Short Story: "Two Empty Seats" (Jacob Shorr)

After writing over 30,000 words to complete my law degree, I’ve found myself in a state of ‘writer’s block’. I’m not sure whether it’s the aftermath of a two-year period filled with unwavering stress, or the now paralysing state of relaxation I’ve found myself in. Or, perhaps, it’s the transitional period between here and there—between London and New York. Between my student life, and my post-student life. Between then and now.

All things considered, I’ve found a lot of happiness during this transitionary period. After living a year and 8,000 km away from J, I’m more thankful than ever to have him by my side.

The other day, J wrote the most beautiful short story while travelling back from New York—a story on love, life, and idealistic coincidences. A story that crystallises the notion that everything happens for a reason. While I cannot take one ounce of credit for the story, I'm grateful to share this piece with you, dear reader. I hope that it pulls at your heart strings, and brings you to tears, as it did (and does) to me, each time that I read it.

So, without further ado, thank you J for letting me share your work. I am utterly amazed by your wise words, and forever inspired by your mind.

xxVL

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Two Empty Seats

By Jacob Shorr.

On December 21 1988, a Libyan national named al-Megrahi casually checked his black Samsonite suitcase at the Malta airport. The contents were sparse and unremarkable, a few articles of clothing, some personal affects and a small Toshiba cassette player. Per his itinerary, he’d fly from Malta to Frankfurt—from Frankfurt to London, and finally on to New York.

That same day—a man sat at the desk of his new job in London, impatiently waiting for 5 o’clock when he could return to New York for Christmas. His two friends were throwing a party at the Soho loft where they’d lived together, and his girlfriend, who was still living in New York at the time, would be waiting for him. He missed her more than he thought possible.

The time apart had taught him what he already knew—that she was the woman who he would marry and he planned on proposing over the holidays. A slow day in the crude oil market had afforded many of his clients the chance to depart the trading floor early in hopes of escaping some of the holiday rush—but unfortunately for him—his sadistically brash boss, Michelle, had never once let anyone depart the office before 5pm. Holidays included.

His girlfriend woke with debilitating excitement that morning—and phoned him straight away. He told her if all went according to plan, his Pan Am flight would depart Heathrow at 6pm, putting him back in New York at roughly the same time. He’d come straight to the party from the airport and asked her to have a strong cocktail waiting for him when he arrived. She asked if he could take an earlier flight, but he told her it was very unlikely. They said goodbye and she finished her coffee, made a note in her journal, and walked cheerily to work in the village. It was cold but she didn’t care. She missed him. And she had a feeling …

In Malta, al-Megrahi’s flight departed on schedule, and he walked among the other passengers from the jet bridge and into the terminal. His connection did not afford him much time but it was comfortable enough.

His flight departed Frankfurt for London on schedule—however al-Megrahi was not on board. Somehow he had managed to miss the flight- and was unable To retrieve his black suitcase he’d checked all the way through to new York.

Back in New York, the mans girlfriend had a dizzying morning at the office- by the time she lookedUp it was 10 minutes past 6 in London. her boyfriends flight would have already departed- and with it, the suitcase al-Megrahi had checked through to New York. Now she was restless— fixated on the clock. She wished he’d been able to take an earlier flight but thought it impossible given the boss she’d heard so much about.

At 6 pm, Pan Am flight 103 pushed back from the gate—and took off at half past the hour. Shortly after 7pm, deep in the belly of the 747, the Toshiba cassette player al-Megrahi placed in the black Samsonite suitcase that morning began whirring. Moments later, it clicked loudly and violently exploded 40,000 Feet above Lockerbie, Scotland. It ripped through fuselage, casting debris hundreds of miles—and killing each of the 259 passengers and crew members on board.

His girlfriend’s phone rang when she returned from work that afternoon. It was her father. She was surprised as he’d called the day before, but was happy to speak to him nonetheless. He was frantic—and asked if she’d seen the news. which she had not, and then asked which flight Deacon was taking back to New York.

“Pan Am 103 I think. Why?”

“Oh my god”

She screamed—collapsing to the floor, paralysed . She dragged herself to her feet to call the airport. Sobbing into the phone, pleading to know if he had been on the flight. The woman on the other end of the line understood her anguish but explained that it was illegal to divulge information of passengers on board

“Can you tell me if he was not on board. Please!”

Earlier that day in London, time stood still. The hour between noon and 1 seemed to take 2, and the man grew more and more restless with each passing second but—impossibly—on the stroke of 3 Michelle walked from his office and onto the trading floor—with his leather briefcase tucked beneath his arm. “You go,” he said, “but tell anyone and I’ll fucking kill you.”

The man leapt from his desk. Grabbed his passport and raced for a cab. A British Airways flight was scheduled to depart at 4pm, and though unlikely, he’d try and get on that one instead. It was certainly worth a go. Naturally, the traffic was horrific—as it always seems to be when one is trying to catch a flight. So he gave the cabby £20 to drive like hell. And so he did.

Upon arriving, he ran to the British Airways ticket counter and breathlessly explained his predicament. “Can you take this Pan Am ticket instead? Is there room?”

He wore a dark suit and looked handsome, and the woman behind the counter smiled. “We can take you if you can make it!” She exclaimed and swiftly printed him a new boarding pass. “But you’ll need to run or you'll miss it,” she added.

And so he did.

As he tracked west somewhere above the North Atlantic, he looked down at his watch and smiled. He’d made the British Airways flight by the skin of his teeth, and the Pan Am one was just taking off now. When he landed, he stood up, stretched, and walked briskly through the terminal like he had hundreds of times before, but something was odd. He walked past news crews, and people who were screaming and crying—but he was in such a rush that he just kept on walking.

“Shame about those kids” the border agent said, as he emphatically stamped his passport. “Welcome home.”

“What kids? What the hell is going on?”

“The Pan Am flight…From London…” he started.

Following a dizzying investigation, the authorities traced the bomb to al-Megrahi. He manufactured it out of Semtex plastic explosives, concealed it in a Toshiba cassette recorder, and placed the recorder in the bellow of the suitcase that he checked onto the Air Malta flight headed to Frankfurt. The unaccompanied bag is believed to have been transferred to a Pan Am flight travelling from London to New York—the doomed flight 103. The flight that the man was supposed to take. My dad.

When ruminating on the unending ripple effects from that day, I achieve the same queasy feeling as when I try to conceptualise the universe. My dad would have been killed somewhere above Scotland. I’d never have been born. My parents would never have been married. Love is the reason that I’m here. All my dad wanted was to return to the woman he loved—whom he’d marry—so he ran like mad, and took the early flight.

I’m writing this as I fly back to my girlfriend from a business trip to New York. The absence was brief, but my meetings finished early and I missed her—so today, I ran like mad, and took the early flight—and when given the chance, I always will.