The Igloo

His world was white and it howled like an out of tune symphony orchestra. With every breath, Sam felt icy daggers stab at his lungs. He became three people. The man arguing to give in, lay down, accept fate. The man arguing to keep going, take one more step, there would be time for dying later. And the man watching those two men, wondering who was going to win the argument. 

Sam took another step. It seemed to take all of his remaining strength. Then he managed another. He thought, I'm in the middle of Mick Jagger's crossfire hurricane, but the laugh at his little joke died in his mouth. None of this made any sense. He tried to think but found himself asking an uncomfortable question.

Am I going mad? 

Was that, could that be, a mirage? The arctic is a desert but where was the sun? Could it be real? Flashing lights. Red and yellow, dulled by the swirling snow. A visual siren's call to a frozen death? It could mean shelter. It could mean delirium and death. Illusory though this neon chimera might be, it was a direction, and Sam followed it.

As Sam drew nearer to the dull beacon of hope, the winds dropped and the snow cleared. He stood in the eye of the storm; the flashing lights now easy to make out. It was a large marquee mounted on a metal pole about ten feet high with racing red lights framing the yellow bulbs that spelled out The Igloo, as incongruous a site as the actual igloo below the sign. He didn't know how long he'd been walking or how far he had come from… wherever he'd come from. He wasn't exactly sure of where he was but "miles from nowhere" seemed to fit the bill. 

Sam crawled through the entry to the igloo and stepped down into a space larger than he expected. He was able to stand up with head room to spare. It was quiet and cool. He felt the tensile steel fingers of fear that had clutched at his chest loosen their grip and he took a deep breath. He was alive and safe. He laughed at the realization.

"Welcome to The Igloo," the young woman at the maitre d's station said. "Reservation?"

How had he missed her? Had she been there all along? Long, black hair, opalescent eyes, iridescent lips; she seemed to glow like the marquee outside. She smiled and revealed teeth as white as the implacable snow that surrounded them. She was tall, slender, and wore a red dress that had clearly been tailored specifically for her. "Reservation?" she repeated, smiling.

He felt a sudden flash of memory, like a curtain raised, revealing actors in a familiar play. The feeling of familiarity and dislocation unnerved him "I'm sorry," Sam said, stammering a bit, unable to stop himself from asking, "but do I know you? Have we met before?" 

The woman laughed. 

"You seem familiar," Sam said.

"I get that a lot, actually." She tilted her head and said with a sly smile, "Have you been here before?"

"I think I'd remember something like this," Sam answered.

She shrugged. "You'd be surprised by the things people forget," she said, then asked again, "Reservation?"

"No," Sam said. 

"Well, you're in luck," she said. "I've got a table free if you'll be dining and we do have some seats open at the bar if you'd just like a drink. We're well known for our wide selection of craft beers, as well as fine wines and top shelf spirits." 

"Dinner," Sam said, feeling strange and a little bit afraid, but nowhere near as afraid as he was hungry. 

She picked up a menu and gestured to a doorway. "My name is Jade. This way, please."

Following her to the doorway, Sam could see there was a dimly lit stairway leading down, if he was to believe his host, to a restaurant. He could hear the sounds of people and music. It's a dream, Sam thought, as they made their way down the steps. This strange, beautiful woman, the dark, downward stairway, The Igloo itself. 'Come in, she said, I'll give you shelter from the storm.' Was that someone singing in his head, or someone singing in the restaurant, below? Sam couldn't be sure.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into a room as large as a train station. A night club with vaulted ceilings, brightly lit by three large chandeliers. A polished wood bar with brass fittings, manned by a half dozen bartenders, ran the length of one wall, opposite a stage with a singer and band playing, barely audible above the rumpus of the restaurant floor. People dancing, people dining, ordering food and drink, the wait staff moving expertly between the tables as if they were choreographed; the chorus of a Broadway musical carrying trays of drinks and plates of food.

"Excuse me, sir?" Jade said. "This is your waitress, Joanna. She'll take you to your table."

Sam wasn't sure what to make of it. The woman introduced as Joanna looked exactly like Jade. Same long black hair. The kaleidoscope eyes. The slender figure. Everything except for the dress, which was the same style and cut, but blue instead of red.

"Are you two sisters?" Sam asked.

The two women looked at each other, then back to Sam.

"No," they said in unison.

"I just thought," Sam began, paused, then continued. "The resemblance is rather remarkable."

Again the two women looked at each other.

"I don't see it," Jade said.

"Neither do I," Joanna said. "Check your coat?" she asked Sam.

Coat? Sam looked down and noted the heavy winter coat, a coat he was sure was not his but where had he gotten it? He reached for the top button but hesitated, clutching the coat tighter.

"Still feeling the cold?" Joanna asked.

"I don't know if I'll ever feel warm again," Sam admitted. The muscle memory of social convention helped Sam out of his coat. He shrugged it off his shoulders and handed it to Joanna. "Thanks," he said.

"Thank you, Captain," Joanna said.

"Captain?" Sam asked. "Why would you call me Captain?" He saw the answer to his own question as he looked down at his jacket, the silver wings just above his name plate; Samuel J. Cooper.

Joanna shrugged. "I guess I thought all pilots were captains."

"You're thinking of ships, not airplanes," Jade said. 

Joanna smiled. "Of course," she said, and left with the coat.

"Enjoy your dinner, sir. Everything's good but personally, I recommend the sea bass," Jade said. 

"Sounds delicious," Sam said, feeling a Pavlovian response to Jade's dinner recommendation. Why? Just being polite? Did he even like seafood? How could he not know the answer to that question?

"Oh, it is," Jade said, "A specialty of the chef."

Joanna returned from the cloak room and Jade said "I'll leave you to it, then." She turned and made her way back up the stairs.

"Right this way," Joanna said, leading him toward the dining room. She looked over her shoulder to Sam who nodded and followed her as she took him to his table, the noise and the light of the room seeming to consume his thoughts before he could understand them. His legs - his entire body - felt heavy. Somehow he remembered how to walk as he followed the strange and beautiful waitress through the heavy sea of tables and people.

The table wasn't too close to the stage or too close to the kitchen doors, a high top for two on the outer edge of the dining area. "May I get you something to drink while you look over the menu?" Joanna asked. "Vodka martini? Straight up?"

It was his drink of choice. He was sure the look on his face was enough but he gave voice to his anxiety. "How did you know -"

"How did I know your favorite drink is a vodka martini?" Joanna asked with a smile. "When you've been doing this job for as long as I have, you, well, I don't know how but you just know."

Sam nodded even though he didn't really understand. "How long have you been working here?" he asked.

"Forever," Joanna said. She smiled again. "I don't mean it to sound like that. I love working here. Great benefits. And my days are free. So. Vodka martini? Straight up?"

"Sure," Sam said. "I mean, yes, please."

And with that, Joanna was gone. Sam scanned the room. He spotted three, no four more Joannas waiting on tables, all in blue dresses like Joanna's. This has to be a dream, Sam thought. 

"First time at The Igloo?" a man's voice asked. "Try the sea bass. You'll be glad you did."

Sam turned to look into his own reflection. The man seated at the next table, a man who could be Sam's twin and who seemed to be on his second or third martini given the glazed but happy look on his face, continued. "Not to say you haven't been here before but I'm sort of a regular and I don't remember seeing you," the man said. 

"No mirror in the men's room?" Sam asked.

"What?" the man asked. "Of course there's a mirror in the men's room." The man hesitated, then said, "Where are my manners?" He stuck out his right hand. "I'm James."

"Sam." He shook James' hand. 

"Pleased to meet you Sam," James said.

"It's my middle name," Sam said. "James."

"No kidding!" James said. "Samuel is my middle name! What are the odds?"

What are the odds? James wondered. He considered himself a man of reason, of science, of logic. He was a careful man who considered his options. Knowing the odds was something that he had always taken pride in but now he found himself in a place where nothing seemed to make any sense. What are the odds of surviving a plane crash in an arctic storm, only to find safety and shelter in a nightclub called The Igloo seated next to his drunken doppelganger? "A million to one?" Sam said, answering with a question that was also a cliche. A million to one? Why not a billion to one? A trillion to one? 

"The infinite is unknowable," James said with a shrug. "But a million to one is probably close enough."

I was in a plane crash, Sam realized. 

It had been a glimpse of a remembrance but now, in this moment, it had come into sudden, sharp focus, a clear and brightly lit memory. I shouldn't  be alive, he thought. He felt uneasy, like the desperately needed answer to a life-changing question was just out of reach, right there on the tip of his tongue yet still unspoken. 

Perhaps his new friend had the answer.

"You seem familiar," Sam said. 

James smiled. "I get that a lot. I've got what I believe is called the Blank Hero's Face. I seem to look like almost everyone without looking like anyone in particular." He shrugged. "Like I said, I'm what you'd call a regular here at The Igloo so lots of people think they know me from somewhere else when it was just that they saw me here last Friday. But I don't recognize you so I'm guessing that's not the case." He paused and grinned. "In your case."

"No," Sam said. "I mean, yes. This is my first time at The Igloo."

"I thought so," James said. He pointed his hand, mimicking a gun, with his forefinger pressed against his temple, flexing his thumb as if shooting. "I never forget a face."

Sam laughed but he wasn't sure why. James' ridiculous, incongruous gesture of blowing his brains out to signify his mental acuity was probably just the vodka talking. Does he not recognize himself, his twin, staring back at him?

"What's so funny?" James asked, with what Sam took to be a bit of an edge to his voice.

"I meant no offense," Sam said. "I just, you know, you don't see -"

"Your drink, sir."

It was Joanna, returning with his vodka martini. 

"Are you ready to order?" she asked. "Or do you need another minute?"

"I'll have the sea bass," Sam said. Why tempt fate?

"Excellent choice," Joanna said, taking his menu and heading to the kitchen.

"What's that the band is playing?" James asked. "It sounds familiar but I can't quite find it in the jukebox of my mind."

Sam strained to listen to the band over the bright humming hubbub of the room; a man shouting, a woman's sharp laughter, cacophonous voices loudly agreeing and disagreeing, unintelligible, raucous conversations. The piano player pressed on, persevering, and finally, Sam heard it. 

"It's Elton John," Sam said. "Someone Saved My Life Tonight."

"I believe you're right," James said. 

Sam took a sip of his martini and pretended to survey the dining room, hoping to signal to his new best friend that their conversation was over. Sam needed to think. Or wake up. He wasn't sure which.

"So," James said. "What brings you to The Igloo? Fate?" 

"I'm not sure I believe in fate," Sam said.

James smiled as if he knew Sam had lied. "Or perhaps you were just in the neighborhood?"

The neighborhood. Who are your neighbors when you're smack dab in the middle of nowhere? Off course, Sam thought. How far off course was I?

"A lot of people come to The Igloo looking for a second chance," James said. He leaned in and said, "There's a roulette wheel in the back room."

"I don't take chances," Sam said.

"Too bad," James said. "You can't have a second chance if you don't take a chance in the first place."

"You don't need a second chance if you don't take a chance in the first place," Sam replied.

"A man who never takes a chance is left with nothing but regret when he dies," James said.

Sam was out of comebacks. "Who was it who said that?"

"I did," James said, with a smile and a wink.

"I think," Sam said, "that most people - almost everyone, in fact - if given a second chance, would do the same thing they did the first time around. It's the fable of the frog and the scorpion. We can only be who we are. What we are."

"Isn't that the definition of insanity?" James asked. "Doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different outcome?"

Insane, Sam thought. Have I fallen down and gone crazy? It would explain a lot. This wasn't a dream; it was a delusion. He smiled, enjoying that feeling of having solved a puzzle, and then his smile was gone. If that was the answer, it wasn't looking like a happy ending for our hero.

Am I a hero? Sam wondered. 

"So," James continued, "given the exact same circumstances, one hundred times out of one hundred, you'd do the exact same thing?"

"Absolutely," Sam answered.

"You don't think that - even once - you'd take that left hand turn in Albuquerque? Zig instead of zag? Turn into the storm instead of running from it, even when you know you'll never get away?"

"Turn into the storm?" Sam asked in return. "Why would anyone in their right mind turn into the storm?"

James smiled. "You're right of course. A hundred to one. That way lies madness. But you can take cold comfort in knowing you calculated the odds and did the right thing." He paused. "Regardless of how it turns out." 

"Your dinner, sir."

It was Joanna. She put the plate in front of him. Sea bass, a mushroom risotto, with grilled asparagus. All of my favorites, Sam realized. This had been his go to order at Alexander's, his favorite restaurant in Portland. Amnesia? Certainly preferable to insanity. "Another drink, sir?"

Sam looked at his glass. Empty. When had that happened? "Yes, please."

Joanna nodded, said "Enjoy your meal!" and left to fetch another martini.

"I'll leave you to it," James said, turning his attention back to what was left of his own dinner. 

Sam considered the muted riot of the dining room. The band was playing the Beatles' "Fool On The Hill" now as 144 people had a loud conversation with each other all at once.

144 people. Why 144 people? Sam wondered. It seemed an oddly specific number. He took a bite of the sea bass. 

There were 144 people on the plane.

Sam pushed his plate away.

"Is there something wrong with your dinner, sir?"

It was Joanna, with his second martini.

"Am I dead?" Sam asked.

"After one martini?" Joanna asked, flashing a smile. "I hardly think so." She placed the drink on the table. She looked at the dinner plate. "Is there something wrong with your dinner? Can I get you something else?"

"How many people are here in The Igloo tonight?" Sam asked.

"I'm not sure," Joanna said. "Our capacity is 144," she said, scanning the room. "And it looks like we're pretty close to full tonight. I can check with Jade, if you like."

"No, that won't be necessary," Sam said as he raised the cocktail glass halfway to his lips. "Might as well get me another one of these," he said, then drank half of the martini in a single, well-practiced gulp. "Please."

"Yes, sir," Joanna said and left for the bar.

"Are you okay?"

It was James again.

"I don't know," Sam said. "I mean, I do know. No, I don't." He took a shorter sip of his drink. "But I do have my suspicions."

James stood and pulled his chair over to Sam's table, pausing before sitting to ask, "Do you mind?"

Sam felt an uncomfortable and unfamiliar loss of control; as if everything was happening to him regardless of what he said or did. Had his sense of self-possession, his confidence in his own abilities, the very notion of agency been nothing more than illusion?

"No, not at all," James said, answering for Sam. "Thanks."

They were quiet for a moment, a bubble of silence in the ocean of noise crashing off the walls of the dining room before James asked again, "What brings you to The Igloo?"

Sam finished his martini with a second gulp. "A plane crash," he said, "that killed all 144 people - passengers and crew - on board."

"And like Ishmael, you alone survived to tell the tale?" James asked.

The Igloo made for an improbably decadent Heaven. Maybe the priests had lied about Hell. Not that Sam believed in God or the Devil. "Did I?" Sam asked. 

"You're here," James said.

"Whatever here is," Sam said.

"Look," James said. "I can see you're going through some things here but, well, a plane crash that killed 144 people is the kind of thing I think I would've heard about. I mean, I've heard about a crash like that but it was a few years ago."

"A few years ago? No. This just happened," Sam said. "I, uh, I must've walked here from the crash site."

"Close by," James said. "You'd think we would've felt it here in The Igloo. Seems like that would've been a real chandelier-shaker."

"I know what happened," Sam said with the sharp edge of anger in his voice. 

"Okay," James said. "Tell me."

"We'd run into a storm that somehow never showed on radar. Strangest thing. I've been flying for twenty years and never seen anything like that before. A ghost storm. Like a rogue wave on the ocean. No warning. We took a lightning strike and lost the starboard engine. Half my instruments were fried. I was flying deaf, dumb, and blind. We had to turn away from the storm. We had to. It had hit us from the southeast so I banked northwest. It was the only move that made sense. 144 lives. I couldn't take a chance…"

"And yet?" James said.

"I did everything right," Sam said. "I'm sure of it. I did everything right and somehow it all went wrong," Sam said.

"Hardly an original story," James said.

"What?" Sam said. "How do you just dismiss the loss of 144 lives like that?"

"I didn't say it wasn't, well, tragic, I guess," James said. "I said it wasn't original." He shrugged. "We're all on the road crew paving the road to Hell, aren't we?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"Good intentions," James said. "Everyone does everything for all the right reasons, even if those good intentions are self-justifying. You did everything right. That's what you said. You acted with the very best of intentions - to save the lives of those 144 souls - but you wound up in -"

"In Hell?" Sam asked derisively.

"The Igloo," James said with a smile. "Hell isn't a place. It's a psychosis."

"A psychosis?" Sam asked. "What? Are you a doctor? A psychiatrist?"

James smiled. "I thought you were going to ask if I was the Devil himself." James' smile grew broader and he made a sweeping gesture at the dining room with his right arm. "Hell is other people, after all." James laughed then. "Bars and restaurants are other people, too."

Where was Joanna with that third martini? Sam wondered. He had a two martini rule - more of a guideline, really - but he knew he'd be ordering a fourth drink when Joanna arrived with the third. He needed something to stop the deranged voices nattering in his head, accusing, judging, asking questions to which he had no answers.

"Let me ask you one last question," James said.

"Promise?" Sam said.

James smiled. "Are you saying you wouldn't want a second chance? A do over? A walk down that road less traveled?"

"I…" Sam hesitated. "I just don't think it would matter."

"So, you'd give up? You'd just quit? One and done?" James asked.

Sam felt the cold again, sudden and sharp, like a sword made of a million needles stabbing his heart and lungs. The pain consumed his thoughts. He struggled to answer. He struggled to breathe…

*****

The sudden flash of lightning had illuminated the shroud of clouds surrounding and threatening Flight 1012, the jaws of the storm agape, straining to swallow the airliner whole in a blue-white blast of electric teeth. Then, just as suddenly, it was dark, blindingly black. The jet lurched and shook like a locomotive jumping the tracks, healing over. Sam's arms strained as he pulled on the yoke as he pulled the plane level but still not out of danger. Lights flickered on in the cockpit, the instrument panel flashing green and red. "I've got it," Sam said, as much to himself as his co-pilot James. "Probably want to put that Fasten Seat Belt sign on," he added with a grin. He checked the starboard engine. It was gone.

Sam did the math in his head. They were just a couple of minutes past the point of safe return, down to one engine, and he wasn't sure he could trust what his instruments were telling him. With that one engine, maybe he could stretch the remaining fuel and get them back to where fire trucks and ambulances would be waiting for them. They appeared to be in the eye of the storm for the moment, a moment sure to end any second now. He didn't have a lot of time left to come up with an answer.

"Sam! Sam!"

James has lost it, Sam thought.

"We've got to turn back!" James cried.

The odds weren't great, but Sam's math told him that James was right. He had to do the right thing. He had to.  

"No," Sam said. "Not this time."