Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  Primitivo Chavez glare at me, hesitated, then called for Cardosa to get me out of the cubical. I was taken down the hallway into the main lobby where the newsmen had gathered, this time en mass, setting up their cameras and lights. Frazzled, I was unceremoniously tossed like a ragdoll onto a tan leather sofa; I was on display for all to see. I would now be fodder for the frenzy media. Comandante Chavez was indeed sly. He could not get the answers he wanted from his stubborn prey so he would let the press destroy what was left of my will. Primitivo had promised them satisfaction and as the deluge began it seemed he would make good on his word.

  “Valenciana! Valenciana!” The cries rang loud. “What did you see? Are you going to make your declaration?” Lupe Ortiz Hildalgo quickly positioned herself behind another desk with her typewriter. Her fingers methodically worked on the keys of the beaten machine occasionally glancing up from her task to meet my frightened eyes. Completing a new document, she removed it and handed it to the nauseous, nervous wreck I had become.

  “Sign!” She demanded, handing me a pen.

  The waiting room fell into a deep silence, just the way it was in the cabin of 2605 before the aft floor began cracking open. I began to hear the soft shrieking sound of jet engines in the distance. The bright lights of the television cameras blinded me. The pitch rose greater in volume making it difficult for me to focus or translate the Spanish words on the sheet of paper. Basically, it was a repeat of the letter I had just devoured. “Alcoholic beverages, drunk pilots,” the words were all there. Before I could decide on a course of action, a frantic newspaper boy came running in from the street. I began to think how ironic that the youth chose to peddle his tabloid to the dregs that were standing before me salivating for my every word. As I turned to get a better view, I saw the bold newsprint on the papers the boy held:

  “Error de Piloto!”

  Without a declaration from me, the plot had been put into motion and its desired outcome achieved. I knew Carl Herbert Sr. He was a damn good pilot and if mistakes had been made in the cockpit I knew they surely weren’t enough to have caused a catastrophe as grave as the one playing itself out on this day. It was evident that the Mexican Government was in a frenzy and what better way to settle the dilemma than to point the finger at a dead man? The anger swelled deep inside me and I wanted some sense of revenge for such a farce. I decided it was about time they all felt the disappointments I had endured for their lack of compassion.

  “I want to tell the whole truth!” Like a crazed man I rose with a shout, then tumbled to the marble floor. My legs gave way and could no longer support me. “I want to make my declaration,” I begged while lying on the tiled floor. That statement registered a jolt of electricity through the governmental officials and especially the press; even Primitivo Chavez registered a look of surprise. The lobby became alive with activity. “This is what the vultures have been waiting for,” I whispered in exhilaration. My mental condition was suspect as I looked at the crowd. I felt as though I suddenly had the ability to see right through them.

  “Will he describe all the gory details?” I imagined one journalist wondering. “Was the Captain of 2605 a madman?” I waved to attract the attention of a watchful comandante. When I was sure he was paying attention I pointed to “el bano” where I wished to compose myself. Chavez motioned for Cardosa and another side-kick to assist me. Once on my feet I pulled away from my escorts. Instead of entering the bath room, I staggered over to a corner of the spacious room, positioned myself, unzipped my ragged pants and proceeded to urinate right there. Wearing a cool mask of innocence I masterfully looked about sheepishly and gave an expression of complete ignorance of my masterful behavior.

  “Que estas haciendo?” What was he doing indeed! The assemblage was both amazed and repulsed in one stroke. Once I had relieved myself, I adjusted my pants, turned and prepared to address the gathering. Disgust registered on the faces of the crowd.

  “You are going to give your declaration,” stated a faceless silhouette as I stood blinded by the lights.

  “But I don’t know anything,” I insisted as I continued to struggle with the zipper on my ragged trousers. All fell silent as everyone was taken aback. Instead of the answers they were promised I presented the actions of a lunatic.

  “Esta loco!” The consensus was unanimous. The disappointed media began to dismantle the lights and the cameras, and to pack their equipment. The proud Aztec Chavez stared intently. The others may have fallen for my ruse, but he was not fooled one bit. Like an eccentric game of chess my adversary seemed to enjoy my desperate exhibition.

  I had to turn away for I knew I couldn't deal with this insanity much longer. I recalled thinking how stupid someone could be when they admitted to a crime they did not commit. Now under severe interrogation, I was enlightened. I wanted a hot shower, a cold Bohemia, but most of all I wanted to be gone from this ghastly ordeal.

  Chapter VII

  One moment I was the prized crew-member who'd been the center of attention in the administration’s large entryway. Now, after my crude stunt, I found myself being completely ignored. The very journalists who fought to get to me would now walk right past as if I were a part of the large room’s furniture. People came and went as the ministry woman conferred with other men in suits down the hallway. Even my captor, Primitivo Chavez, no longer focused on me, and was distracted by others who requested his presence elsewhere in the hospital. Certainly there were a few survivors, passengers who had beat the odds but paid a high price who needed to be interviewed. Chavez gave me hope that my desperate charade of losing my mind was having some success.

  Another media crew approached. The older Hispanic man introduced himself as a reporter. A younger, tall man carried his equipment. I found my attention drawn to the distinguished reporter's face, then to his eyes. The obvious struck me; he was blind. My first reaction was to feel an attachment to this Mexican man, his handicap that is: a human connection, a necessity to cope in a foreign environment. The man could not see and the tattered, exhausted crew-member could not communicate. It posed quite a dilemma. The inability to have eye contact with the reporter extinguished what little confidence I had left. In the others, the eyes were the most significant hint of their intentions, their planned approach yet this venerable Mexican nullified my advantage. Confused I was forced to deal with him in a straightforward, honest manner. Without hesitation, the respectful man politely asked for a full interview.

  “Interview?” Blind or not, boundaries had to be set.

  “No!” I asserted myself.

  “Well, can we talk for awhile?” The man’s English had a thick accent, and it had a tone of sincerity, so I gave my consent. Quickly other cameras shoved their way forward towards the tranquil pair.

  Initially, the man presented the same questions to which I gave the same guarded answers. There was no feeling of contempt for this gentle reporter, not like I felt for the others. It seemed for a moment that the blind reporter and I shared a separateness from the rest of humanity. He told me bluntly but honestly that he wanted to know specifics. Although I was not obliged to speak with him, I found it difficult to simply dismiss him. It had to do with Hispanic cultural respect.

  I became nervous and my palms moistened as I agreed to converse with the sightless reporter. I repositioned myself on the chair in an effort to speak softly and close to his ear.

  “Senor, por favor, I cannot discuss any details until I speak with a representative from my airline.” Like a panther, the sightless man jumped in to find the loophole.

  “You do know something, don’t you?” I pleaded with him,

  “For my sanity, por favor, for my sanity, I need time. I need my company. I cannot say anymore, I can’t now.” The commentator suddenly backed off: perhaps his morals overruling the priorities of his profession.

  Unbeknownst to me the cunning federal officer had observed my interview from afar, studying my mannerism. While watching with a dignified, official air he seemed worried tha
t things might progress beyond his control. The lawman approached me once again with the ministry woman in tow, but this time there would be no authoritarian manner. Instead, Lupe Ortiz Hildalgo attempted to sweet talk the dazed little lunatic.

  “Of course, Eduardo, you could have whatever you desire to be comfortable, even be released to return home.” The gracious lady offered to bring in an interpreter. We could move to a secure room with no interference, with no pressure. Like sharks, she and the vicious policeman would circle, wearing me down, their kindness but a charade. I turned away wrapping my sore arms around myself and, sitting in a semi-fetal position, and fell silent. Disappointed, the pair retreated. I mentally took a step in favor of madness.

  “What is my importance?” With each passing second, I grew wary of my role to defend this company, my supposed beloved airline. With the press acting so viciously, I owed them nothing. I wanted nothing to do with the event’s spotlight, wishing only to get as far away as I could from this three ring circus. “Maybe I could just blend in with the chaos?” Sometimes the easiest thing to do is the obvious. I decided to make an effort to stand and see if it were possible to hobble through the crowded lobby space. I strained and grimaced, using the excuse that I was terribly stiff and would need to stretch my aching muscles.

  Over a period of about an hour and with each circuit around the room, I would venture a little farther out. The comandante would occasionally glance my way but paid me less and less heed. My Aztec friend had no idea that his “pocho” would try so bold a plan. Regrouping within myself, I would stop at one point of the floor and then another; one time to solidify my innocence, the other to not-so-innocently case out a possible escape route.

  On one of my rounds I slipped into an adjacent room, a small office, unnoticed. I backtracked and made my way to the entrance of the administration offices. I gazed through a tall window at the outside world, pretending I was looking for someone, awaiting someone’s arrival. The sight of the clamor and chaos of the metropolis overwhelmed me. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm. I turned and faced an older gentleman who was dressed in a janitorial jumpsuit. He stared intently at my face. I recognized him as the very man the officials had summoned to clean the puddle I left in the lobby a bit earlier. I felt I should apologize but I remained silent.

  “Adonde vas?” He finally inquired. I hoped he wasn't angry about having to clean up my mess and lead me back to my interrogators. I needed an excuse.

  “Yo quiero mirar la luna. The moon, I want to see the moon.” He seemed satisfied with the explanation. Grinning, he nodded his head and continued about his business. In this packed room of manic humanity he was one of the normal people. I had seen his kind at the airport this morning, risking their own well being in an effort to help total strangers. His soul was pure, representing the Mexican people at their best, sharing in the happiness of my survival. The majority of those I was to meet in the capital were of his kind and I will always be grateful for their graciousness.

  Finding myself alone once more I hobbled slowly to the large, gold, swinging doors. I then hobbled right out the building in search of protection. It was not just my tormentors I was running from, but from the major event of the day. I wanted to go home. Once outside on the street and in traffic I realized my escape was poorly planned.

  “Right or left?” Dumbfounded I had no idea which way to go. And the noise deafened me. The sound of the tearing metal and explosions in the fuselage had earlier sent me in shock. Now the roaring sounds of the vibrant city greatly spooked me. Fear forced me to find some place of refuge. I saw a main intersection and limped over to a corner in the hopes of hailing a taxi. A small green creature, teeth in disarray, jumped into my space and shrieked. Although I had free myself from the madness of the administration building I opened the door and stepped into the height of Halloween night with Los Muertos, the walking dead. Out of a side alley came a massive skeleton. A pack of intoxicated ghoulish revelers were next. I spotted dead brides and grooms, dead butlers and maids, and doctors and nurses drenched red with the blood of a botched surgery or worse. A seven member band of recently deceased played their instruments with rigor, blaring sounds and enticing their followers like pied pipers of the lost. A large flatbed truck turned onto the main boulevard bearing many dearly departed gleeful dancers. At the tail end of this procession of the damn a large white Styrofoam construction of Muerto rose high into the black sky, a massive marionette controlled by four demons. I really did not need to see this. I froze and stared at the menacing figure. Frightened, I disappeared into the frenzied crowd.

  The ghouls, witches and spirits of the world's most populated city ran amok all around me. My odd attire became an airline crew-member crash victim costume and drew no notice. Children carrying “calaveras” skulls, approached. One white masked child offered me a clump of sugar molded into a skull. The youthful ghoul popped another skull into his own mouth and smiled. I could hear the last portion of a silly riddle a girl sang about Muerto, Then, the call of many names flew through the air. I saw a small boy dart through the crowd as his frantic mother reach for him as he sped away. With an anguished face she called to him.

  “Ramon!” The pitch of jets engines filled the air once again. Voices of those trapped in the burning rubble filled my head as they screamed for their loved ones.

  “Jose, Ramon, Julieta, Reni, Francisco…...Javier! My mother! Juanita!” The cries of the unfortunate freaked me out. I fell out of the swiftly moving wave of bodies. I stopped in exhaustion and leaned on the edge of a building. My perplexed mind continued to play tricks on me as the noises all became deafening once more.

  “Dame tu alma! Give me your soul!” screamed a red devil, who then ran off. Frightened and exhausted, I sat on some concrete steps and struggled to breathe. I tried to settle myself and began to focus on the Catholic faithful across the boulevard exiting from a church. The three days of El Dia de Los Muertos festivities were in full swing. Rising I made my way a bit further down the road, I stopped once again to rest and pressed my face against the window of a small shop that sold religious items. I gazed at the small showcase decorated with golden paper surrounded with “calaveras.” In the center stood the figurines of revered saints. Some were familiar since my mother displayed a group of them around our home. There was Saint Jude, the patron of the impossible, of desperate cases. Surely a small word or two to this intercessor would help my wretched soul. I pictured the crash site in my mind and worried that any intervention by this deaf and mute God would be slow in coming.

  “God wouldn’t save little Javier, why should he bother to assist me now?” Basic logic told me I was doomed and I began to weep. The tears ran down the glass pane as I cursed God, these events, and the entire tragedy. It was then that I realized this enormous suffering would be a constant companion for years to come. There was no way to avoid it and there was no way to wish it away. The morning’s events had marked my rebirth, but not into a world I was familiar with or could find comfort in. The Eddy I was before had died, and now I was delivered into a cruel limbo of insanity.

  “Life is a journey of twisted fate,” I decided. I surveyed the crowded roadway. The parade marking the fragile line between life and death, pushed forward.

  A trio of skeleton “mariachis” appeared with instruments in hand, singing with gusto for their supper money.

  “Una cancion? A song?” One thin zombie “caballero” holding a guitar inquired of the masses as they cheered and cried out for their favorite tune of the season. He began to serenade the crowd with a ballad of wine, women and death, the latter being the outcome of the songs ridden hero, a colorful tragedy. I was a survivor and should be celebrating life yet in the same instance I felt like one that was also condemned. The seductive lyrics of the traditional ballad attracted a crowd of witches, goblins and rogue spirits that circled the minstrels as I was transfixed from a distance. I was spinning out of control. Depression set in, I wished I had died too. I sat on the curb totally defeat
ed as madness and death danced all around me.

  Mexico's population in 1979 was nearly 69 million.[4] It was a time of graft and corruption, and the truth behind the demise of my airline's jumbo jet now lay in the hands of those who had long ago chosen greed and deception. In a pact with evil that usually started at the beginning of their careers, the powers that be smothered the truth and would not hesitate to eliminate those who spoke it.

  The downward spiral of Mexico's economy that existed when 2605 met its fate was put in motion during the Presidency of Luis Echeverria whose term lasted from 1970 to 1976. Up until 1970 Mexico had made real economic progress in spite of governmental procedures that had existed from the beginning of the republic. Progress, and a sincere effort to clean house in the halls of government, was due largely to the appointment (by two consecutive presidents) of the brilliant and honest Antonio Ortiz Mena as Minister of Finance.[5] Ortiz Mena had twelve uninterrupted years (1958-1970) in which to set the economic course for the nation and he made the most of it. It was Ortiz Mena who conceived Mexico's "maquiladora" (manufacturing) program and gave it life. The system allowed for free trade zones where manufacturers could import material duty free and tariff free, for assembly.

  When Echeverria took office most of Ortiz Mena's economic policies were abruptly changed. As president he stole a lot and did little. Worse yet, it would be discovered that he had far more blood of the innocent on his hands than any former Mexican president. It is widely believed that Echeverria planned and help to execute the student massacre of October 2, 1968 prior to the opening of the Olympic Games in the Mexican capital. As the Minister of Interior Affairs during the administration of President Gustavo Diaz Ordaz, the two men unleashed military troops upon university students killing several hundred at “Tlatelolco” a student gathering place in the city. Echeverria's own presidential reign included the same tactics of oppression, assassinations, and disappearances as those used by military dictatorships in other Latin American countries, but kept largely secret from the general public.