Finding Jan Pt. 01

Author's Note: The following is a work of complete and at times rather absurd and ridiculous fiction. There is no Jan...there is no Lara...but I wish there was.

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I knew the phone would ring at exactly 5:30 PM and yet, when it did, my body still jumped as the sound pierced the still air of my house. Six months of waiting to confirm what I already knew and yet, the moment of truth was here. I had barely gathered my wits when I picked up the phone and said hello. With rote precision, the voice on the other end of the phone said "please hold for the President".

A moment later, the voice I'd heard six months earlier calling me to offer condolences on behalf of a grateful nation, was on the phone again.

I've met celebrities and politicians from time-to-time and for some reason, I am always surprised that they sound the same in real life, as though I subconsciously assume that the voice I hear on television is itself an act and that I'll hear their "real" voice on the phone. I recognized this voice, even on his speakerphone, "Brett", he said, "this is the President". I gave my most earnest reply, a very snappy, "good evening, Mr. President".

I knew who would be in the Oval Office with him, but he told me anyway. Dan Simpson, Vice President; Margaret Christian, Secretary of State; James Beckinworth, the Director of Central Intelligence, a.k.a., the head of the CIA; Robert Ainsworth, Director of the FBI; Sharon Myers, Director of National Intelligence, and a few of their underlings, including Steven Murphy, Deputy Director of Operations at the CIA. Last but not least, the chairwoman of the National Transportation Safety Bureau, the NTSB, Barbara Anderson.

The President of the United States doesn't typically call the family of the victims of an aircraft accident, but when your wife and her father, who happened to be the Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA is in the accident, I guess he does.

The President once again told me how sorry he was about the accident and how the country was still mourning their loss, as well as that of the pilot of their aircraft, William "Billy Boy" Donovan.

The President then turned the conversation over the Ainsworth. The FBI had been given jurisdiction over the entire investigation, working closely with other departments. Ainsworth expressed his sympathies in a perfunctory sort of way. He had never liked my father-in-law, but good God man... he was dead. I guess rivalries don't end in Washington until everyone is dead and maybe not even then.

Ainsworth went on to describe the hundreds of agents that were involved in the investigation, the tens of thousands of man-hours spent, as well as assistance received from foreign, but unnamed, governments.

The conclusion was that the accident was, indeed, an accident. With that, Barbara Anderson took over. She proceeded to briefly describe that day's terrible events and the tragic set of occurrences which coincided to bring about catastrophe.

Anderson said it was a beautiful clear day, not a cloud in the sky, 70 degrees, with a slight wind. At 8:15 AM, Lara, my wife, and her father, Alex, boarded the hot air balloon. She was a real beauty, gleaming bright white, with a giant American flag on the side. Simple, elegant, regal.

Donovan was an experienced pilot. Served three tours in the Gulf War, flying F-15s. He was famous within military circles as the first guy to take a dump in Saddam Hussein's gold toilet. Rumor is, he'd left an upper decker a few days later. Despite the mischief, he also seen some terrible things while there. When he returned, it took him a while to get back on his footing and he took to ballooning as a respite; a way to forget about all the horrors he'd seen in the war.

Donovan walked them through the equipment, how it works, how it flew, how he controlled it. He'd given the pre-flight speech a million times and once he sensed that he'd put his passengers at ease, the balloon would slowly begin its ascent. Reaching an altitude of 5,000 feet, Donovan lowered the flame and let the balloon start to drift westward.

Unbeknownst to all of them, at the same time the balloon was rising, Hasan al Iirhabiun Hamidi, a chemist working at MIT, with degrees from Cairo University and King Abdulaziz University in Saudi Arabia, began his flight. Hamidi had grown up in a wealthy family in Saudi. He was a distant member of the royal family. He'd never known want, but had always felt the suffering of his oppressed comrades. It sometimes filled him with bitterness and rage.

Cutting through the air with razor like precision, Hamidi must have felt exhilarated by the freedom that only the open skies could offer and yet single minded in his determination to fulfill his mission. He could only imagine the satisfaction he'd feel when finished.

With cellphone in hand, my father-in-law took a video of everything that happened next. In the distance, Donovan spotted an approaching object. With no concern in his voice, he directed his passenger's attention toward it. Donovan must have been eagle-eyed, because neither Lara nor her father saw the object at first.

"Where? Where? Where? I don't see it, wait I see it, no I don't, wait yes I do, wait, I'm not sure."

By that time, Alex had seen it and he yelled "Dammit, Lara! It's right there!" Their relationship was often based on yelling at each other, but behind that, there was love. "Ahhh, I see it now" said, Lara.

They watch it intently, sizing it up, and following its trajectory. Several minutes later, they observed that it appeared heading their way. With increasing anxiety in their voices, they realized Hasan al Iirhabiun Hamidi and his 30 foot wingspan was indeed coming straight in their direction.

Lara shrieked as the uncertain became certain, her balloon was going be hit by a hang glider at 5,000 feet. She must have wondered what the odds of that were. Her mind was always racing with numbers.

As the three passengers ducked into the basket, the sound of air swooshing got louder and louder. Suddenly, the basket shook violently. Lara thought she'd be sick. Alex held her tight. Lara worried the bottom of the basket, which was just plywood and a few two by fours, would give way.

The balloon felt like it had dropped and the basket twisted back in forth for what seemed like an eternity.

As confused and frightened as they were, they began to realize that the basket was stabilizing, that they were not in freefall and the floor hadn't given way.

Looking up, they first noticed the brilliant red color of nylon which wrapped the glider and gave it its lift. The balloon's ropes were tangled in an undecipherable tangled mess.

Remarkably Hamidi was alive, conscious and in good spirits. He was able to chat with all three people. Just as soon as they realized their worst fears had not been realized, they heard a hissing sound. The hang glider had punctured the balloon, ever so slightly. Donovan quickly surveyed the damage and indicated that by upping the heat on the flame of the balloon's burner, he could compensate for the leaking air and likely bring the balloon to a safe landing.

As Donovan piloted the damaged balloon, Hasan, Lara and Alex chit chatted. It turns out Hasan was a great guy. Married with three kids, living in a nice suburb. The kids were in private school and they had a Labrador Retriever named Hamilton, after the man and the musical.

It also turned out that they all loved Mexican food and frequently ate La Malestar Estomacal. What a coincidence! As the group chit chatted, the balloon slowly descended, but disaster struck again. A Cessna had just taken off from a regional airport. It was the pilot's first solo flight. Perhaps overwhelmed by the beauty of Earth from an altitude or perhaps drunken with fear, the pilot somehow missed a giant balloon, with a hang glider stuck in it. At around 800 feet, he clipped the balloon, this time causing a massive gash. With death seemingly certain, fate stepped in again. Witnesses reported that as the balloon plummeted, the hang glider caught wind and slowed the plane to healthy rate of descent. A few minutes later, the plan made a soft, gentle landing... In the middle of a major interstate highway, I-69.

It all happened so fast at that point, that we'll never know if they even experienced a second of elation at their safe landing and astonishing good luck.

We'll also never know even if they saw that Freightliner Cascadia coming. The Cascadia was an impressive tractor trailer rig indeed. Striking blue paint, with a white stripe, "Mere Excitee", in stunning burgundy across the air deflector at the top. With up to 605 horsepower and over 2000 pounds of torque, she was also beast. Traffic videos showed the unit moving at over 70 miles per hour as it made contact with the balloon, the balloon's basket and my precious, Lara.

In an instant, they were gone. Four innocent lives taken. As the sobering thought of such a horrible demise settled upon her, my mother-in-law, Jan, instinctively grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. It didn't seem like there was anything else to say. Just a horrible, nearly improbable set of events set in motion, coinciding to make for a catastrophe.

What were the odds Lara would have wondered... Now we know, because the NSA had the math geeks at Stanford calculate it... 1 in 4.678567 billion.

Taking a moment to process it, but still dizzy with emotion, I thanked everyone for their efforts, thought and concern. While I never would have wished this on my worst enemy, I was glad that it wasn't terrorism related. I disconnected the line and just sat there. It felt like minutes before I could feel the stillness in the air again and realized Jan's hand was still on mine; she too was lost in the same stillness.

As I stared vacantly into space, suddenly a new and even more powerful emotion overcame me. "Jan", I said, "how about... how about a pizza?" "Only if its pepperoni" she said. I readily agreed and called our favorite restaurant, Unto Cibo.

We were always close, Jan and I. She often conspired with me to get gifts for Lara or do other nice things for her. When Lara was having a bad day, it was Jan I would confide in and Jan who'd tell me just the right things to say or do. She'd double up the assistance by reinforcing the message to Lara during one of their 100 times a day phone calls. People talk about girl's being close to their mothers, but I'd never imagined anything like this.

Jan was 55 now, she had Lara when she was 19. I was right in the middle at age 46. I never gave her much thought as "a woman" though. She's my mother-in-law and who thinks of that? About the most I could say is that over the years, I had certainly noticed her mammoth breasts (had to be at 34EE, at least). I mean, Stevie Sunder, the blind musician, would have seen them, they're that large.

The only other things I can say are once my wife showed me a picture of her then 20-something mother in a bikini (which is seared in my memory) and that her mother was promiscuous in her younger days. That always bothered me because my wife didn't give it up that much. A few blowjobs a year. Her mother, on the other hand, was apparently a bit of blowjob queen in her younger days. Maybe, like baldness, it skips a generation.

I opened a wonderful bottle of 1982 Chateau Margaux and kept the glasses full as we ate. For the first half hour, we talked about everything except for that evening's phone call.

Finally, as an uncomfortable silence took over, Jan went first. She asked how I was feeling and what I thought and what I would do. I told her the truth. I felt horrible, I felt alone, confused and uncertain on what my next move would be. I could tell she was hurting too, but she dug deep into a well of empathy and told me everything would be OK. She told me that when tragedy strikes, we move forward. We remember the past, but live in the present and plan for the future. I knew she was right, but I also knew I had stagnated for six months and was in a deep rut of loneliness and despair.

After dinner, we settled in onto the couch. It had become our ritual. She slept over most nights to help me with the kids and house-stuff. She was really a saint. Knowing we were going to have the call, we sent the kids to my parent's house earlier in the day and now we were alone. For all the time we'd spent together, we were never alone.

Sitting next to me on the couch, I noticed her figure for the first time. I mean really noticed. As I said, I'd observed her giant breasts before, but those observations were almost clinical, as-in, "yep, those are large... moving on".

That night was different. She was still trim and in good shape. These facts were apparent to me as I looked at her thighs in black leggings and slowly scanned up her body. She was wearing a tight tank top, over another tight tank top. Tight enough to see their size, loose enough for them to be free and sway a bit as she walked. I'd seen her in outfits like that so many times, I barely took notice. Tonight, however, with pain and grief and loneliness as the dominant figures in the cast of characters that is my psyche, my eyes fixated on her body. My heart was soft with the tenderness she'd shown me over the last six months, but my mind began to wander and I imagined holding those breasts, squeezing them, putting my cock between them.

I didn't do it on purpose, but there's no doubt I was staring at them and she caught me, caught me red-handed. I don't know exactly what she thought, but I sensed a moment of surprise, followed by discomfort, then acceptance and understanding.

We had been watching that movie about the man shipwrecked on the island. I shook my head and blurted out that I knew exactly how he felt. Shipwrecked and alone, with nothing but fading memories.

Jan always said the right thing. She told me she understood that I felt alone and that memories fade, but that I wasn't really alone. I had her, right there in the room. Another person, a person who felt the same sadness, who shared many of the same memories and who would light the match to rekindle those memories, whenever I needed. I took a deep breath and fell deeper into the couch.

As a tear rolled down my cheek, Jan got closer to me and nuzzled herself into the crook of my arm. I wrapped my arm around her and squeezed her tight. As I did, I looked down at her and could see more cleavage that a rock outcropping in the Grand Canyon. My sadness and desperation were suddenly mixed with realization that something was stirring inside of me.

I focused on forgetting about it and just being content to have someone to hold. It'd been a long time since I'd had that.

The house was quiet except for the sound of the television and the alcohol had clearly started to take its effect. My eyes wobbled with exhaustion and I could see Jan's doing the same. By the time my eyes opened again, the credits were on and Jan had slipped from my arm. Her head was now on my belly and I could feel her breasts pushing up against me. I saw her open her eyes for a second and close just as quickly. As my arm gave up its struggle to maintain an awkward position, I let it come to rest on her left breast. That's all I remember as my eyes followed suit with hers and closed again.

The shipwreck movie is a tale of love lost, perseverance, survival and then moving on, letting go... The movie that followed wasn't quite as high-minded. I was woken up to the sound of moaning. Taking stock of the situation, I realized it was a cheesy skin flick. The kind that teenage boys used to watch before the internet, hoping they'd see real porn, but instead, just got to see some tits and simulated sex. It was better than nothing back then.

Jan's eyes were open again. She was watching it and every few moments, I could see her body tense up...with what seemed like excitement.

We both watched the movie in silence, each not wanting to acknowledge the other's interest in the subject matter. That worked until the tingling began. My stomach suddenly had butterflies and I could feel the blood rushing to my cock. I'd hoped it'd just be a modest chub... hoped. I was wrong and deep down, I knew I'd be. Between the movie and the breast and her head on my belly, it was inevitable.

I obviously hadn't been with anyone since the accident. It was too soon. Too much going on. Too much uncertainty, grief and hurt. Here I was, however, with a rapidly growing erection and nothing to do about it...or at least no longer caring enough to do anything about it.

I know that exactly moment she noticed it. I was watching her face and suddenly saw her eyes widen, her head slightly recoiled and then confusion. Just as quickly, her face calmed, her eyes narrowed and I could feel her take a deep breath. She slowly rolled her head to face me and we looked deep into each other's eyes. Without saying a word, she could see my resignation, embarrassment and remorse. Her eyes were soft and kind. In her silence, she told me she understood and wasn't upset.

I expected her to get up at that point. We'd each go to our rooms, both of us embarrassed by what had happened. She didn't move though, other than to roll her head back to watching the movie.

Somewhat stunned, I sat there, trying to will myself to lose the hard-on.

My hopes of going flaccid were lost when she placed her hand on my knee and slowly ran it up my thigh. Slowly...very slowly. As she did, every few seconds, she gave a gentle squeeze. With each one, more blood rushed to my cock. I couldn't remember the last time I was that hard.

Realizing that there was no turning back at this point, I took my shot and began to rub her breasts. I could feel her nipples getting hard. I wondered what they look like. I'd gotten a glimpse once when she was a wearing a shirt which suffered a "wardrobe malfunction", but was just a split second. I was starting to feel like I might really get to see them, in their full glory.

My cock was aching as it strained against my shorts. Wouldn't you know it, I had spent 30 minutes that morning debating whether to wear my super loose, easy to access my cock, nylon gym shorts or my khaki shorts, with three buttons and a zipper. Of course, I chose wrong and nothing made that clearer than the moment she grabbed my cock and started to rub it.

Feeling my cock for the first time, she let out an audible gasp and then squeezed it hard. It became pretty clear in about two seconds that this was a woman who knew her way around a cock. There wasn't a hint of clumsiness or self-doubt in the way she approached my dick.

With her hand flat, she rubbed her palm up from my balls, along the bottom of the shaft, all the way to the top. Slowly, but with great deliberation she pressed up and down.

After I don't know how long, she ran her hand up and then slowly brought her fingers together at the tip, until her nails were resting on it. She then began to run her nails up and down, tip to balls, balls to tip.

My cock and balls were almost in agony and I thought I should return the favor. In a split second, I had my hands down the front of her leggings and began to rub her pussy. It was clearly swollen and wet already. Then, suddenly, she pulled my hand away from her. The aggressiveness with which she did it made me think I'd made a huge mistake and the party was over. Instead, she said something that I will jerk off to for the rest of my life. "No... you'll go first. You need this. You can take care of me later".

I was shocked, amazed, and somehow even hornier. I felt dirty, kinky and I don't know what else. "You'll go first"... "You need this"...

She slid her hand up my thigh again, but this time, under my shorts. I had barely eaten in six months, so they were about 4 sizes too big and had plenty of room. She continued to massage my cock and I could only imagine how much of a load was building up in my balls.