autopilot.

The large glass doors open automatically for me as they sense my presence approaching. My body walks through, but a piece of my being, of my soul, does not follow. It lifts right out of me and flies away to wherever it goes during my air travel adventures. I know it’ll meet me back in Los Angeles once I step into my apartment again for the first time after 15 days, but for now, it’s gone. I am left with a shell of a body and mind. I put in my earbuds and turn on my Spotify playlist. The melodic intro of “The Adventure” by Angels and Airwaves begins. I walk on towards check-in. Autopilot.

For as long as I can remember, I turn into a zombie in airports, on airplanes. I am able to go through the motions necessary to complete the trip from A to B (smile nicely to the TSA attendants, have driver’s license and boarding pass at the ready, laptop out of bag for scanning), but there’s some sort of disconnect that prevails, a lack of emotions, a lack of critical thought. My eyes can see the brooding man with the shoulder-length black hair that’s motioning to me that my jacket fell off my suitcase, my ears can hear the buzz of “Flight to Los Angeles boarding now,” my nose can smell the fresh coffee brewing from the Dunkin’ Donuts at the end of the terminal, but I have no thoughts about them. They just are, and I just exist in that place with them. I just pick up my jacket, I just walk to the gate number that the woman mentioned, I just ignore my coffee addiction that would normally be telling me to go buy a cup.

The Newark Airport has probably been my most frequented airport. Since I moved to Texas and then California, worked for a company that has taken me to sales conferences in New Orleans, Nashville, and Chicago, and with friends sprinkled throughout the country, I have been no stranger to “the friendly skies” over the years. This last trip back to New Jersey brought back all of the childhood memories and warmth that I’ve been lucky enough to associate with the holidays. Birthday cake for Jesus, mimosas in the hot tub, watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” and bawling with Mom at the end, decorating the fake tree with homemade ornaments that chronicle our lives. There was a countdown on it this time, though. The clock was always ticking, leading to the moment that I would have to leave. This moment. My solo move to California is fresh and I miss my family, my friends. I know it is bittersweet, but it disappears from my mind now. I have one task – get to point B.

The destinations always end up being worth what it takes to get there, but the numbness that accompanies the flights hasn’t faded. It’s as though toxic gas pumps through the air vents, filling my head and fogging everything up. “Read a book,” my Mom always tells me. “Do some writing or put shows on your iPad and watch those.” And I always attempt to. Currently, I have 7 episodes of Bojack Horseman downloaded and ready for viewing. I have Rebecca Solnit’s Wanderlust, unstarted, in my bag. I won’t touch them once on the journey. I stare into space and just listen to the same playlist I listen to on every flight. Long enough to last 18 hours, I have never run it to its length in one trip. My airplane and airport experiences are just memories of melodies and harmonies – filling in the emptiness that is found between my skull. I’ll be able to fall asleep for most of the flight, the ultimate brain shut-off.

When they finally start to board my plane, I hang back until most everyone else has gotten through – I always check my bag so I can avoid the stressful scramble for overhead space. When it looks like the line has disappeared, I have my boarding pass scanned and I walk the length of the tunnel that is attached to the plane’s front door. I walk through, smile at the flight attendant, walk down the aisles without making eye contact with anyone, and find my seat. I plop down, move over to the window seat, my assigned seat, and rest my forehead on the smooth slab of plastic over the window. I can sense someone sitting down next to me and look over enough to see that she has the years written on her face and has permed white hair like my grandmother used to have. She smiles nicely at me and I smile back. I stare out the window as I hear her settle into place, putting her bag under the seat in front of her and clicking her seatbelt. She sighs loudly and I glance over to notice her starting at me. “Going home?” she asks.

It takes me aback because I never know how to answer that question. “Kind of,” is all I can manage. I am surprised when I feel a tear start to roll down my face. It is small and quick. Sadness? I stare out the window again and push it out of my mind. Autopilot.