…in the Maple Leaf Lounge at the John G. Diefenbaker Airport in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

Assdeep in chair, Molsoned, enGlobed, my hands

Purelled, clean, my heart unfibrillating,

I touch nothing.

My hands are clean, I have washed myself of

It, the dirty thing, that cannot be seen,

prokaryotic microorganism,

that invisible thing that makes me shit

unwinding, violent rivers of shit,

praying to God in Marriott bathrooms

when I would rather be meeting with the

Western reps in Milwaukee or Scottsdale

or Denver or Calgary, when I would

rather stand and wait in the buffet line

at the Hilton President, Kansas City,

contemplating Danish and omelette, when

I would rather be waiting for Our Lord

God Jesus Christ in the Maple Leaf Lounge

at the John G. Diefenbaker Airport

in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy

on me, a sinner. My hands are clean.

I touch nothing.

Mostly, we are silent and we

are celibate and obedient and we

have eschewed material comfort and want

for nothing. God watches over us: he

is delicious and savoury; he is

a slice of Kraft cheddar or Edam, he

is a saltine and a Pringle and a

package of trail mix. This beer is his blood.

We’re surrounded by sacrament, assdeep

in the wonder of his works. And when we

rise above the clouds, we promise to not

look down on him in his heaven, instead,

to memorize the location of the

nearest exits, and to keep our tables

and trays upright and in the locked

position for takeoff and landing.

There are other martyrs in the Maple

Leaf Lounge at the John G. Diefenbaker

Airport in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

The bumped and unAeroplanned, the old men

and women whose baggage exceeds their

carry-on allowance. We do not

look at them. They are in God’s hands now. We

look instead outside the window, past the

iron birds, the metal angels, to the aspen parklands,

Martensville, Prince Albert, North Battleford,

past the teetotalled boundaries set

by the Temperance Colonization

Society, devoted to sober

industry and land speculation, from

Clark’s Crossing to Moose Woods; we look beyond

to the graves of frozen Indians, Chief Rain-

in-the-Face and Big Wampum, Running Bear

and Tonto, naked graves for the frozen smiling

heathens, Rod Naistus, Larry Wegner, Neil

Stonechild, cold happy martyrs, tourists,

frozen in time, reminding us that all things

come to those who wait, especially if

what they are waiting for is death.

Inside the Maple Leaf Lounge at the John

G. Diefenbaker Airport in Saskatoon,

Saskatchewan, I check the departure screen,

I reread my boarding pass. Heather will

call my row number soon, and I will think

of her husband Roy back in Winnipeg,

who does or does not have lung cancer (the

doctors are not yet sure). Time is running

out. I want to be forgiven, but I

am comfortable. I want to wash in

Your grace, but the incoming passengers

are already deplaning. I will cleanse my

hands again, destroying microscopic

connections, and wait for my turn to stow my

carry-on luggage safely on the floor

under the seat in front of me or in

the nearest available overhead

compartment. And when the rapture comes, Lord

Jesus Christ, Son of God, to the Maple

Leaf Lounge at the John G. Diefenbaker

Airport in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan,

have mercy on me, a sinner, for I have

listened to the pronouncements and have

restricted gels and liquids, I have snapped my

safety belt, I have ensured—hallelujah!—

that my seat is in the full upright position,

I have promised that, in the unlikely

event of a loss of cabin pressure, I

will place the oxygen mask over my

mouth and nose, and breathe normally, and that

if I am travelling with a small child,

I will secure my mask first, and then help

the child secure hers. And so I wait as the

pimpled security guard checks his iPhone,

and wipes his hand on his shirt sleeve

and tries to stifle a yawn as he wishes

he was anywhere but here.