The screaming jet engine of a Boeing 747 as it flies past my line of vision has never given me a better feeling of home. Passing at 30 feet above my head, this four-engine, and 975,000-pound “jumbo jet” gracefully maneuvers its way to the ground. I sit on the hood of my car, staring up and imagining. This is the one place to get it all out, write it all down. Cargo City is my “home away from home.” Sometimes, I’ll just drive through the 9-mile stretch of road to clear my head, calm my nerves, or think things through. When just a passing by doesn’t suffice, I’ll pull over to the side of the road, get out of my car, and wait. Planes usually fly in around every ten minutes. Some days, I’ll sit there and watch a couple of them and then leave. Other days, I’ll sit there for hours and lose count after the tenth plane. This was one of those days.
While I’m waiting, I begin to think. Jet-fuel’s aroma permeating the area leaves me with a sense of ease. I’m six years old again. “Nothing will ever be as bad as it seems.” That’s what daddy used to say as he held me on his shoulders while we waited on the next plane to come. They were giant creatures back then, identical, steady, and screeching above us. Back then, my father and I used to come here once a week. As we stood behind the rusty and eroded chain-linked fence, he would hold me high on his shoulders. We would only stay for about an hour or so, but it felt like much more as I cherished every minute in his presence. This was the only daddy-and-me time that we had. I thought he wanted to take a break from chasing around the ball of electricity that I was, but he used this weekly trip as an opportunity to talk to me about the things that he turned out to be too afraid to say when I got older. I wonder, where are you now, dad? How come things are the worst they’ve ever been? You’re a phone call away, but I still feel as if you’re farther than ever.
The first plane passes over my head. I start to think about how growing up is not something that I’m ready for. I’ve been coming here for fifteen years, but I still feel like a child. I wonder if the people that are just landing at Philadelphia International Airport have ever felt the same. If the businessmen and women on that flight have ever wanted to stay eighteen forever, just as I do; if they’re wondering if the path that they have chosen in life is the path that is right for them. Would they have done things differently if they could? I wonder if they ever feel like taking a “personal health day” and miss that big presentation that can make or break them because they have been so worked up over it to the point where they could breakdown. Do they question what the point is, after all the stress it’s caused them? Do the people at the airport hotels sit alone in their rooms, contemplating if they had made the right decisions, if they can salvage their marriages, help their kids? Do any of them question, like I do, if this is really the way life is meant to be lived? Thousands of lives hurtle down Interstate 95 in their steel boxes with aluminum body panels, all heading somewhere, but do any of them really know where? It seems like people are unconsciously in a restless race to the grave.
Plane number two flies in ten minutes later.
“You can do anything you put your mind to, as long as you work hard at it and put in one-hundred and ten percent,” goes through my head as glassy tears begin to surface. What if the 110% isn’t good enough, dad? I’ve been giving my all at this little thing called “life” and I don’t seem to be reaping the benefits of all the effort and energy that it’s costing me. So far, this hasn’t turned out to be what I had envisioned. Did the person flying the airplane dream of becoming a pilot when he was a kid, or is flying an airplane a job he fell back on because he failed at becoming what he really wanted to be? I don’t have a back-up plan; I have nothing to fall back on. If I fail at what I’ve been passionate about for years, I have nothing.
The Boeing 747 is one of the fastest planes in the world. Traveling at a speed of up to 567mph, I could fly from here to California in five and a half hours. I pack my most valued possessions in one small carry-on bag. A suitcase full of clothes is put into the cargo hold as I board the plane, ticket scanned. As we take off, I smile; this is the first time I’m not worried about all of the problems that Philadelphia has so graciously handed to me. With the seat back and the tray table in its upright position, the giant, hollow craft barrels down the runaway like a bullet. I can feel the tilt forward and the wheels lift up from the ground as the plane plummets upward, catching the wind, slanting the sleek metal wings. My ears pop and I take a deep breath, the seat belt sign illuminates with a “bing.” Leaning against the armrest, I pull up the window shade and gaze down at parked car and the vague image of a man with a little girl on his shoulders. As the altitude increases and Philly starts to vanish, I’m ready to welcome the big, scary unknown with open arms when suddenly the roaring engine wakes me as the next plane is directly overhead. I sit on the hood of my car, staring up, and imagining.
