Plane Ride to Heaven

It was noon and he nursed a quite cruel hangover—bells rang in his head and he was certain some evil force was dropping H-bombs in various parts of his brain.

He poured a highball of vodka and orange and sat on the small corner desk by the window overlooking the street; he opened his notebook and revisited the pages he wrote over several glasses of neat gin the night before. It all felt new to him, as he had almost no recollection of filling the pages up with his mad scribbling:

hours days weeks all go down the drain; mercilessly following the driest drain imaginable to a gutter unlike any other. dry, morose, unhappy. it's where dreams are already cremated, where hopes are burned and prays are laughing stock. I've almost nothing to do anymore, staying still and it feels like I've grown centuries old in just an hour, as I stare at the dead street under the dead window and at the dead night sky hanging above this dead city. and it's my dead soul that suffers the most, for I've nothing else to do.

only this gin, only this first drink of the rest of my life and the sun will come up soon enough and she'll be up and ask me 'why haven't you gone to bed yet?' and I've no real answer to give, I just nod and pass out on the couch, or the bed if I'm lucky, wondering why I'm still around. it's the passion, this different sensation she gives me the fucking vibe I sense, when our lips touch. though, it's been a while since we last properly kissed, let alone fuck.

I'm not sure what the hell I'm doing sticking around; I want to be here, a part of me truly does, but, I also want to get moving. Copenhagen has nothing to offer me, I fear—does Penelope?

there's no telling yet it's too soon as I told her back on the first day we met, we let excitement take over, that bizarre passion that overwhelms the psyche that the romantics and the hopeless would call 'love at first sight' and mistake the physical passion the biological instinct for reproducing with someone you find attractive for something noble and glorious. it's all chemistry, chemical reactions in the brain that control the body and create urges and desires yet I let it happen and now I'm here and don't know if I can leave in the middle of the night,

like I did in Barcelona, when I abandoned Marianne (I think) like a thieve, tiptoeing my way around her apartment collecting my few belongings, books and clothes, and disappeared boarding the first train to wherever—ended in Seville where I met Hannah, that Danish girl that told me about Copenhagen and with whom I stayed for about two days.

it's alright, nearly two months now, too long it sometimes feel, and I don't dare walk away what if there's something good actually and I lose it?

horrified, I need one more glass, something to drink, to put the monsters finally to sleep all the goddamn voices in my head telling me to disappear and I can't,

the sun's coming up she'll be awake, it's an ungodly hour she has to get up but she needs the time to shower put on makeup all that fuss I don't get and I'm gonna be around when she comes home,

unless I'm at the bar, and at any rate I'll come back we'll have dinner watch a movie hold hands something it's always the same the routine I've been avoiding all my life and now I feel as if I can't abandon.

None of it made much sense, but, it was the perfect representation of his turbulent state of mind, filled with noise from countless thoughts and voices telling him what to do—offering him advice he wasn't willing, or capable, of heeding.

It was, however, the way things always had been—ever since he turned 14, at the very least, and began tasting the world (through its liquor). The days by the river, swigging beer and moonshine they'd tricked someone's older brother to buy them—on occasion, given to them by some parents, who saw no wrong with a few teenage boys getting drunk.

He remembered Mr. Pennington—his best friend's father—who watered Manny and he with Wild Turkey 101, saying "if you boys know how it feels to be out of your mind drunk, you might think twice, before you do it in public."

It was that sweet liberation, though, that altered Peter's mind forever—unbeknownst to Mr. Pennington. That magnificent euphoria that overwhelmed him, when the slightly sour, and highly powerful, bourbon entered his bloodstream and did its number on his brain. All the new thoughts, the new ideas—the feeling of being perfectly capable of conquering the whole damn world.

And, ever since, Peter chased down the same feeling—usually with shots of well tequila and rotgut bourbon—pretty much like a junkie chases the goddamn dragon via the next, and the next, shot of smack.

He leaned back on the chair and lit a cigarette; stared at the blue smoke rising, veiling the grey sky visible through the open window. He tried to take in the sounds and scents of the city, of the street below, but, there was absolutely nothing.

It all felt sterile and calm; and after the gutters and the skid rows, and the jail cells, he ought to have relished the change. However, living away from the thrill of sharing fortified wine with winos and not knowing whether he'd be stabbed in the next dive he entered was not for him.

And with the previous night's notes still flying around in his head, he hurried out of the apartment.

* * * *

"I...don't know," Penelope said, grinning faintly over her cup of coffee. "I haven't really had time to...explore yet."

"We're keeping you pretty busy, huh?" Morten chuckled. "I'm sure you're gonna love the city, though. Perhaps, all you need is someone in the knowhow, to show you around."

"So, you grew up here, right?"

"Ja," he nodded. "Copenhagen born and raised! And I've lived most of my life here, too."

"Most?" She raised her eyebrow.

"Did a two-year tenure in the Dominican Republic—I was actually assigned the director of our offices there, when they first were built."

"Sounds like an important position."

"It was." He lowered his gaze and had a sip of coffee. "But, I just couldn't...stay there much longer. I did tell the higher ups from the start, though, that I wanted it to be temporary.

"Sure, it was nice being there, exploring a new country, and so vastly different from Denmark, too—and it did come at the right time, just after my nasty divorce, where getting away from everything was precisely what I needed—but, in the end, I couldn't stay there for long.

"And I did deny a similar position in Houston, a couple of years ago."

"How long have you been with the company?" She asked.

"Nice way of trying to figure out my age," he chuckled warmly. "I was first hired as an unpaid intern, back when I was in college, so...twenty-two years and counting!"

"Wow." Her lips curled widely. "So, you started as an intern and rose up to become a director for the new offices and...well, now you're in charge of pretty much everything, right?"

"Give or take," he shrugged. "I'm not the CEO, or anything. I just...well, I'm the head of HR, with some extra responsibilities, that basically make me responsible for everything going down at the office on the daily basis."

"I love how you make it seem so trivial."

"It's just in my DNA," he grinned. "Well," he responded to her inquiring glare, "one thing you need to know about Denmark, and Danish people in general, is that we live by what we call Janteloven; The Law of Jante.

"A notion created by Sandemose that basically states that no one's better than the other and that bragging and shooting for the stars is not a good thing. To put it very crudely."

"That might explain why you've got such a developed and functioning welfare system."

"Probably," he nodded with a wide grin. "Though, there are people here that would much rather we adhered to the whole do it yourself American system. How are things in Greece?"

"Different," she sighed. "Down there, it's mostly about whom you know; and it's about becoming rich in the easiest way possible. Therefore the country is in its current situation—because, for decades, the public servants were appointed based on who they voted for and, obviously, when every government appoints a few thousand public servants, without removing the old ones, you end up with a country that has way too many public servants getting paid big money to do absolutely nothing.

"At the same time, those working in the private domain always tried to cheat on their taxes—the rationale always being 'well, since the state doesn't offer me anything, why should I give my hard-earned money to it?'.

"Which, in a way makes sense, because indeed the spending on schools and infrastructure and hospitals is minimal, but...at the same time, if everyone cheats on their taxes, how is the state supposed to raise enough money to fix the existing problems?

"So, in the end, it's just a vicious circle, deriving from the mentality of how to get rich fast and easy. There's no real welfare mentality, like here, nor a do it yourself attitude, like in the U.S.."

"Sounds...not that good," he said, visibly at loss for words.

"It's even worse than it sounds," she smiled sorrowfully.

"So, you're glad to be here, huh?"

"Yes and no," she said coldly—and noticed, quite curiously, a faint darkness that befell his gaze. "I mean," she explained hastily, "I'd much rather stay in Athens, my hometown, just like you wanted to come back to Copenhagen, when you went abroad for work.

"But, with how things are now down there, it's not really feasible—at least, as long as I want to have prospects for a better future. I mean, sure, I could get a job down there for the minimal wage, but...what's the point in that, if that's all I'll ever do?

"At least, here I've got a chance to make something out of myself; have a bright career, enjoy a nice, calm life without having to worry too much about the system collapsing around me.

"If Greece wasn't in the EU, it would be in the same, if not an even worse, situation as Venezuela."

"That bad, huh?"

"Yup," she nodded, then let out a heavy groan. "I think it's about time we change the subject, don't you think? I'm getting all depressed just thinking about..."

"All right, yes, of course!" He said excitedly.

The rest of their conversation was quite casual—they had dinner and did not talk about Peter, or Morten's ex-wife.

All in all, however, Penelope felt fuzzy within during the whole date—she kept reminding herself it was nothing but a friendly outing, a coworker wishing to make her feel welcome.

After all, that's the Danish way—even the CEO and president of a company may ride a bicycle to work and they're open and welcoming to all employees, no matter how lowly their position in the company. So, she had to keep reminding herself that that was what it was all about.

And yet, she could not shred off the weird feeling swarming her heart—that questioning feeling about her true intentions and expectations.

* * * *

It was a quiet, dark watering hole that caught his attention—Carl's Bar; he descended the handful of steps and entered the semi-underground joint, immediately attacked by the all too familiar scents and sensations.

Already feeling quite at home, he sat on a stool and ordered the cheapest draft beer available—he let the foam settle for a second, then choked down half the glass.

He lit a cigarette and observed the small wooden tables, the uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs, the sparse decoration on the walls (mainly, posters from movies and concerts from another epoch). The place reeked and it hit his tired of chlorine and cleanness nostrils pleasantly.

Only one other patron was there—an old man with shoulder length snow white hair and a thick beard nursing a bottled beer.

"Sorry, I don't speak Danish," Peter replied to the bartender.

"Oh, right," the bartender smirked. "Ready for a refill?"

"Don't ever bother to ask; always assume the answer's yes," Peter drained down the last drop of his beer and pushed the glass toward the bartender.

And thusly the day went by quite quickly, as Peter poured down his stomach glass of draft beer after glass, chasing it with shots of the cheapest well tequila—which bottle still came with a measure, to his befuddlement and frustration.

The only people that walked in were hardened drunkards and semi-lunatic winos—his type of crowd and soon he found himself shooting pool and playing darts with faux-bikers in leather jackets and shooting tequila with drunks temporarily escaping the routine of their married life.

He had planned to stick around for just a couple of drinks, but, when the bartender yelled the most dreadful two words in any language of the world, last call, he ordered, in his awful singing voice "one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer".

He choked them down in quick succession, said au revoir to the bartender and the rest of the staggering patrons, and slumbered his way back to the apartment—the cool breeze intensified the alcoholic effects, as he got drunker with every step taken, ending on his back on the empty double bed hardly knowing how he got there.

* * * *

It was half-past three, when she stood outside the front door of her apartment—overwhelmed with guilt and dread for how long the date turned out to be. After dinner, they bought coffee to go from a nearby 7/11 and strolled alongside the canals of Nyhavn.

What got her was how strongly she wanted to stay out, with Morten—how deeply within she felt her mind's blatant refusal to go home. There was no real reason—Peter and she didn't fight, there wasn't any Cold War atmosphere between them, it was just... the more she talked to Morten, the more connected she felt to him.

And it wasn't a connection made up of pure passion and lust, like it had been with Peter—it was vastly different. He understood her, he...he was like her in many ways, they agreed on significant matters like the desire, and necessity, of building a calm life based upon a safe routine.

Perhaps, it was the age difference that made her feel so comfortable—even though it did feel awkward in the beginning, when he had asked her out for coffee after work.

At first, she just thought it'd be coffee, a talk about work, and that'd be all; she'd go back home, have dinner with Peter, watch a movie, go to bed. That was the original plan.

But, the more they talked, the less she wanted to leave—even though at first she did check the clock, gradually she stopped caring. By the time they'd finished dinner, she simply wanted to prolong the night.

And now, way past midnight, she turned the lock as quietly as she could and tiptoed into the apartment; when she stepped into the dark, her first thought was that Peter hadn't come home yet.

However, the strong scent of alcohol hit her nostrils as she approached the bedroom—she turned the bathroom's light on and saw Peter lying on his back. His snoring occasionally rattled the apartment.

She washed her face, got undressed, and laid down next to him—in the dark, she kissed him on the forehead and smiled, when he moaned, and smirked, in his sleep.

Sleep, however, would not befall her, as she remained awake, hands crossed behind her head and staring into the dark—once more viewing the new twists and turns affecting her life as a surreal scenario out of Ionesco's nightmares.

* * * *

His tongue wrapped in a wet sock, while cruel bombardment occurred in various places in his brain—he got up, suddenly his stomach twisted and the world turned black. He collapsed back down on the bed, holding his throbbing forehead, and let out a prolonged heavy groan.

Penelope had already gone to work—he did sense her coming home, while lost in drunken slumber, but, was in no condition to react.

While he slowly gathered the necessary strength to get to his feet and drag his carcass to the bathroom, he wondered about what kept her out in the city until after last call.

But, he knew that nothing good could come out of thinking about these things while hangover—there's a short period between hangover and the fifth drink during which all decision making ought to take place.

With dread swarming his heart, he had a shot of cheap drugstore whiskey and headed out, covering his bloodshot eyes behind the aviator shades and tying his greasy, uncombed hair in a high bum meant to cover the slowly expanding bald spot.

"Hey, Jim," he greeted the bartender heavily.

"Well, you're back," he smirked. "Somehow, I was certain I'd see you again. So, a beer?"

"Make it a Bloody Mary," Peter lit a cigarette, then rubbed his forehead as he dragged. "But, use gin!"

"Never heard that before," Jim noted, while preparing the drink.

"Not that many morning drinkers around, huh?" Peter asked, after a heavy sigh of relief produced by the first large gulp.

"No, not really," Jim shrugged. "It's after five business picks up."

"That's good." Peter finished his drink. "I'll have that beer now. I like it quiet, to be honest."

"It gets kinda boring, when you work, though," Jim exasperated.

"Why don't you have a drink, then? Who's gonna see you?"

"I don't know," Jim shrugged. "I...you think?"

"Why the fuck not, man?" Peter swigged the beer down. "It's just the two of us and it's—" he dramatically looked at the dirty clock on the wall "—only eleven in the morning. Who's gonna come in to judge you?"

"Fuck it," Jim sighed, after a few moments of inner contemplation, and poured two fresh glasses of draft beer. "Might as well make the morning shift a bit pleasanter, right?"

"Damn right!"

They clinked glasses and both had a long swig.

"You've been doing this for a long time, haven't you?" Jim asked, when he refilled both glasses from the tap.

"Doing what?" Peter inconspicuously lifted his shoulders.

"Drinking bars dry," Jim chuckled.

"Oh, that," Peter guffawed. "My whole adult life—and most of my adolescence, come to think of it."

"I've been a bartender long enough to know not to ask this question, but...it's just the two of us, we're drinking before noon...so, what the hell. Why?"

"Oh, yes. The mother of all questions." Peter raised his glass to a toast, then drained it. Jim, without requiring even a nod, refilled it.

"So, what's the answer?"

"I don't think there is one," Peter shrugged and lit a new cigarette as soon as he crushed the old one in the ashtray. "I mean, I drink, because it makes me feel good; about myself, about my lack of prospects. Makes me hopeful.

"I mean, when I've drunk enough, I feel as if I can conquer the whole damn world, like Alexander the Great—did you know the great conqueror of the ancient world was a drunkard? Downing pitchers of strong Delphic wine nightly?

"Don't get me wrong; I don't drink because famous and successful men drank. I've seen plenty of failures drink, too. That's...I guess, it's as simple as that. Drinking makes me invincible—or, at least, feel invincible.

"And, to be honest, while I thoroughly enjoy drinking at home, in the peace and quiet of four deaf walls that won't ever judge me if I start punching them, or, start stripping for the lamp, I think drinking in places like this withholds the very essence of life.

"Dives and small bars are the quintessence of every city, of every culture; it's where you get to see and meet the real people; not the carefully constructed robots that wander around in the streets, careful not to show any flaws, horrified of having their big secrets revealed to a perfectly indifferent public.