation, please resume your seats and prepare for landing.  This plane cannot land until all passengers have resumed their seats.  Be advised that we will not be using a gate, but have been directed to another section of the airport where both local police and the FBI will be waiting.  I would ask that no one make this any worse than it already is, and would ask for calm and obey any and all instructions given by the senior cabin steward.”

The girl’s companion was now telling everyone in a loud voice the circumstances of their friend’s assault, and using disparaging language directed at Kowalski.  The other thug was waiting for a signal from Kawalski.

At least everyone was reseated except for the thug with the girl, who was now sobbing.

Kawalski stood and glared at the cabin manager, also responsible for the business class passengers.

He told the thug to bring the girl forward, and he told the manager to empty the first three rows and seat them elsewhere.

It looked like one or two were going to argue, but then the other got out of his seat and dragged one of the complainers out of his seat.  The rest moved quickly, taking what they could.

So far, so good.

I slowly got out of my seat and went back to the hostess on the phone.

“Sir, you should go back to your seat.”

“I might be able to help.  Can you ask the captain to talk to whoever it is in New York and ask them if there is a Joseph Binns in the terminal?  He’s my boss and someone who deals with situations like this.  He’ll know I’m on board.”

“Who are you?”

“Who I am is irrelevant.  Except I could become those two thugs worst nightmare.  Kawalski, their boss, is bad news.  He’s bringing his wife back to New Jersey against her will, and I think he was hoping this would go under the radar.”

At that moment, I realised the plane had levelled out and was in a large circuit.  It might not last long if the fuel is low.

“Are you law enforcement?”

“Not the sort that flashed badges.  Just ask him to call.”

She did, relaying a brief resume of what I told her.

“He’s talking to them now.”

Five long minutes passed before I saw her move slightly, then say, “He’s here.”  She passed me the phone.

“Kevin Andrews?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m told you might be able to help.”

“We’re not going to get on the ground while they are moving around.  Also, I think they will start using passengers to force you to land the plane, and probably use some to get away once we are on the ground.  This is one of those no-win situations.”

“Not ideal then?”

He was calm and probably hoping his worst nightmare was a flaky engine.

“It never is.  I’m going to try to neutralise the problem.  It might get messy.  And I might not succeed.  But I could use the element of surprise.  Can you make sudden downwards or sideways movements, the sort where you are briefly disoriented?  Kind of like hitting an air pocket.”

“When?”

“Give it ten minutes.  No warning, just do it. Hard left and down.  Hopefully, I’ll be in place by then.”

“Ten minutes.  Got it.  Good luck.”

I was hugging to need it.

I handed the phone back.  “Stow everything likely to cause a problem.  If you can tell those up the front with alerting them, do it.”

The other steward unlocked a drawer and pulled out a rather interesting knife.  It might be illegal, but it was going to make my job easier.

“Got any string, rope, bindings?”

From the same drawer, twine.  Ideal.

“Good.  Keep it handy.”  I took the knife and hid it up my sleeve.

I looked at my watch.  Seven minutes.  I shrugged.  Time to go.

I slowly walked up the aisle.  My row companion gave me a rather wide-eyed look as I went past.  Maybe she thought I had a death wish.

Maybe I did.

I took my time.  Halfway, one of the thugs saw me.

“Go back to your seat.”

“Sorry.  Can’t.  Have to use the restrooms.  Ours are full of people sitting because of you.”

I edged slowly closer, both watching me.  What they were going to do was the unpredictable item in this equation.

Eight minutes, alongside the first row of coach.  Five years, maybe six.  The steward and manager had moved back into the galley area.  The two men and the girl were near the door.

I would only have a few seconds at best, and I would have to incapacitate them.  The knife would do that if I got them in the right place.  Luckily, part of the refresher I’d just been on was 101 ways to silently and quickly kill your enemy with a knife.  Any knife.

Nine minutes.  I took a deep breath and let it go slowly.  Calm.

…

Odd that in those last few seconds, I suddenly remembered nearly every time I’d landed at JFK and about 20 or 20 minutes out, we hit turbulence, once so bad it made most of the passengers airsick.

And on cue, ten seconds before the plane was to lurch, we hit turbulence and, thirty seconds after that, an air pocket and suddenly the plane dipped, violently.

Anyone who wasn’t in a seat belt hit the roof.  I was vac3d because I was expecting a lurch.  In the end, the turbulence did the job for me.

The two thugs and Kawalski hit the roof and were knocked clean out.  The plane found clean air with a thud, but the turbulence didn’t stop.  The captain explained and asked for calm.

Everyone had heeded the earlier seatbelt call, and the only three casualties were the three problem passengers.  The girl had fainted just before the air pocket, and the thug had ironically protected her from hitting the roof.

She was now sprawled on the ground.

The hostess from the rear arrived breathless and with cut lengths of twine.  Three burly men came and hoisted the three into seats in the front rows, and tied them very securely.

The manager up front relayed the news to the captain, and a minute or two later, we were descending.  A half-hour delay.  We were back to preparing the cabin for landing.

I had a few words with? First in Polish, then in English, to see if she was alright.  She said she had seen me at the airport in Denver and hoped that I had recognised her distress and alerted the authorities.

She said her father would be grateful.  I told her that she should forget I existed.  Trouble always had a way of finding me without help.

Then I went back to my seat.  In reality, I had done nothing wrong.  Whatever plan I had was sketchy at best, and I thanked whoever it was for intervening.

My seat companion looked over as I did up the seatbelt.  “What did you say you did for a living?”

“Problem solver, though I wouldn’t say I was very good at it.  Mother Nature always has an answer to just about any problem.”

“What were you going to do?”

“Use the plane differently.  Then I remembered that there’s always turbulence.  Catch them off guard, maybe.  In the end, I didn’t have to.”

“You do this often?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Somebody had to do something.  I have places to be.  Can’t have assholes holding me, and everyone else, up.”

“Well, this was exciting.  I’m just a boring librarian who sometimes gives tours at the Smithsonian.  The biggest event is someone who has a bathroom emergency.  Perhaps we could start again.  My name is Jennifer MacAndrews, Librarian.”

“Kevin Andrews, occasional Problem Solver.”

The plane shuddered as we went through another layer of turbulence.  We could see land through the cloud cover.  It would be raining when we landed.

As the wheels came down, the pilot advised us that we would be going to a closed area of the airport when the prisoners would be taken off.  Then the passengers would be transferred to buses and taken to the terminal.

“Staying in New York after your meeting?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to do something I never do.  Another first, if you like.  Can I buy you dinner for saving us, or trying to, anyway?”

She definitely did not look like the sort of woman who would offer dinner dates to perfect strangers.  Even so, I should decline.

“You don’t know me.  I could be an axe murderer.”

“You could be.  I have many interesting conversational topics that might interest you, being a librarian.”

So the axe murderer line wasn’t going to work on her. 

“When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Are you staying anywhere near the Hilton on 6th Avenue?”

“By coincidence, I am.”

“Then if I am free at 7pm, I’ll call your room, and if you’re in, we’ll see what happens?”

She smiled.  “We shall.”

…

The plane landed, everyone applauded, an odd reaction and one I have never had explained.

It took a while before the FBI officers came aboard, spoke to the captain and then took the three men away.  They did not take Zuzanna Wojcik.

Then the passengers filed off, and I waited until everyone left before I went forward.  Jennifer waited with me.  Apparently, she was in no hurry.

The captain and an FBI officer were waiting.  I shook hands, told them both that I was glad I didn’t have to do anything, and that the true heroes were the passengers who tied them up.

My boss was among those at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to take me away to that meeting.  I shook hands with Jennifer, and she joined the last of the passengers on the bus.

“You made a new friend.”

“Window seat, my row.”

“Not screaming kids?”

“They were three rows ahead.  It’s not so bad in the back of the plane.  I hear it’s the safest place in a crash.”

He shrugged.  “Always something with you.”

“What can I say?”

“Next time, you will try to remain anonymous.  Your next job was to investigate Zuzanna Wojcik’s family.  Can’t do that now she knows who you are.”

“Or…”

He shook his head.  “You really don’t have a death wish.  You have two weeks’ vacation.  We’ll talk about it later.  Who was the girl?”

“A librarian at the Smithsonian.”

“Good.  You could do well to learn something other than ways to kill people.”

If I called her.  I was having second thoughts. A girl like her didn’t need to know someone like me.  It was one of the downsides of the job.

The baggage handlers were offloading the last of the baggage, and the plane sat on the tarmac, now in the hands of the cleaners.

In a few hours, it would be off to another airport, most of the passengers would be going to hotels, visiting others or going home.  For them, it was just another day in their lives.  They would never know just how close they came to dying.

And in my case, I had been lucky.  Stupid but lucky.  It put a thought into my head that until I spoke to Jennifer, I would never have turned up there.

Was it time I gave up the idealistic dream that I could save the world, one mission at a time?  The fact is, I couldn’t, and wasn’t.

My boss opened the door to the limo.  “Opportunity awaits.”

I got in and moved over.  He climbed in and shut the door.  “Let’s go.”

And for the first time, I was thinking of something other than work.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026