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$ .d""b. .d""b. HOE E'ZINE #1004
[-- $""b. $ $ $ $ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
$ $ $ $ $ss$ "Flight To Freedom"
$ $ $ $ $ by Oregano
$ $ $ $ $ $ 01/22/00
[-- $ $ $ $ $ $ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
$ $ "TssT" "TssT"
Que knew he was going to die and asked me to say a few words,
being the one #ezines person who tried to get to know him in his lonely,
desperate life. Que often criticized my writing, often harshly, and (I
would like to think) unfairly; but Que knew that I would tell the truth
about his life, as empty as it was, and the details of his death, as best
I knew them. He asked me to say these words about him and have us all
remember. Or try to remember.
These are hard times for the family and girlfriend of Que -- I
would add friends too but Que had no real friends -- his Mother said how
little she knew him and when I showed her a rough draft of this piece she
commented how much happier Que was now, after the plane crash, than he
had been in life.
I talked to all of Que's family, his mother and father. I talked
to Que's girlfriend and she gave me the details of his last moments
before he left Indianapolis before the flight to Pennsylvania. And she
told me of the argument she had with him driving to the airport to board
the plane which became his chariot of death. Being that this is so soon
after Que's death, there were subjects that were too hard for the family
to discuss and I left a few facts go unreported here by the wishes of the
family; the drinking for instance. Que must have known that he was going
to perish in the plane, screaming for his life, trapped like a frog in
the mouth of a snake. Que sensed this and had a remarkable conversation
with me before he signed off of IRC for the last time of his life, and I
think I know his state of mind as the plane's computer switched out of
autopilot and methodically shut off the engines, one by one, of the 747
and put the flaps into an unrecoverable spin. But first some background.
Que craved attention. All of us on IRC knew that, we saw it and
tried to downplay it, throwing him a bone now and then, humoring him when
he made an awkward remark, which was pretty much what all Que's remarks
were. He was a kid who never fit in anywhere. Not such an odd site on
IRC, IRC is perhaps the last refuge of the misfits. Que took a job at an
Internet company just so he could spend a few minutes each day, between
customer service calls, talking to others online. But Que was special,
he wasn't able to come up with the self-assured false persona we IRCers
have, he could not survive on IRC and it garnered the pity of us all.
I talked to Que a little and read some of his stories, which sadly
were full of spelling and grammar errors to the point where I thought
they might have been written as a joke that way, perhaps a spoof on our
culture of correctness. But as I talked to him I saw the earnestness in
his tone. I was harsh in my criticism at first but softened and finally
just told him good things after a certain event.
I had criticized one of Que's poems, telling about all the
horrible flaws, from structure to concept to the ludicrousness of its
ideas. Que left suddenly, in a snit, but I was on for another few hours.
Later, in the morning up popped a name in #ezines I had not seen before,
Sad4que. I started talking to this person and at first there was no
response, then "hi?" and "Can you see this?" I was patient and about 12
minutes later I determined it was Que's girlfriend; she typed at such a
slow speed, but she was concerned. She gave me a phone number and begged
me to call. She was at her work, since neither her, nor Que, nor Que's
family could afford internet service, much less a computer.
I called up and she was all upset, she talked really fast and I
could not understand her. She had an accent and for a bit I thought she
might be crazy. But I got her to calm down and she talked slowly. She
said how Que was all upset that no one liked his writing. He had not
eaten in a couple of days and had been having dizzy spells and spent the
entire day (he IRC'ed at work at night) crying.
I told the girlfriend that I would try to help out and she thanked
me. I went to work. I talked to Mogel and he agreed to publish one of
que's pieces in Hoe. "This is really an inferior file, and I hate to
sully Hoe's name, but I'll do it if it will possibly bring the child out
of depression."
Anyway that is what Que's life was like.
Let's move forward to his last day. Again, most of this is from
his girlfriend.
Sixteen hours before que boarded the plane Que told me about his
premonition he was going to die. These are all his exact words, not one
word has been modified from what he said.
"You should write a rest-in-peace for me." This was the first
thing he said when he opened a /msg window in my mIRC screen.
Then I asked him about flying on New Year's even and the great
possibility that he would die and he said, "Ummm...if I die it will be
really weird."
I told him that he would be safe in heaven.
"I don't really believe in heaven"
But then it is easier, right, or will you futilely fight to live
while caught in the hopeless death spiral of the plane?
"I will embrace it...like a boy embraces Christmas."
Fifteen hours till he boarded the plane.
Que went home and ate cereal. His mother offered him a muffin.
Que refused. A rebellion? I think it was just his way of separating.
His way of pulling away, cutting the cord with mother to make her pain
less painful. Instead she felt worse after his death. She never got a
final chance to say goodbye. In fact her last words to him were, "Well,
they are in the goodie drawer if you change your mind." She would never
see Que again. She went off to work at Target, she would return at 5:30
p.m. Que's plane took off at 5:45 p.m. Que's plane crashed a little
after 7:00 p.m. Indianapolis time. His mother's pain would never end.
Que slept. Que woke. Que showered. Que ate and packed. Que's
girlfriend picked him up for the drive to the airport. Que was sad. Que
was happy. Que had all sorts of energy. Off to PA for a New Year.
Start it off right. New life, new friends. His girlfriend was scared.
She had watched the news.
We all know what happened New Year's eve. There was a jet in
Greece that went down, and a jet in Italy, both private jets, but still
planes, not ready for Y2K.
"Don't go. Besides you need to spend New Year's with me." She
said as she drove.
He had made these plans months in advance, before he met her.
Too late. Paid for. Death plans in advance.
The car was quiet for most of the drive, the radio turned on low
to a country station. Shania Twain, Brooks and Dunn. None of it fit the
somber mood. I can't imagine Que being quiet. He must have just been
talking himself into being ready to be dead. I think the falling
thirty-three thousand feet with the plane spiraling out of control, no
hope to have it righted and all the people screaming and yelling and
praying. The sheer panic of it all. I think that was what worried him
the most, not death itself.
They checked his baggage. They walked to the gate and Que's
girlfriend was crying. 7:00 p.m. Indianapolis was midnight in GMT, a lot
of planes flew their ship's clock at GMT. It was not too late to back
out. No need to save face, just save your life.
Que, had a look of resignation. He had given up. He walked on
the plane.
Que's girlfriend said they had a final kiss, but I could see from
her face that the idea of kissing Que repulsed her. She said she wished
him a good trip, "I expect you back here on Monday and happy to see me."
Que smiled, then a look of fear, a sudden look like someone on a
log who loses balance, just for a moment, then goes back to bravado,
"I'll be here, one way or another." He walked into the plane. And the
plane flew into the sky. And Que flew to his happiness.
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[ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu HOE #1004, BY OREGANO - 01/22/00 ]