Station Breaker

29 Selfie

My heart stops and I feel all my blood drain from my body. One moment I'm in a bar figuring out how I'm going to use my douchey pick-up artist techniques to infiltrate a group of people — taking me back to my college days — the next, I'm punched in the face by reality as I realize I'm not playing some kind of game.

I gain control of my limbs and step away from the bar, pretending I didn't just get called out. After all, that's what a guy that was Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon would do.

If I run, I look suspicious. If I act casual, it's no big deal.

Out of the corner of my vision I realize they're not looking at me; they're watching the television. The talk show cut over to a news report showing aerial footage of the Unicorn in a clearing in a jungle. The orange parachute is dangling over some trees and the open hatch is facing outwards, towards the camera.

One of the flight attendants, a petite dark-haired woman, is translating the news to her friends.

"They think he may be in the jungle or could have drowned when it first landed. The police got reports that he jumped out over Guanabara Bay."

Well, thanks for unreliable witnesses.

She continues, "But there have been reports that there was a shooting at a football stadium and that he was sighted there."

"He's like the white chupacabra," says the social secretary. Then he looks up and sees me watching them watching the television. "There he is!"

FUUUUUCK.

All eyes turn on me. I'm about to drain other bodily fluids since my blood has already departed.

I manage a weak smile and hold my hands up like chupacabra claws, because that's what Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon would do.

Haha! We're all having fun because that would be absurd!

The group bursts into laughter. I laugh with them like a carefree guy who wasn't almost murdered by a Russian kill team an hour ago.

I let out a sigh then head for the exit, making plans to run for it as soon as nobody is watching.

"You're not going anywhere!" says the social secretary as he bounces up from his chair to intercept me.

I want to run, but that would be bad. I could say that I have an important meeting to get to, but then the conversation I leave behind me will be all about how weird it was that I left as soon as the crazy astronaut was on TV — and didn't that guy look a lot like him?

I have to do the opposite of what people would expect a fugitive to do. I turn around and smile.

The social secretary grabs me by the arm and leads me back to the group. "What's your name?" he asks.

"George," I reply. It's part of my prepared alibi. I had a friend in college, now a pilot doing charters, named George Williams. My assumed identity would be his real one. I know enough about him to pass myself off as George. Also, he's from Toronto, so I can say that I'm Canadian, making me Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon.

"I'm Shawn," he replies, then puts a hand on my shoulder and presents me to the group. "Doesn't that astronaut look like George's whiter, less bald brother?"

This gets a few nods of agreement.

"I think you're better looking," says the older flight attendant.

I make a sheepish grin, trying to be Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon.

The co-pilot shakes his head. "I don't see it."

Thank you, sir. I hope I never have to rely on your acute vision in the cockpit.

"What do you do?" asks the captain.

A minute ago I was going to tell the group that I was a pilot, just like him. Now that David Dixon, fugitive astronaut, is the topic de jour, that seems like the dumbest idea in the world.

"I'm a pilot," says my mouth, deciding to wing it on its own without conversing with my brain on the matter.

"You wouldn't happen to have parked your ride in a jungle, by chance?" asks the co-pilot.

Play it cool, Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon. I jerk a thumb towards the television. "Isn't that crazy?"

"We were diverted for an hour because the bay was the landing zone," says the captain. "Almost had to land in São Paulo."

I'm too terrified to reply. All I can do is grin, which is apparently all Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon can do to keep up his end of a conversation.

Thankfully, Shawn interrupts us, saving me for the moment. Unfortunately, the next words out of his mouth make me feel nauseous.

"Let's all take a selfie with our celebrity friend!"

Oh, lord. I'm seconds away from having a half-dozen people tag and upload my photo to the Internet with a location stamped right on it.

Shawn is directing people before I can even protest.

"Captain Beransky, you over there. Whitcomb, you there. Adele, I'm not even letting you get close to him, you dirty cougar. Serena, I saw you watching him; you stand next to him. Connie, over here, next to me."

Faster than a Russian kill team can draw a bead on me, I'm surrounded by the flight crew and in the dead center of a selfie shot as Shawn sticks his long arm out to capture the moment.

I stare at my face on the phone screen as the camera clicks and half panic, half feel a measure of relief. Yeah, it's me. But I kind of sort of don't look exactly like me.

To be honest, it's a crappy picture and would not go on my dating profile; while the one provided to the news from my iCosmos page was shot by a fashion photographer and makes me out to be much more handsome than I am.

I fake the cheesiest, shit-eating grin I can manage because that's what Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon would do.

These people aren't idiots. I need to get away from them as conveniently as I can without attracting attention, because sooner or later one of them is going to wise up.