Eviskar Island

by Warren Dalzell

  The breakfast area had begun to fill up. Guests were filing in, all of them toting travel bags, many of them bleary-eyed.

  Despite the early hour, the city was buzzing. Although known as the city that never sleeps, the traffic patterns in Manhattan's lower west side varied markedly throughout the day. Most commuters had yet to rise, but at this hour the street bustled with delivery vehicles hoping to offload in time to beat the frantic beginnings of the dreaded rush hour.

  A line had formed in front of the coffee dispensers. Marcie sat across from her folks, her gaze fixed toward the large south facing window of the hotel's breakfast nook and the young couple seated there. Orange rays from a rising sun streaked Jocelyn Delaney's long locks a reddish gold. She nibbled at a muffin, smiling at whenever Jack Malinowski was saying.

  "Are you going to give us the pleasure of your company on the way to JFK or are you going to ride with the group?" The question startled Marcie. She turned to face her dad. "Sorry to interrupt your musings," her father continued. "It's a shame they make you get to the airport four hours before an international flight. We could spend the time so much more productively." He paused. "Is something wrong, princess? You're not having second thoughts I hope."

  "Oh, no. Of course not." Marcie took hold of Stevens hand, snuck a glance towards the window and then said, "I'd better go with them, dad. You and Gail should spend the morning in the city; you guys need some quality time." She sighed, "You've done so much for me, both of you… bringing me down here, letting me go on this trip. I just want to thank you for everything."

  A beaming Morgan Holloway entered the room and clapped his hands. “The van is here, folks, time to move out. Make sure you have passports ready.”

  Jack shouldered his bags and held out his hand to Jocelyn. Marcie fixated on the interaction between the two, noting with dismay how easily Jocelyn manipulated her new acquaintance, handing him her rucksack—its seams nearly bursting at every point. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to find Gail smiling at her with tears in her eyes. Enveloping her stepdaughter in a hug, she said, “Your dad and I won’t be going to the airport.” She hesitated and giggled, “He’s awfully cute, Marcie. Come to think of it, so’s the other young man, Spencer. You behave, now. Write to us often and have a great trip.”

  “Thanks, Gail.”

  Marcie turned and gave her dad a hug. “Dad, don’t forget about Jocelyn’s bags, will you? She’s really in a bind.”

  “Relax, Princess, the desk clerk said he’d keep her bags in the back until it’s time for Gail and me to catch the train.” He popped the rest of his breakfast croissant into his mouth and washed it down with the swill he suspected the hotel had fraudulently labelled ‘100% Colombian’ coffee.

  More quick hugs for her parents followed before Marcie grabbed her bags and ran off to catch the waiting van.

  * * *

  It took only seconds for the driver of the shuttle to toss the rucksacks to Morgan, who, in turn, tossed them onto the sidewalk. Moments later, the tires of the van squealed as the driver charged back into traffic.

  Before the group entered the airport, Debbie began grabbing people by the arm. It was time for an obligatory group photo. “Marcie, you stand in front of Jack, and Spencer, you move over to his right. Jocelyn, I want you in the middle…wait…on second thought, go stand next to Morgan.”

  Another shuttle pulled in behind them and unloaded its passengers. Most of them walked right in front of the camera, oblivious to the photo operation in progress. That vehicle also left as quickly as it had arrived, and Debbie took advantage of the activity lull to reposition her subjects. “Marcie, move closer to Jack, you’re drifting out of view.” Jack reached down and pulled Marcie towards him. She looked up to see him smiling down at her and turned bright crimson. Of course, that was the instant Debbie snapped the picture. “That’s perfect. Good.”

  When the photo session was over, a collective sensation of destiny came over the students. It was as though they were standing at the threshold of a great edifice or assembling at the starting line of an important race. All felt as though the journey that would become a significant event in their lives began here, in front of the air terminal at JFK International. This was it.

  Jack Malinowski was particularly reflective. He realized that, in fact, he was standing amongst a group of strangers. He turned to the young man standing beside him. “Hey, Spencer.”

  “Wa ’sup?”

  “So, what do you think? You ready for this? Ready to have me as a roommate for the next couple months? I’ll try not to snore.”

  “Wouldn’t botha me none if ya did. I can sleep tru most anything. At my house someone’s always up, makin’ noise.”

  Loud talking nearby interrupted their conversation. The source was a heavyset man in a badly wrinkled suit, waving an outstretched middle finger at a cab that was pulling away from the curb. Obscenities filled the air.

  To Jack’s amazement, no one nearby was paying much attention. “That the way they hail a cab in New York?” he asked.

  “You mean you nevah seen that? You’re right, it’s a New York thing. It’s called a ‘half victory sign’—we use it all the time. It’s a sign ‘a respect ‘an admiration. You should try usin’ it.”

  Jack kept a straight face. He put a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Thanks for the tip, buddy. It’s nice to be around someone who can give me good advice when I need it.”

  “Hey, no problem, that’s what friends are foah.”

  “Okay, grab your bags,” Morgan announced. He needn’t have bothered. All four students were already loaded up and headed into the terminal, making their way towards the Icelandair desk.

  IV.

  What the heck, it was worth trying. It wasn’t the most sophisticated of plans, but if successful it would make the flight to Iceland a lot more pleasant. They were at the gate, ready to board, and Marcie Van Wormer’s mind was working hard, scheming. Marcie casually wandered amongst her colleagues, pretending to be excited…well, actually she was extremely excited—she was just pretending to be even more excited than she really was—asking seemingly superfluous questions in order to garner valuable information. “So, where are you sitting?” she asked of everyone in the group. She even asked Jocelyn the question—not that it mattered.

  The students weren’t seated together; they had aisle seats scattered throughout the cabin. Jack’s response indicated he was three rows in back of her. Bingo. As important as this info was, Marcie still lamented the seating system. Why couldn’t Icelandair use the ‘cattle car’ method, like Southwest did, she fretted. This whole issue would be a no-brainer then.

  Marcie scooted into line right behind Jack. They boarded the plane and as she passed her own seat she dropped off her backpack and continued to talk to him, following him to his seat. She moved from the corridor into the next row, politely clearing the way for others to get past and continued to chat until a petite, elderly woman motioned toward the seat adjacent to Jack’s. Marcie pounced. “Pardon me, ma’am,” she said, “my friend and I would love to sit next to one another. Would you mind switching with me? I’m right over there, on the aisle.”

  “I am sorry,” the woman replied in heavily accented English, “but my husband is coming.” She waved to a portly gentleman who was stuffing a garment bag into an overhead bin. “I would prefer to sit with him.”

  “Hey, no sweat,” Marcie tried to sound cheerful, “Enjoy your flight.” Chagrined, she immediately marched back to her seat and let out a deep breath, “Drat!”

  Her seatmate, a middle-aged woman who was already deeply immersed in her copy of the in-flight “Shopping Mall” magazine, looked over with raised eyebrows.

  “Minor problem,” was all Marcie said by way of explanation. She then tried to appear more social. Smiling at her neighbor she asked, “So, uh, are you going to Reykjavik?” As soon as she said it, she realized the stupidity of the remark. Good for you, Marcie, she chastised herself. What a dumbass. Keep thi
s up, and soon everyone on the plane will know what a fool you are. If I were you—and I am—I would just shut-up and chill out.

  Jack settled into his aisle seat and stuffed his backpack under the one in front. Sitting back, he contemplated what to do first, continue reading the mystery novel he’d just gotten into or listen to the awesome collection of tunes he’d downloaded for the trip.

  Something bumped his shoulder. He turned and discovered his nose was mere inches from the oversized derriere of an elderly woman trying to heft an enormous carry-on suitcase into the overhead compartment above him. The woman grunted, her arms shaking with fatigue under the weight of the swaying object balanced precariously above her head. Jack jumped to her aid, partly out of chivalry but mostly for self-preservation. Together he, the woman and her travelling companion, another female septuagenarian, fought with the bag, turning and shoving it until the compartment door latched successfully. Sarcastic applause broke out from several passengers stuck in the long boarding line stalled by their labors.

  Following a withering look at the irate travelers, the woman flopped into the seat across the aisle and addressed Jack, “Thank you, young man. I swear they keep decreasing the amount of storage space on these planes. It’s all a conspiracy, you know. They’re trying to get folks to check bags so they can charge extra.” She turned to her partner, “Right Suzanne?”

  The woman named Suzanne glowered. “I warned you before, if you think you can borrow anything from me on this trip, you’re sorely mistaken, Ms. Cheapskate. Honestly, trying to cram ten days’ worth of clothing into a carry-on bag simply to avoid paying a twenty-five dollar fee; you deserve to be inconvenienced.”

  Ms. ‘Cheapskate’ introduced herself as Constance Tucker. Jack identified himself and then pointed to the ball cap she was wearing. It was white with the word ‘Orioles’ embroidered in neat orange script. “So, do you live in Baltimore?”

  “That’s right. We decided to spend a few of our vacation days in New York when the Orioles were in town.” She glared at her companion. “If we’d gone to the Saturday game, we’d have seen them win, too. Instead, someone suggested we wait ‘til Sunday afternoon.”

  “Now how was I to know the Yankees would win that one? Don’t place all the blame on me. If you had brought your crystal ball, I would have been perfectly amenable to go on Saturday.”

  Constance turned to Jack, her tone indignant, “We learned the hard way why the Yanks are called the ‘Bronx Bombers’—four home runs by the end of the third inning. We suffered through a twelve to two drubbing and a forty-five minute rain delay. It was a miserable way to start our vacation.”

  The two women, who Jack learned were sisters, continued to bicker as the plane pulled away from the gate and taxied toward take-off. Jack did his best to tune them out. Crossing his arms and turning away, he pretended to nap.

  It didn’t work. As soon as the plane went airborne, he felt someone poking his shoulder. His new acquaintance from Baltimore asked, “So, what brings you to Iceland, business or pleasure?”

  Jack had little choice but to respond, “A bit of both, I suppose. I’m one of four students who’ve been selected to participate in an archeological excavation on an island off the coast of Greenland. The site is an old Norse settlement that existed about a thousand years ago. Its extreme northern location is what makes it so important—or so I’m told.”

  “Archeology, my, that sounds fascinating. What sorts of fossils do you expect to find?”

  Jack contemplated his answer, “To tell you the truth…I don’t know.”

  “My sister, Suzanne, and I are going to spend a week in Reykjavik. We’ve been planning this trip for a year, ever since a good friend went there and recommended it. She said it was like going to Denmark except you only have to go half-way. Did you know that Iceland used to be part of Denmark?”

  “You don’t say?” Jack forced a smile that was more suggestive of someone suffering from gas pain. This was going to be a long, tortuous flight.

  “Yes, they’re decidedly European, very progressive.” She leaned across the aisle. Putting her hand on Jack’s arm, she continued in a hushed voice, “They have public baths there, heated by volcanoes. Some of them are…clothing optional!” She pulled back with a look of satisfaction, as though she’d somehow revealed the secrets of the universe to him.

  “Do you…” Jack stifled a laugh, “Do you and your sister have plans to visit those baths?”

  “Why of course. We’re very cosmopolitan. You know what they say, when in Rome… Most of our friends wouldn’t, but we’re quite adventurous. Seeing other people in the buff doesn’t bother me at all, not one little bit. Mind you, I am a bit concerned about—and I mean no offense, you understand—I worry about the men at those places.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, not ALL men are this way, but a certain portion of the male population, when surrounded by women wearing nothing but smiles, can be a bit…’forward’ in their ways.”

  “She’s afraid some Icelandic stud will try to ravish her,” Suzanne interjected, “right there in the middle of a public pool.”

  “No, not in the bath, per se,” came Connie’s annoyed reply, “but some man charged with primal, hormonal lust—you know the way men get—might decide to follow me to our hotel. One never knows.”

  “That sounds like wishful thinking to me.”

  “How dare you suggest such a thing, Suzanne?”

  As the argument between the women escalated, Jack excused himself. On the way to the rest room, a trip designed not only to void his bladder, but to purge his mind of images conjured by his latest conversation, he passed Marcie’s seat. “Hey, Marcie.”

  “Jack, what’s up?” She pulled out her ear buds and smiled up at him.

  “Just taking a break. Look, I’m sorry my neighbor didn’t want to swap seats with you.” He glanced back at the ongoing flutter between the two Orioles fans. “It would have been great to have someone sane to talk to.”

  He continued his trek to the front of the plane while Marcie contemplated the significance of what he’d said. She pursed her lips in concentration. It wasn’t exactly the declaration of affection she’d dreamed of, but at least he didn’t think she was crazy. “It’s a start,” she mused optimistically as she nodded in time to the beat of Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake it Off,’ “and not a bad start at that.”

  Jack groaned as he approached his seat. Staring at him, leaning into the corridor, was the beaming face of Constance. “You must be one of those folks with an overactive bladder,” she commented loudly enough for all those seated around them to hear. “Just try not to think about going and you won’t have to get up as often. It won’t be long before we’re there.” She looked at her watch. “What time do we get in anyway? I left my itinerary in my luggage.”

  “The plane lands at 8:30,” Jack sighed.

  “Oh, my. That can’t be. Why, it’s only half past ten right now.”

  “Reykjavik is just over 2200 nautical miles from New York,” Jack replied, his eyes now closed, wishing she would leave him alone. “That’s roughly 2600 statute miles. If you assume an average ground speed of 500 miles-per-hour for this aircraft, that yields a flight time of just over five hours. In addition, we’re crossing five time zones, travelling east, which means we lose five hours, so, yeah, local time will be ten hours from now when we land.”

  “Oh, dear God, I never expected this flight to last ten hours. TEN HOURS! I didn’t know Iceland was so far away.”

  “Well, ma’am, you see it’s only five…” he caught himself in mid-sentence. A hint of a smile appeared and he turned to face her. “My secret to enduring super-long flights like this is to sit back and try to sleep. If you can do that, I guarantee the trip will only seem half that long.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right. Thank you; that’s good advice.”

  * * *

  Keflavik International airport lies thirty miles by road southeast of downtown Reykjavik. Clea
ring customs in mere minutes, the four students and the Holloways made their way to a line of buses waiting to transport passengers and baggage into the city. Diesel fumes laced the salt air wafting in from offshore. Many of the assembled tourists marveled at the view of the Reykjavik skyline across the bay, bathed in the reddish light of the late afternoon sun.

  On the curb outside, Morgan was talking excitedly about the hotel where they’d be staying. Jack wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused on the crowd, scanning the line ahead of him, searching for an elderly woman wearing an Orioles cap. Constance had insisted they ride into town together, but Jack was just as determined not to let that happen. Marcie was watching Jack.

  They spotted each other at the same time. Connie waved and abruptly addressed the task of wrestling her enormous bag up the steps of the idling bus. Jack didn’t hesitate. He exited the line and moved to the growing cue at the door of the next bus—one different from the shuttle carrying Constance, Suzanne and his fellow travelers.