Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

Maddy finishes the last bite of her bacon cheeseburger and wipes the grease from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She’s sitting by herself at a table for two at a TGI Fridays in a terminal at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, killing time while she waits for her connection to Houston. Her flight is still on time, but stormy weather in the northeast and much of the midwest has grounded a bunch of other planes, and the restaurant is jam-packed and loud with delayed, irritable travelers who had better dinner plans somewhere else. There seems to be more suitcases than people, and the waitresses keep asking folks to clear a path so they can do their jobs. Their requests go almost entirely ignored, though, by both the people who have seats and the people who are hovering nearby, ready to pounce the moment a table is vacated. To be fair, there’s nowhere to put it all. The waitresses look annoyed but also too jaded to get riled up, like they don’t get paid enough to deal with this shit.

“Excuse me!” Maddy hollers to her waitress as she’s walking by. “Can I please get another blackberry Long Island iced tea?”

The waitress makes eye contact with Maddy and nods without breaking stride. Maddy throws a hundred dollars on the table. Feeling generous, she’s going to give her waitress the biggest tip of the night.

Unfortunately, there were no direct flights out of Nashville to Houston. The flight she chose with the one stop in Atlanta was sold out in economy but had exactly one seat left in first class, like the Universe had saved it for her.

“How much?” she asked the agent.

“Nine hundred and eighty-nine dollars.”

Maddy emptied three of her pockets and paid in twenties. Such a power move. Taylor would be proud. And she’d have wanted Maddy to travel in style.

She bought a Moleskine journal at Hudson Booksellers that was pricey for a notebook but all they had. And Taylor had nudged her to buy it. As she’d placed her hand on the red cover, an electrical current had rushed through her, as if her hand on the notebook cover had completed a cosmic circuit, answering a phone call from the cosmos.

Not only does Taylor want Maddy to open for her on tour, but she also wants Maddy to write a comedy series for her. Such a phenomenal idea! Notebook opened next to her dinner plate, the dialogue rushes out of Maddy’s pen, her hand barely able to keep pace with inspiration. She fills page after page, scenes unfolding effortlessly, as if she’s been brainstorming this project for years. Taylor knew she’d be ready for this.

She lifts her head and sees a guy in a collared shirt, no tie, navy sports coat, and khakis who is standing at the threshold of the restaurant. He’s not old, but he’s not young, either, probably somewhere in his midthirties. He’s scanning the overcrowded situation, looking hopeless until he spies the empty chair opposite Maddy. He raises his eyebrows. She nods. He smiles, lifts his wheelie suitcase unnecessarily high over his head, drawing as much attention to himself as possible as makes his way to her table.

“Hey, I’m Will.”

He sits and extends his hand. She shakes it. His shirt is unbuttoned one button too many, revealing an alarmingly thick jungle of chest hair. If this button decision is an intentional act on his part in an effort to appear attractive, and from the big dick energy he exudes she assumes it is, she wonders where he acquired this misinformation.

“Maddy.”

“Thanks for the seat. My flight just got delayed.”

“Where are you going?”

“New York.”

“No way! I’m from New York! What are you doing there?”

“Bachelor party. I had to wor—”

“Holy shit! I’m just coming from my sister’s bachelorette party!”

“Maybe we’re on the same flight.”

“No, I’m going to Houston.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business,” she says, grinning, tapping her pen to the open page of her new notebook. “Big time.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a comedian.”

“Oh yeah? You don’t look like a comedian.”

Maddy raises her eyebrows and folds her arms, waiting for him to explain himself.

“I mean, you look too nice and wholesome.”

“You look about a month late for your waxing appointment.”

He laughs, amused. “Okay, then tell me a joke.”

“Fuck no, I’m not telling you a joke.”

“Why not?”

She rolls her eyes and takes a watered-down gulp from the last of her drink.

“What do you do?” she asks, chomping on a couple of ice cubes.

“I’m a financial advisor.”

“Give me financial advice.”

“Okay, I get it. Do you have anything I can see on YouTube or Last Comic Standing or something?”

“No, you have to pay to see me, live in New York. When I’m back. I’ll be touring with Taylor Swift for the next few months. I’m her opening act.”

“No way, for real?”

“Yeah, they’ve never had a comedian open for a musician, not at this level anyway. It’s always been other musicians. I’m the first comedian to do it.”

“Wow, that’s—”

“It’s a really smart decision, if you think about it. The whole point of the opener is to wake up the crowd, get them fired up so they’re ready to enjoy the headliner. But with musicians you run the risk of the opener being better than the singer everyone came to see. You don’t want the opener outperforming the main act. But you put a comedian up there as the opener, and it’s not a problem. It’s the perfect combination. It’s apples and oranges. It’s peanut butter and chocolate.”

“That’s inter—”

“And I’m writing a comedy series.” Maddy raises her right index finger and presses it to her lips. “Can’t tell you anything more. It’s top secret until the deal is signed.”

“That’s incredible. What did you say your name is again?”

“Maddy Banks.”

“What happened to your arm?”

She follows his gaze to the large rectangular Band-Aid stuck on her left bicep, a rusty-red silhouette of blood in the center betraying her recent wound.

“Syphilis shot. It was a new nurse.”

“Oh,” he says, his entire body in retreat.

“I’m kidding!” says Maddy, laughing. “There’s your joke. You owe me twenty dollars.”

“I’ll buy the next round.”

“How long are you going to be in New York?”

“Just the weekend.”

“Too bad you’re not staying longer. I’m doing the New York Women in Comedy Festival in a couple of weeks.”

“I thought you were touring with Taylor Swift.”

“The festival is one night only. In and out, there and back. Taylor will get someone to cover for me. It’s going to be amazing! You should come. I’ll get you a VIP ticket.”

“I don’t really like female comics. No offense.”

“Fuck you. No offense.”

“No, it’s just they’re usually all about their periods and complaining about men.”

“You do give us an abundance of material.”

“Am I ever getting a waitress here?” He looks around but can’t spot anyone nearby. “What time is your flight?”

“Nine fifty-five.”

He looks down at his phone and then up at her, his face turned serious.

“It’s nine forty-five now.”

“Shit!”

Not wanting to deal with the continued onslaught of freaked-out texts from Emily, she shut her phone off just before takeoff in Nashville and didn’t think to turn it back on to check the time. She stands, grabs her bag and notebook, and bolts without looking back, tripping over luggage, pushing people aside to make her way out of the restaurant. She’s ten gates away. She runs as fast as she can, sweating, panicked, a painful stitch in her side, an unsettled soup of french fries, ground beef, and Long Island iced tea sloshing around in her stomach.

As she approaches the gate, she sees there are no people waiting in the seats, no line of standing passengers. Her gate is a ghost town. The lone agent behind the counter looks up from the computer screen, his face a brick wall.

“I’m on this flight!” she yells, breathing hard, waving her paper ticket.

“I’m sorry, the door is shut.”

“Then open it!”

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you missed this flight.”

“How did I miss it? The plane is right there !” Maddy points to the aircraft she can see parked outside the window.

“Boarding ends fifteen minutes prior to departure,” he says like the voice of an automated message.

“Dude, you have to let me on that plane.”

“Miss, we called your name several times. When you weren’t here, we gave your seat away.”

“You did WHAT?! I bought a first-class ticket from your airline and you gave my seat away to someone else?!”

“Once you’re considered a no-show, we offer the seat to one of our platinum members.”

So some douchebag in khakis and a sport coat is sitting in her seat.

“No, I PAID for that seat!”

The agent turns his attention back to the computer screen. He picks up a phone receiver and cradles it between his head and shoulder while typing as if Maddy no longer exists.

“Look, I’m here. The plane is still here. Can’t you just scan my ticket and let me on? I’ll take another seat.”

“The next flight to Houston is at seven thirty a.m., but that one is usually fully booked,” he says, monotone and without looking up. “You’ll have to go online or call an agent to purchase a new ticket.”

Maddy leans over the counter, getting in his face.

“I’m not buying another fucking ticket! This is bullshit, I paid nine hundred and eighty-nine dollars!”

He turns his body away from her and mumbles something into the phone.

“This is a total scam. I bought a fucking ticket for this fucking plane and I’m getting on it!”

She makes a run for the door.

“Miss! You can’t go in there!”

She pulls on the handle, and the door flies open. She runs like hell down the jet bridge. She hears the stomping of footsteps behind her, growing louder.

“Stop right there! Do not board that plane!” yells a man’s voice, deep and booming, different from the gate agent’s, close behind her.

She does not stop. She’s only a few steps away and can see the confused face of a flight attendant inside the plane when someone tackles her from behind. Now she’s splayed out prone, face down on the cold metal floor, her mouth throbbing, someone strong and heavy on her back.

“GET OFF ME!!” she screams. Blood drools out of her mouth. Her tongue finds an empty space where one of her top front teeth should be. She kicks her legs and thrashes her arms, but she can’t turn herself over.

“Help! I’m on this flight! I have a ticket!”

Whoever has her pinned finds her wrists, gathers them behind her back, and cuffs her. She lifts her head and swallows blood. A couple of passengers at the mouth of the plane are filming her with their phones.

“I’m a passenger! I’m just like you!”

They continue to stand there, filming her.

“You can’t let them do this to me!”

“Miss, you need to stop screaming. You are not getting on that plane,” says the man on top of her.

Next thing she knows, she’s lifted to her feet. She can see her assailant now. The man is airport security, broad-shouldered and about six feet tall.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ sue your asses!”

“Let’s go.”

With his hands on her shoulder and waist, he begins escorting her off the jet bridge.

“Wait! My notebook!”

She looks over her shoulder and sees her new red Moleskine on the ground where she was assaulted. The security agent does not stop to retrieve it. Dizzy with nausea and outrage, she falls to her knees in civil disobedience, refusing to walk.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” the man says.

He has stopped her from getting on the plane and claiming the seat that is rightfully hers. She’s not going to Houston. She’s going to miss her chance to open for Taylor. Her new notebook containing her pitch for the comedy series and most of the first episode will probably be tossed in the trash. Who knows if she’ll ever be able to catch that exact lightning bolt again? He’s knocked out her tooth, ruined her weekend and possibly her whole life. She sees zero reason to make one minute of his easy. She becomes as heavy as she can, deadweight, on the ground. He’s going to have to drag her.

She’s in a small, dim room with no windows. The door has no handle. Her cuffed hands are shackled beneath a table that she can’t budge. The chair she’s sitting on won’t move either. Everything in this room seems to be bolted to the floor. Her wrists are bruised and tender from her pointless but persistent effort to break free. The pain in her mouth feels as if someone is drilling a hole into her brain. She turns her head and spits another mouthful of blood onto the floor.

The room is hot and doesn’t seem to be ventilated. The security dude reeks of cigarettes and salami. He’s sitting in a chair in the opposite corner of the room and couldn’t look more bored. No matter what she says, he refuses to engage with her.

A police officer, a real one and even taller, enters the room.

“What do we have?”

“Had a ticket but missed boarding, tried to get on anyway,” says the airport security dude. “I don’t think she meant anyone harm, but she’s good and pissed.”

“That’s right I’m fuckin’ pissed! I did not miss boarding, because the fucking plane was still fucking there! And I’m supposed to be in Houston tomorrow, and very important people are expecting me, and I’m not going to be there because you assholes are complete idiots.”

“And high as a kite on something,” says the security dude.

“Or off something,” says the cop.

“LET ME GOOOO!!!”

“What’s all the blood from?” asks the cop.

“She knocked a tooth out when I apprehended her.”

“No, YOU knocked my tooth out when you assaulted me! We have it on video.” She smiles, imagining that it’s gone viral by now. “I’m gonna sue you and the airline!”

“Listen,” says the cop, his voice low, calm, measured. “I don’t want to arrest you.”

Maddy looks him dead in the eye and then screams as loud as she can while stomping her feet violently on the floor over and over as if she’s a cartoon character running in place.

“I’m going to section her,” the cop says.

“Sounds good,” says the indifferent security dude.

She goes still. What does section mean? What did they just agree to? This room has no windows. No way out. They could do anything to her in here and no one would know.

“HELP ME! I’M BEING HELD AGAINST MY WILL!!!”

Someone walking by will hear her and set her free. She’ll scream all night if she has to.

Her voice and wrists raw, she’s still hollering for help when the door finally opens. Thank God . Two EMTs enter the room. Without a word, they unshackle Maddy from the table. But before she can do or say anything productive, they transfer her to a gurney, where she’s laid out flat, her wrists and ankles restrained. Then they wheel her out of the room. The airport is brightly lit, cool, and eerily quiet. Squinting, she whips her head from side to side, heart pounding, desperate, looking for someone, anyone, who might help her, but she sees no one.

She yells, “I’m being abducted! Somebody, help me!”

But the only sound she hears in reply is the echo of her solitary fevered voice.

She’s in a hospital ER, in a curtained-off room, zip-tied to the bed railings, an IV line dripping some kind of cold poison into her vein. It feels like the middle of the night, but it could be morning. She’s lost all track of time, and she can’t think. Her head is heavy, packed with wet wool.

A nurse enters the room. She opens Maddy’s cross-body bag and pulls out Maddy’s phone. She walks over to the bed and holds the phone over Maddy’s face to unlock it.

Hey! That’s private property. What are you doing? You can’t assume my identity. That’s illegal!

The nurse holds the phone to her ear. “Hello, is this Mrs. Banks? I’m a nurse at Northside Hospital in Atlanta. We have your daughter Madison here.”

The nurse pauses.

“She’s lost a tooth, but she’s not physically hurt. She got into some trouble yesterday at the airport, and she was brought here. I’m calling to let you know that we found a bed for her at CSH, and she’s going to be transferred there for a seventy-two-hour psych hold.”

She pauses again.

“That means she’s being committed involuntarily for seventy-two hours. I’ll text you the address.”