Flight 112

“How did this happen?” I watch several veins on my manager’s neck appear one by one. Brooks is speaking into his phone, one finger on his earpiece, straining to hear the other end.

The security team is standing by on the sidewalk of Terminal 7 at LAX. The metal barricades behind us have been long since abandoned, and paparazzi cling to the last-minute line of police officers plucked from the surrounding area. Too many things are happening at once. A parking lot is being constructed behind us, loud machines squealing along with my manager’s stress. The never-ending slow stream of cars honking and luggage carriers grumbling about the major inconvenience of us taking over and shutting down one of the five lanes. However, this was one of our only last-minute options to usher two limos as close to the curb as possible. The problem is the crowd.

A mass of fans and a few straggling reporters have shown up to see A.N.G.E.L. the pop band. I watch the multicolored sea of cameras and homemade signs bob like buoys. There is hardly a clear path from the sidewalk to the airport doors. Clearly, they’re not just a band, but the band of the current moment. The crowd confirms it.

Los Angeles hasn’t yet shaken off summer’s affection, but I shudder, rubbing the goosebumps running the length of my arms underneath my black dress jacket. I’ve escorted other artists through airports before, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen fans camp out at an airport. I was just recently hired at Marble Entertainment, the management company of the band, and though I’ve been with the team for the last eight months, handling a gathering like this is a far cry from walking the perimeter of Marble’s headquarters. It’s the band’s first nation-wide tour and we have twenty minutes until the band must board their flight for their first stop in New York.

“There’s no way on your side?” Brooks hisses, checking his wristwatch. It’s 11:04am. The other end is the other half of our security team on the other side of the airport, who were sent to look for an alternative route inside. “Are you sure? We have seconds before they’re supposed to come and we can barely see the front door—”

A black Cadillac limo pulls up to the curb behind us, inciting a rumble among the crowd. The band is here. And we still don’t have a solution to this mess.

“Sir,” I step away from my position at the edges of the crowd. “I think we just have to go for it. We don’t have time.”

Brooks snaps his clipboard closed with a frustrated clap, something I have never seen him without. I also have never not seen bags under my manager’s eyes. More essential items for his day-to-day survival include tongue-scalding coffee with plenty of sugar and a migraine medicine packet that’s always stored in his jacket pocket. He seems to be a chronically dead-tired person.

He looks at the rest of our team, “You know what to do everyone.”

Split up, there’s only ten of us bodyguards. I haven’t encountered too many of my coworkers because I usually walk the perimeters of the headquarters, but I notice that they’re all somewhere between early to late thirties. The company was so strapped today, I was pulled into this gig last minute. Regardless, I understand the collective goal: prevent problems and prioritize the safety of the artists.

The crew collectively braces themselves with a sharp intake of breath. We thought that ten would be more than sufficient, but it seems like we should have brought an army. You would think we’re about to go to war or something, but every public appearance of A.N.G.E.L. since the debut has called for more security to combat the swelling enthusiasm of reporters, fans, and the like. How many people exactly came just to watch the country’s latest pop sensation arrive at the airport today?

Hundreds.

When the doors of the two limos open, the low murmurs of the crowd peaks to excited cries. A.N.G.E.L. is a pop music group of five twenty-somethings. Under the well-worn glitter, newly sponsored designer clothing, and natural charisma to pull anything and everything into their gravitational orbit, the stars of youthfulness and ambition haven’t yet faded from their pupils. And that’s what the American general public is loving. Performances, interviews, and advertisements kept coming one after the other, propelling the band across the country. Now more than ever, consumerism demanded fresh blood and would suck it dry.

Raelle is the first, the eldest and the one who is known for adoring cameras the most. As such, she is the least frightened of the crowd when she steps out. In fact, she blows a kiss to her admirers, braids whipping everyone’s faces as her head turns. She poses especially for the nearest cameraman, showcasing her mustard yellow leather mini skirt and off-gray long sleeve turtleneck.

The second member, Dominic, saunters just out of reach of the braid assault for this very reason. His walking gait is not much different from the way he dances on stage, bouncing with loosely tamed energy. The former street dancer wears a very bright orange pair of cargo pants that match his short cropped orange-dyed hair, standing out like a highlighter among the gray cityscape.

Elyse jolts a bedazzled hand on the second limo’s door, releasing a skittish laugh. “Oops! My bad,” she apologizes. Her petite frame is adorned by a sweet pink sweater and rose-gold rings on her small hands. Her doe-like eyes waver towards the media, her caramel-colored cheeks coloring in embarrassment, but Van ushers her out of the vehicle impatiently.

I fight a cough as Van brushes by, smelling of expensive wood and spice. He wears too much cologne. If it wasn’t his big afro that intimidated the people around him, the rectangle-shaped glasses concealing his eyes projected an air of coolness. Though he always had one eye on his phone, under the scrutiny of other lenses, he pockets his device.

Gold catches my eye, drawing them to the gold hoops the fifth member’s ears. She wears a lavender pantsuit and thick black hair hard pressed into submissive curls. Amina politely acknowledges the paparazzi and crew in disbelief.

Their polished outfits and touched up faces tell me that the makeup team worked harder to hide their fatigue. As far as I know, the quintet just came from an exclusive interview at NBC Studios, so there has been little time to breathe before they were ushered here. The lead cameraman from Marble waves the quintet’s attention for a quick photo. I move out of the way. Their first official concert is tomorrow, and this unexpected situation has become a valuable opportunity to capture clear evidence of how popular the band has become.

Exchanging a nod with Brooks, the security team creates a circle of protection around the band. “Please, step back,” I repeat to the crowd, ducking under reaching hands. I’m not tall but I’m not short either. I’m athletic enough but because I’m female, most people ignore me as a bodyguard. I’m also not very muscular or scary-looking, people look right through me as if I’m invisible. It’s not a problem, I tell myself, as long as I’m doing my job well. I excel at what I believe are the most important requirements of a bodyguard: awareness and attention to detail. Strength is not just physical. That’s what motivated me to pursue this job.

A bouquet of roses is catapulted from the depths of the crowd—aimed at Raelle’s head.

A few people in the front row gasp. Some watch the bouquet in the air blankly. My first instinct is to jump. My arms enclose around the bouquet and the red petals crunch to bits, trickling to the ground. My eyes narrow into the sea of faces, but none cue guilty.

My palm spasms in stinging pain but I first check behind me that none of the band members were harmed. Elyse, Amina, and Van are being guided through the glass doors by my colleagues, but Raelle remains. She stares at my hands, her mouth agape in shock. Dominic, about to go through the doors, glances over his shoulder and does a double take. Seeing that his friend is not there, he stops in his tracks. His sneakers make a squeaking sound against the concrete. He looks at Raelle, and then at me.

I look down at my hands. There are small thorns on the rose stems, pricking blossoms of blood across my palms. Letting out a breath, I detach my hand from the flowers, moving the object out of her sight. Dominic hooks arms with Raelle, leading her through the doors after shooting a glare into the sea of people.

“Excuse me,” I turn to the closest police officer to me, a tall, fair-skinned man in his thirties. “Be careful with these and let your director know so that objects like this can’t be allowed in here again.”

The officer looks down at me from his survey of the crowd. He frowns at me and then at the bouquet. He then looks back at me slowly, bewildered. “Where did this come from?”

“The crowd,” I say. “Take care that no one throws objects please. Something dangerous could have happened to the artist.”

“Who are you?”

I push the bouquet into his hands, “The artist’s bodyguard.”

I cover the back end of the security circle as the band finally gets through the large glass doors. The glossy white flooring brightens and large light fixtures above contrasts from the dreary gray outside. Inside, the lines of paparazzi are better maintained with rope, but now, the band has been stopped to sign autographs.

Taking the brief pause to reach into my jacket pocket, I quickly examine my injured hand. A single thorn sticks to the middle of my palm. I pluck it out, shaking it out. Looks like I’ll have to wear gloves just in case flying bouquets become more common now, I think.

That’s not the only thorn that pricks at me though. The physical part of my job is simple. There was a series of training to complete, so I did. There were confidentiality forms and background checks to process, so I did. I was hired by Marble Entertainment, and I was placed in a unit that happens to be under A.N.G.E.L., so I am here now following the band on their schedule. There was a manual and standard procedure to acquire this job, and I aced it. It’s that simple on paper.

Yet no one tells you how it can be difficult for all the wrong reasons. I can wear the polo and flat iron my naturally curly hair, yet people will ask where I’m from. I carry the badge, yet my skills and knowledge are still questioned. All it takes is one person to strip those procedures to pieces. It only takes three words to shake the foundation under my diligence and hard work. It shouldn’t take a certain type of person to be good at my job. I do my job, protecting others, because I can. Papers or not.

The smile on Raelle’s face is gone, mouth pinched like she’s dying to say something. But she can’t because it’ll draw the wrong idea. Superstars can’t complain. She worked hard to get here too and a simple action of some loser could have sparked a controversy, one that the band doesn’t need this early in their career.

The band is talking to a L.A. Times reporter and her cameraman. A sneaky maneuver, really, because if the band decides to ignore them, everyone will see. Then everyone will talk. Brooks holds up three fingers. We can spare three minutes.

“Did you expect this many fans here today?” The reporter asks, holding out the microphone. At first, the band members blink at each other. On a typical day, Raelle the attention-seeker would have stepped forward more than eager to say something, and the others would let her. But now, she remains behind Van and Dominic, her arms close to her sides as if to protect her body.

“Uh, no, not at all,” Dominic shakes his head with an awkward laugh. His shoulders shake unevenly. “We never would have imagined.”

“But we appreciate the love and support!” Elyse leans forward, grabbing the mic.

“Could you give your fans any hints or things to expect at tomorrow’s show?” The reporter asks. She looks at them like they are peculiar subjects of interest rather than a group of people just like her. She looks hungry for exclusive details that she broke out of line to get.

“It’s a show you shouldn’t miss.” Van replies, being vague on purpose. “We’re performing our newest tracks from their latest album, Icarus.”

This earns nods from the others, prompting the reporter to announce to the camera that the band’s latest album was released two weeks ago.

“100 million views on YouTube in a matter of twenty hours. Lead single “Flight 112” was an instant hit on the Billboard charts. Could A.N.G.E.L. be the biggest pop music force of the century? One thing is for sure, they are America’s latest obsession…”

Who could answer that? The band doesn’t because they’ve run out of time. The reporter keeps talking as Brooks ushers with pleading hands for the band to hurry up. A vein has now appeared on his forehead.

Obsession. The thing about that word is that it lifts the band up as a thing. And that’s how that woman will approach A.N.G.E.L. in her article. She’ll tokenize them as a phenomenon, something surprising to see and delectable to taste, but not sit at the same table as other artists.

But by being a bodyguard, I have learned the important things that make A.N.G.E.L. not the stars most people see on a screen or on stage, but a group of people. For example, no one knows how much Amina complains of borderline carpal tunnel from handwriting in her beat-up notebook during car rides. Dominic always dances with the same self-proclaimed lucky pair of black and white Air Jordans because they were the ones his dad bought him when he started taking dance lessons years ago. Elyse and Van, having completely opposite personalities, bicker the most often, yet are also partners in crime for causing trouble by missing hotel curfews. And I hear Raelle cry as she walks out of the company building the most often, stressed but determined to present herself as the star more and more people expect her to be.

It’s a result of these things that A.N.G.E.L. are able to complement each other’s skills and personalities, creating a sound that has happened to enrapture the public. The kids that once posted videos with humble views became the forefront of the American music market. Now everyone is looking at them, waiting to see what has been done before. These five people are slowly being demanded to be faux angels, forced to leave their humanity behind the higher they fly. A.N.G.E.L. will ascend until they fall—and that fall was expected to be great too.

 The crowd thins and the noise of camera shutters fade the deeper we walk into Terminal 7. The air conditioning is blasting hard from the high ceilings. The band’s manager, Yasmin, a short woman with black lipstick, waits at the tunnel that leads to the plane. She hands them their boarding passes, urging the members to hurry.

My coworkers relax their tense shoulders and pinched faces smoothen. I start looking for a bathroom, ready to excuse myself when Raelle taps my shoulder. “Excuse me,” she and Dominic have stopped, while the other three are skipping into the tunnel. “I just wanted to thank you for what happened back there.”

I nod, confused. That was hardly something to thank me for. “Of course.”

“Are you alright?” Dominic points at my injured hand.

“This is nothing,” I assure, hiding my hand behind my back before guilt shows up on their faces. “It’s my job.”

“Whoever threw that wasn’t a fan,” Dominic tells her. “It was some loser that was jealous of you.”

“I feel really bad though,” Raelle anxiously tugs on the edges of her backpack’s straps. “There has to be something I can do to make up for this.”

Have a good show tomorrow. Then keep moving forward and don’t stop. Don’t let anyone bring you down. Rise for yourselves and not other people. And don’t forget who you are, I want to say. That would make me feel better, but how am I supposed to communicate my current emotions? I can’t explain that being the band’s bodyguard makes me feel proud because I know that each of them will succeed, despite the challenges that will occur. I hope that Raelle forgets the thorn bouquet later on because soon enough she’ll be receiving trophies with her friends instead. I hope that, if similar incidents occur, I hope that the band will be able to rebound from those who try to deny the talent they have when they stand on stage.

More than anything, I hope that the band doesn’t fly too high too soon. They should enjoy the flight. So, my words come out as “Have a good flight.”

Then Yasmin yells from the tunnel, hands on her hips. “For the last goddamn time, hurry up! Do you want to delay the flight on purpose?”

The two sprint after the manager, hastened by the rage in her voice. They don’t know it, but they’ll never be the same when they come back to Los Angeles.

The numbness of my palm brings me back to my present surroundings. The security team sit scattered around the boarding room. Some drink water, fan themselves with their hands, and talk quietly. Now that the main characters are gone, I see the movement of the airport slows and I can see more clearly. The chairs are blue and they smell like mint gum and baby drool. Orders are being called from the Subway across the hall. Brooks is in the far corner with his phone, yelling instructions for a new safety rule to be announced online for A.N.G.E.L.’s fanbase.

“You got a pen? Write this down exactly: no camping out at airports…”

Through the glass walls, I see planes ascend into the wall of thick gray clouds. The TV screen projecting the current flight, Flight 12, is taking off. The plane slowly swivels into position. The rest of the security team will be taking a separate flight to New York a few hours later. In the meantime, I sit down, feeling comforted despite the throbbing spreading across my hand. The pain clears my head, calms down my thoughts.

I think I’ll enjoy my flight too.

Danielle Jones (she/her) is an English (Creative Writing) major minoring in Culture, Media and Entertainment. She wants to become an arts & entertainment journalist who informs and a young-adult fiction author who inspires.