From Babylon with Love                                                 James Mabe    

                A Trade-Winds Convair crashed on a placid and clear November night.  The chartered cargo aircraft lost radio contact while three miles out and, just as the emergency vehicles were leaving their garages, hit runway 2-3 on Hogan Field at cruising speed.  It erupted into flames upon impact and showered the nearby grass with charred, twisted aluminum.  If the passenger records were to be believed, there were no survivors.

                An hour passed before the blaze was extinguished, another three before the victims’ bodies were recovered.  Twelve more hours went by, and only the blackened patches of concrete provided any evidence of tragedy.  Investigations into the cause are still underway.

                Terry Randall was not at work on that particular night.  He missed the flurry of fire trucks and clouds of billowing smoke, he was not interviewed by the local news affiliates, and he did not spend the hours before dawn enthralled by morbid curiosity.  At 2:37 in the morning, seconds before flight N-937TW became a skidding cloud of fire, Terry was drifting into drunken sleep with one palm cupped around his girlfriend’s breast.  The following afternoon, as he watched the coverage on the evening news, he had no regrets.

                That was two days ago, however, and tonight Terry was back at work, already missing both Linda and sunlight.  From 10 PM to 6 AM he was a ramp rat for Ice Cap Aviation, a gopher and gas attendant for corporate power and private pilots.  On paper, at any rate.  In reality he was little more than a babysitter for the tarmac.

                He sat, legs propped on a nearby desk, and absently flipped through a 1994 issue of Penthouse.  The pages were stained with nicotine and marked at random by faded brown rings of coffee.  Over the course of the last two years he had read that particular magazine, and every other in the smut drawer, at least a dozen times.  He knew pretty much everything there was to know about Ms. Tanya Klaus, Ms. Sherrie Paye, and the potential fallout from the North American Free Trade Act.  Ms. Klaus enjoyed The Pixies, liked men that weren’t afraid to say ‘yes’, and listed Blue Velvet as her favorite film.  Ms. Paye was a fan of Motley Crue and, if her photo spreads were any indication, appeared to be a horse enthusiast.  Like every woman in the drawer, their tastes remained unchanged over time.  Still, it was something to do.