It is exactly one page long and has been reproduced in its entirety starting...NOW:
To my wife, who puts up with that goofy picture of me yelling way more than she should have to.
INTRODUCTION
On a recent flight from Dallas to Atlanta, I overheard the conversation on the following page. Everything inside quotation marks is exactly as it happened (for serious). Everything else is all in my head, though I'm pretty sure it was also in our protagonist's head.
CHAPTER 1
"Would you like pretzels, peanuts, or cookies, sir?"
"Would you like pretzels, peanuts, or cookies, sir?"
Harold awoke in a daze, his eyes opening slowly.
"Would you like pretzels, peanuts, or cookies, sir?"
"I'm sorry?" Harold mumbled, still not entirely sure someone was even speaking to him.
"Would you like pretzels, peanuts, or cookies, sir?"
"I'll have a water."
The stewardess, steady as ever, had seen this coming. She hesitated for only a moment, punctuating her annoyance. Her tone sharpened.
"I don't have that, sir, I have pretzels, peanuts, or cookies."
Harold's mind reeled. Time seemed to stop, though he couldn't shake the feeling that time was moving faster for everyone around him. No water, he thought. Jesus Christ, how long have I been asleep? He attempted to gather his confidence, but the look on his face gave him away. He was so completely lost.
Get it together, Harry. Tell the lady what you want.
"Pretzels, please."
He immediately and almost literally tried to pull the words back into his mouth as he furrowed his brow and silently asked himself: What the fuck are pretzels? Before he could even attempt to think of an answer to his own question, there was a flash of blue light mere inches from his face. Harold's world was upended again as he tried to differentiate left from right, up from down. He would have bet everything in his pockets that the pilot was doing barrel rolls.
"Sir?"
Until now, Harold was plunging from everything he knew into madness. This simple word, however, reached out over the ledge and grabbed his hand at the last possible second. He instantly snapped back to life despite his heart feeling like it was still falling. As he regained his equilibrium, the blue light came into focus. He turned toward it and was able to make out what appeared to be a small, blue bag with the word "Pretzels" on it. Underneath the package was a square, white napkin. Underneath that, a woman's hand. Harold was angry with himself, ashamed. He should have had his shit together at this point, but no water? What the hell?
"Ah, thank you," he replied with an embarrassed smile.
Ohh, that's right, Harold thought as he took his snack from the woman. Memories of pretzels past came flooding back. His reminiscing was cut short, however, as he heard a familiar phrase come from behind him. Familiar, but still, for all his efforts he couldn't quite place it. The phrase would come to haunt him for years. It was fainter now, like a haunting echo. A reminder of some terror from his past, but what, exactly? That free-fall sensation crept up on him again.
"Would you like pretzels, peanuts, or cookies, sir?"
He was brought back to his senses by the sound of a loud crunch. Looking down at his hands he could see he had a death grip on his pretzels, his subconscious's way of ensuring the waterfall of sweat pouring from his palms didn't send the pretzels crashing to the ground. Oh, goddammit, he thought as he gently brought his head back to rest on his seat. I wanted motherfucking cookies.
THE END
