Return Ticket

There is always a first time for everything. This is the first time I’ve waited to board a plane handcuffed to a sheriff. I don’t know if he is an actual sheriff – he may be a deputy for all I know – but he does have one of those metal star-like badges you see in westerns, I just can’t get a proper look at it as the handcuffs prohibit my movement.

We’re sitting in the departure lounge at Baltimore Washington International Airport, and many of the adults in the lounge are pretending not to look at the Sheriff and me. Some children, however, are still unhampered by social protocol. Parents continually yank their children back from trying to find out what they themselves are dying to know. I feel like shouting out, “It was only a bit of hash, for goodness’s sake, I’m quite sure you’ve all had a crafty one?”

Me and the Sheriff are last off the bus. We wait whilst everyone else boards the plane. The Sheriff hands my passport to the Chief Purser, unfastens the handcuffs, and then I too board the plane. In my seat I take one last perfunctory look at the land of the free, then slam down the plastic shutter on three years of my life.

There was always a room for me at my Gran’s house, and after giving her a necessary but unlikely story, I went to that room to lie down. I tried hard to prevent the recent trauma from overwhelming me, but it was too hard. My Grandparents decorated this room for me when I was a child. The wallpaper depicted cowboys and Indians, and all I could think was that the cowboys have triumphed again.

By Gary Troia

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