Call the Ball

Our computer screen is black, and no sound comes through the speakers except for occasional radio transmissions, the low whine of electrical instruments and wind, and the jagged, irregular sound of someone trying not to hyperventilate.

"513, four miles. You're left of course, correcting." Still nothing but blackness. Pants sits quietly beside me, and takes a sip of his water.

An acknowledgment comes over the speakers, "513."

"I don't see shit," I say. A small, wry smile crosses Pants's lips. He's going to have to do this in less than three weeks-- land a jet on an aircraft carrier at night.

Seconds later:

"513, two miles, slightly below, slightly right."

"513." And now a slight flicker, like a dying firefly. Barely four pixels across, I confuse it at first with lint on the computer screen, so I reach out and wipe at it. It wobbles uncertainly and refuses to resolve into a shape.

"That's the tower lights," says Pants.

"Two miles??" I ask. "That's all he fucking s--" and before I can finish, a warning tone is blaring. "What's that?" The tone sounds like a tiny British ambulance, like the kind of sound Nintendo games make when Mario accidentally leaps into a flaming pit.

Pants says, "His altimeter. It's an automatic warning when you break a certain altitude."

More transmissions: "514, four miles, call needles."

"Now they're talking to the guy behind him," Pants says. This seems unfair-- why should 513 have to hear about everyone stacking up behind him? What if he gets confused about which message is for him? The breathing speeds up, shudders between breaths.

"513, approaching the ball, slightly low. 513 call the ball."

"513 callingtheballsixonezero." 513 is smashing his words together and breathing hard, but his voice is pitched low and even. He sounds like someone quietly trying to alert you that there's a rattle snake in his lap.

"513, roger ball. Little low." Whoever is talking to 513 sounds like he's sitting in front of a nice fireplace with a snifter of brandy. His voice is rich and deep and calm. "Little low" sounds like a minor condition, something completely expected and within the normal course of nature and the world, and not a warning that 513 might want to correct his course in order not to smash into the back of the boat in a giant fireball.

The one wobbling dot becomes two, one brighter, one dimmer and off to the lower left, and then a third light appears above the first two, like a strange constellation whose configuration means everything. This is still not the runway-- merely a reference to indicate that the runway is nearby, lower and to the left.

The breathing is fast and jagged and all of a sudden, there it is! Like a highway lit up at night with small dashed lines reflecting the center line. The whole thing wavers uncertainly, racing towards 513, and us, and Pants points to the far left of the screen, "There's the ball," just as it disappears. I can't tell how far above the highway we are and everything is speeding up and getting louder.

"Come a little left." It's Lord Calm Voice in his parlor again, and 513, now sounding like he's in the middle of an asthma attack, dutifully points the nose of the jet slightly left milliseconds before all the lights leap and scatter over the screen, the engines roar in protest, and a long, rasping breath is punched out of 513's chest. Radio chatter continues, but I can't hear any of it-- I find myself hanging forward from my perch on the kitchen stool (we still don't have a desk chair in the study), my nails digging into the fabric of my running pants.

The screen's gone black again and now I can hear someone called 710 being told to set himself up for the approach. More tiny dim lights appear and rotate slowly along the bottom of the screen-- 513 is regaining control of his breathing, though it's still shuddery-sounding like someone about to cry, and he's apparently got the wherewithal to start thinking about moving off the runway and parking his jet. This seems like asking someone to steer a flaming 18-wheeler at top speed through a garden gate, stop within 10 feet, and then neatly parallel park because other flaming 18-wheelers are right behind.

Pants is laughing now-- apparently this is exciting, or motivating or something-- and all I can say is, "Fuck all that."

(Watch it on Youtube.)

***

"Backed up"

My world is somewhat simpler. Today, the topic of conversation at work was a woman who bought herself new tits for the holidays, and stopped by to regale us with the gory details of her recovery. My coworkers were equally congratulatory and consumer-savvy, and the conversation, minus a few nouns, might lead one to believe that the woman had personally achieved something both physically demanding and technologically superior, like giving birth to a brand new baby Mercedes.

I was unimpressed and unsympathetic, but then again, I am 29 and obsessed with other, equally facetious things (more on that to come). Interestingly, though, the most entertaining part of the woman's story was not the clever ruse she concocted to make her new titiness a surprise for her husband and family, but rather the utter surprise and angst she went through when she discovered that pain meds can cause severe constipation. Who knew? I've seen her maybe three times in my life, and she had a genuine come-to-Jesus moment with us describing the ordeal of passing her first post-op turd.

***

Resolutions

I have two New Year's resolutions. The first is to return all calls and check my voicemail every day. I have this weird resentment relationship with my cell phone where I feel like it promises more from me than I'm able to provide, like it's somehow this bait-and-switch picture of Rachel-- "I'm available and conscientious!"-- when the reality is that I frequently lose the thing or let its batteries run down or go days without checking my messages. Consequently, the phone feels like a measuring stick that keeps a dutiful record of all the ways in which I fall short or can't keep commitments. So I resolve to stop seeing the phone as a measure of my own failures as wife, daughter, and friend, and just check my fucking voicemail and return calls like normal people do.

Ah, "normal." This brings me to resolution number 2: I will drastically reduce the brain power I devote to worrying about Britney Spears. Seriously. I'm abreast of her whole situation as of 1:00 PST today. She's in LA. She's no longer hanging out with the one night stand, married tabloid photographer from Afghanistan, and has instead retreated to the loving arms of her dubious adviser and friend, Osama Lufti.

The fact that I know this, and that I could break down for you month by month the past year in her downward-spiraling life, is deeply embarrassing. Who am I to be a spectator in this whole mess? It's not that I wish her ill, or think her downfall is funny (I mean, maybe I did at first, when she was first showing her trailer roots and getting knocked up with her first kid) I'm honestly worried and a little obsessed. Why can't she ask for help? Is she really that rich that no one can tell her a few hard truths and help her get to a safe place?

And why is the whole thing such a riveting spectacle? What does it say about me that a regular part of my day involves internet-based hand-wringing on behalf of a floundering multi-millionaire? I've even got planned out what I would say to her if we got a minute alone among the crush of photographers in a crowded Starbucks: "Britney, I know you're going through a tough time, but I think it would help if you'd take out those awful extensions. You'd look really cute and sophisticated and even a little mom-like, which can only help in the coming custody battles. Also, I got you this day planner is which I've entered all the dates and times of your various drug tests and depositions so you can actually show up to them."

The brain wattage I devote to Britney Spears' circus of a life could light a small house, and I resolve to stop this. From now on, my Britney Brain Drain will only represent the wattage needs of a standard toaster.