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The firemen have put out the fires in the cockpit, wings, and tail, and are grouping around the fuselage where the man reentered. Meanwhile, I open my bag, pull out another video card, and exchange it for the used one in my camera. Handling the card like it’s gold, I put it in a secured pouch and rest the camera back on my knees. The boy is watching what I’m doing but doesn’t talk.
I pull out the viewfinder and focus one more time to capture the final moments of the grisly scene. I’m back to being an observer; I’m no longer a participant in a rescue operation. Back in my comfort zone as a composed journalist. My movements are systematic and routine.
Some of the tension has left my body; my heart no longer pounds in my chest. Saliva begins to return to my mouth. The medicine has helped calm my nerves and get me through the ordeal. The cramps have subsided. Overall, I feel normal and more like myself. Are you doing better, too?
The boy starts to sniffle, so he wipes his nose on one sleeve of his shirt several times without care. He takes the other sleeve and wipes both eyes with it. Black soot further stains the bright orange shirt with ash and debris.
I click the “On” button on the camera nonchalantly and ask, “So what’s your name?” I continue to scan with my camera. “Mine is Sarah, Sarah Colton.”
“James,” he mumbles, “James Hixon.”
“Nice to meet you, James—even though it’s under these circumstances.”
“You too, ma’am,” he says, peering over my shoulder to see what I am doing with my camera.
Ma’am? I marvel. No kids these days use that kind of language, do they? Well, he’s wearing Dockers, the polo shirt, and Nike high tops, so maybe he was brought up well. I bet he’s a preppie at a private school. What’s this boy’s story? Where are his parents, and who is this Eddie person he mentioned while we walked through that revolting field? I’m afraid to ask, afraid of reminding him of whatever upsetting memory he has of the recent ordeal. Were his parents or siblings on the plane?
I try to implement the tricks my therapist taught me about dealing first-hand with someone dying and survivor guilt by keeping my voice soft and relaxed. Don’t show any panic or excitement. Stay calm.
“How old are you, James?” I ask, trying to get him to come out of his horror-torn shell as I fiddle with my zoom lens and let the camera run, mainly for audio purposes.
“Fifteen and a half,” he answers.
“Ah, got your driving permit then?”
“Yep, last week.” He unties the laces on his left shoe, fiddles with them, removes a bur, and reties them.
Good, at least the kid is coherent and can function. I’d be scared if I had to again deal with someone who was severely injured or dying in my lap as the governor’s son did. I’d have no clue what to do if he were screaming in pain right now, would you?
After scanning the video, I turn the camera off and gently place it in the bag. When I look up, a large golden retriever has made its way to James’s side. The dog’s leash is attached, but no owner follows. Immediately the canine licks the boy’s face; he reciprocates by stroking the animal’s head and scratching behind its ears. It’s evident both find comfort in physical contact and affection. Then, as quickly as he came, the retriever wags his tail and continues his walk, dragging the leash behind.
By now, at least twenty to thirty people are milling around the perimeter of the field, gawking at the spread-out, death-filled debris. I see no appearance of Denny, only looky-loos wanting to get closer and see something disgusting. A cop car has arrived, and the policeman motions for everyone to stay back. No one is documenting the situation with high-end cameras; they’re only using smartphones at best.
While James and I collect ourselves, I mention that I work for the Valley News and took pictures of the scene and plan to submit them. He replies he thinks it would be a cool job to have and asks a few innocuous questions about my camera, occupation, and if I had to go to college for it. He tells me he wants to be a writer. Surprisingly, the conversation is brief but almost normal.
Two people approach us from the wreck: One is the muscular man who rescued James, and the other is one of the firemen. They have slumped postures as they trudge among the growing crowd. Do you think they stepped up their gait when they saw us, determined to seek us out?
“Hi. Heard you survived; how are you doing, son?” asks the fireman, looking over the boy for any injuries. He’s more than six feet tall and lanky. “Need assistance?”
The man who rescued James comes up behind the fireman, talkative to the point of making me nervous again. He introduces himself as Al King and tells James, “You’re the only survivor, kid. Whatcha think of that? You’re a hero. Any cuts or bruises? Looks like not even a scratch! Do you know I was the one who jumped in the plane to pull you out? If it weren’t for me—well, this lady here saw you move around—but I was the one who hauled you out of that wreck. Miracle, a living miracle.” He adds several inappropriate adjectives, probably part of his everyday speaking. I tuck away his name in my memory as I won’t dare tell him who I am or what I do for a living. Does this guy rub you the wrong way, also? Hopefully, he’s too preoccupied with himself to remember I had been wearing my press vest or notice my camera gear.
The fireman comments, apologetically, “Oh, we have no ambulances on the scene because of other incidents. Things are happening to the entire city. Hard to get one to come. Although this was a tragic accident with many lives lost, I’m glad you weren’t seriously injured.” I think, by the emotionless look on his face, the fireman may not want to discuss all the dead bodies and human parts strewn all over the field.
Muscleman Al interrupts, “So, want me to take you down to Holy Cross Hospital for a quick check-up? My truck is over in the parking lot.” He points to the asphalt lot where the fender-bender occurred earlier. “It was amazing to see that plane come crashing down. What a racket it made. You did good, kid. Real good.”
Based on his arms grasping tightly around his chest, James looks like he’s ready to go in front of a firing squad or wants to crawl out of his body and be somewhere else. Wouldn’t you want to be anywhere away from this man and his constant self-glorification?
Lo and behold. Look what I see.
A television van pulls up the private street and parks near a group of people. A little too late, boys and girls. I got all the content needed, and this scene is a has-been. Yes, Sarah has it covered completely.
I glance at the bodybuilder, and he’s glowing when he declares, “Oh, here comes the media! Great, it’s showtime for us!”
When James rolls his eyes, they have a longing, get-me-out-of-here look.
The three of us overhear the fireman talking into his chest walkie-talkie, speaking rapidly. “Yeah, that’s so strange. I was standing right there in front of Isaac, talking about what he was planning for meals today, and like that,” he says as he snaps his fingers even though the person on the phone obviously can’t see it, “he disappeared, right before my eyes. Man, wish you could have been there. It was wild.”
The bodybuilder eavesdrops and asks, “No way, just there and then gone?”
The fireman puts his hand over his mic, in all likelihood to prevent others from listening, but it doesn’t work. “I swear on my mother’s grave,” he says, “that’s what happened. Poof, not there. Only a pile of clothes where he had stood!”
Nosey Al rudely comments, again adding vulgarities, “Wish I was there to see that one. Hey, you should tell that to the news people over there. Can I come with you, and you can mention me being the one to save the kid on the plane? Maybe the boy and lady want to come, too?”
We shake our heads simultaneously, signaling our lack of interest in joining them.
The fireman ends his call and heads to the news truck with the bodybuilder strutting behind him to claim his fifteen minutes of fame.
I wonder what I should do next. Do you like this kid? I do. We seem to think alike, which makes him intelligent in my book. Plus, he appears to be rather mature for his age and has his act together, considering what he just went through.
I do something uncharacteristic of me, especially in this day and age of not trusting anyone—but why not? What have I got to lose? What would you do at this point? I go for it.
Leaning into James with our shoulders barely touching, I speak in a hushed voice, “Hey, my townhouse is right behind us. Do you want to bug-out, away from this crowd?” The words flow without any restraint or caution. “Come over and get a hold of your parents or someone you know? Maybe clean up, get something to drink, and relax for a few minutes before they arrive?” I wish I would’ve said that I’m married, so he doesn’t get the wrong impression.
Oh, I should never have asked him about his parents. How wrong of me! What if they were on the plane with him? I hope he was alone coming or going on a trip. I assume the plane was landing at Bob Hope Airport in nearby Burbank since it was flying lower than those that cross over the Valley and land at LAX. I must not bring up the topic of his parents again—for his sake and mine. Too heavy, too emotional. How insensitive of me, don’t you agree?
“Sure,” he answers quietly. “My mom and her husband live in Northridge. I was flying back from seeing my dad in San Diego.” He speaks in a quiet voice, “My plane was late, so I was supposed to call when we landed.” He looks at his iWatch and lets out a big sigh. “Looks like this thing is busted, so I can’t call home. Anyway, can I borrow your phone? Mine’s, umm, ruined.”
Knowing Northridge is only ten or fifteen minutes away, depending on traffic, I realize I made the right decision in allowing him to come into our home because it shouldn’t take up a lot of my time. I pull my phone out of my pocket, unlock its security code, note that a text came in from Jeremy asking if I am okay, and hand it to James. As he presses the numbers, I pick up my camera bag and step away from the curb, consciously trying not to invade his privacy. After what the two of us went through, and with Al and the fireman coming over, I don’t want any more attention, especially from any television crew.
James talks in a muffled voice as he makes the call. Only once does he look at me and ask for my home address. He speaks into the phone, “Yes, we have been to this complex; it’s where Sean used to live.” After only a couple of minutes of conversing, he hands me back the phone as quickly as he can. I sense something is disturbing the boy. Do you agree it could have something to do with seeing those dead bodies?
As you can tell, my brain starts working and planning. I’ll get James over to our house, give the kid something to drink, let him clean up, and wait with him for his parents or whomever to come get him. It won’t take long. It’s the least I can do after what he’s experienced. I’m glad his parents weren’t on the plane. I’m happy he isn’t hurt, aren’t you?
When he’s gone, I’ll download the pics for Carl and write up a quick article. By then, Denny will be home, and he’ll most likely be upset that I brought a stranger into the house, potentially bringing in who-knows-what virus or disease, but he’ll understand. I helped rescue this kid today!
Considering how things went earlier, I feel much better than I did a half-hour ago. It’s amazing how in control I can be if I concentrate.