ArcaMax

As I likened the election to an impending airplane crash, the irony was not lost on me that I spent the day after the election on a two-seater prop plane at our local airport with a state senator.

One of the more dicey options for interaction at City Hall, at least how ours is constructed, is just going to the bathroom. One option is the hidden bathroom next to the dais, which is spacious but at the end of a conference room -- a conference room that people schedule. There's nothing like walking out to a meeting that hadn't commenced before you started when we all know roundabouts what I was doing in the room I just left.

The second bathroom is the one past our reception desk, guarded by some intrepid administrative assistants who are both firm and kind. That said, you never know who you'll run into. It could be an angry resident, a group of students touring the floor, city workers called to the ominous Third Floor, or other politicians.

About two weeks ago, I ran into a state senator in our reception area. Veering out of my office, I came to a slow skid next to him to say hello. There was the small talk preamble, with the background knowledge that his passions are education and flying, and him knowing that my interest in the local airport -- and its budget from the city -- could be valuable. He had a program for kids to learn how to fly; might I want to fly with him and see the hangar he uses for his program?

That's an offer I'd never say no to. We both pulled out our calendars, landing the day after the election. "Might be a strange day to fly," I said. He laughed but said it would be more up to the weather than the elections.

It was a beautiful and unsettlingly warm November morning in southern New Mexico. I had flown in a small plane before, but not on a day when I had only had about three hours of sleep. The senator is a jovial older man, and he did his preflight checks with the dedicated enthusiasm of a teacher still in the classroom. The plane was one he could pull out of the hangar by himself, and before I knew it, we were in the air, with him asking me where I'd like to go.

We flew over our city; everything and everyone looked small. He allowed me to control the plane for a minute, and I made the beginner mistake of pushing us too high as I turned. "Let's just not go into the restricted airspace," he said chirpily. He took back control and asked if I wanted to see the bombing targets.

Our desert still has the targets that bomber crews practiced on before World War II. One we flew over had the image of a boat carved into the desert under the round bullseye. Our speed slowed, and the clouds gathered around us. A storm was coming in, and the wind caught us. My stomach -- filled with no breakfast and Oreos I stress ate at 3 in the morning -- requested to go home.

Back in the hangar, we got caught up by the co-owner of the hangar and his apprentice, along with another hangar owner. I felt like this could be the senator's version of the reception room. We were both caught and asked about the election.

In New Mexico, we didn't crash the plane. We morphed into a lifeboat of blue in a sea of red states around us. What that meant for the senator and myself as a city council member could be up for interpretation, but I didn't want it left there.

"When it comes to deportation camps, we'll be the ones to push back," I said and looked up at the senator. He nodded, straightening himself to full height, perhaps remembering the targets scratched into the desert from wars before.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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