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After hopping planes in Amsterdam, they now sat on a direct flight to Cusco, Peru. Grueling ten hours in tight economy seats gnawed on Shawn, who, already exhausted, was milling over in his mind that they would have only a short rest at the hotel in Cusco, and then it’d be another full day of travel to a lodge in the jungle.
Not that he wasn’t looking forward to it, but the unexpected, early exhaustion called for a critical evaluation. He had to take inventory. Must’ve been growing roots in the city, he contemplated, wondering whether the others felt just as tired. The little devils inside of him took notice of his weak moment, and the eldest sneered at him, “It was s’posed to be an adventure, remember? Tsk,” clicking his nasty tongue again.
“Soft and weak. Disgusting, isn’t he? Weak? Hehe,” asked the tiniest, feeblest demon, nodding, staring askance at his demon brothers.
“Should’ve stayed at home, kiddo,” the third one chimed in.
He squirmed in his seat, hoping to find at least some relief. Goddamn leg room, he protested, agitated by the numbness in his lower back and their crippling whispering. Here I am, just… Is there anything in this world I would enjoy doing? Or am I just too soft? Although he was questioning his resilience, he did not do so in a whiny way but rather with a readiness to admit whether he misjudged himself, his capabilities. To see, realistically, whether there were things he thought he was good at but wasn’t so good at them after all. His demons weren’t going to come forth in such fairness and courtesy, “No, you’re just a little bitch, that’s all.” One of them replied, dumping his judgment on top of his dome, hoping it would trigger Shawn’s crippling insecurities.
He was inspecting his inner world in search of an earnest answer to his question. The demons didn’t like his ignorance, nor his nosing around, in their territory too, which is probably why their insults grew louder and stronger, as if wanting to hold him back. It was when they were almost unbearable that he stumbled upon a seed of pain in a nook of his soul, which, when he stepped closer to it, sprouted, releasing a memory like a spring trap.
He found himself at home. It was Christmas. He knew because the big old plastic Christmas tree was nestled in the corner of the already, with decorations and statues filled up, living room. All of the men wore jeans and shirts, whereas Christine had a charming dress, make-up, and earrings on. Christine and Elmer smiled at each other and held hands. Will was there too, and oh, how tiny he still was, his feet dangling from the single-seater, watching TV, Home Alone it must have been. One of the rare times they all got along. He hadn’t even noticed his mother leaving before she surprised him with a big glass bowl filled with chocolate pudding, small cookies on top, and melted raspberries on the bottom. Before she handed him the bowl, she gave him a hug and a kiss on the top of his head. “Gosh, you got thick hair,” she’d mess it up a bit, “here you go.”
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Shawn had a smile on his face but felt a sting in his chest.
He remembered how Grandpa came around and had a drink or two in the festive living room, dancing to old ABBA music and doing the bumping thing with Mom. They’d bump hips to the beat, all right. Drunk and excited as they were, maybe a bit too excited, missing the beats, one of them bumping with too much force so that both of them went tumbling to the ground, the lack of athleticism making it a rather amusing sight, just like old timber falling. Laughs filled the room of their home that evening. The sweet sound of laughter by the people he loved most. He really wanted it to be this way again, wondering where it all went wrong.
He was torn out of it by other passengers pressing their pumpkins against the windows. He had two other dudes between him and the window, but with some strain, he could see what the ruckus was about. He caught a glimpse of green, the Amazon. Twitching his neck, looking for Truman in the rows next to him, and finally finding him, just to see that Trumans wide open eyes were already locked in on him. They exchanged a grin, making two big stupid-happy faces, and also pressed their pumpkins against the windows, or just Truman, Shawn couldn't reach.
His heart was thumping in his throat, fire smoldering in his chest, and if he had hair on his back, it’d be standing as well, all that, because right there before him, stretched, what seemed to be an endless green —the green ocean— as he loved to call it. A lush, neverending canopy of colossal trees bathed in from the mountain descending clouds and tired rays of a setting sun, which traveled billions of miles just for him, to throw light on this spectacle, and have him lay his eyes on it. Or so it felt.
His back and neck aching from the strain, but he didn’t budge. He was deaf to the mumbling and cawing in the plane, gazing into the tiny round window as outlines of a river leered their way into his visual field. Its water was brown, soaking the roots of ancient trees and the Amazonian soil for centuries. He figured that the little stretch he could see must have held countless microbes, fish, amphibians, reptiles, and mammals, immediately thinking of the giant river otters he was so keen to see.
He sat down again and stared at the seat before him, covering his mouth with the side of his balled hand in awe. He noticed the bitterness had left him and embraced feeling alive again. A real adventure, at last.