James G. Powers presents

The Wings of Moab: The Friendly Skies

Eglon of Philadelphia

Eglon Morsel learned to ignore others' dismal view of him. He was resigned that his potential was limited to one acquisition: obesity. To this end, he gloriously reigned over beef, bread, and bottle, from whose company he was rarely absent.

Eglon came by his tempestuous taste buds honestly; his mother, a devotee of bed and board herself, would have felt remiss were her son not equally committed to stomping out hunger with all the zeal of a Vista volunteer. Daisy Morsel, whose family once boasted three rotund progeny, now reduced to Eglon, had long allowed that it was impossible to serve two appetites at once: a spiritual hunger and "the only one that mattered." Briefly, there was no contest when it came to "feasting" with the Bible or cutting loose in a bakery!

This is not to say that Daisy ignored the Testament entirely. She carefully culled, as from a spice rack, Biblical names to suit her young porkers. The two deceased dumplings were appropriately called Salome and Ham, since their appetites too were notoriously tuned. But her progeny Eglon's provocative name constituted a triumph for Daisy's imagination. The Book of Judges held the answer: Eglon, paunchy King of Moab, represented quintessential sensuality. Especially was this evinced in courtiers staring dumfounded at the spongy troughs of fat lavishly hanging down his middle. Through these, like into a canal, streams of sweat meandered while he squatted in the coolest recesses of his palace. His demise was fashioned for prime time: Ehud, the left-handed prophet, plunged his sword deep within the flaccid folds of Eglon's belly, which, like everything it contacted, ingested the blade and hilt as effortlessly as a carrot stick.

It was not King Eglon's shabby finale that prompted Daisy to confer the hapless monarch's name on her "youngest cupcake"; rather the Moabite's zest for the good life, from port to pomegranates, dictated Daisy's nomination.

Sundry sanctuaries of hedonism where special homage might be paid to their perforated ancestor were devoutly and yearly patronized by the corpulent couple. One undisputed enclave always emerged as THE elite Eden. Snuggled in the Allegheny Mountains of Southeastern Pennsylvania, on the outskirts of a town enterprisingly named Hollidaysburg, lies Sussex's Sybaritic Spa, vulgarly classified by angular scrawny folk as a "fat farm." Unlike its competitors, this paradise strained all its resources to knead sprawling poundage, to pamper every orifice, to fondle every dimple.

Each August, Eglon leaned on the counter of Allegheny Airlines negotiating first class tickets ("Who can perch on economy seats no bigger than a frying pan?") for a flight to "Elysium." When the day arrived for their march into the "Promised Land," Eglon, with his mother in tow, wheezed and careened down the articulated arm leading into the aircraft. The steel artery moaned and heaved like a conveyor belt loading Amtrak engines. The two happy pilgrims inched by a slightly over-whelmed stewardess, who furtively glimpsed at the craft's wings, while murmuring patches of an act of contrition which the nuns tried to drill into 8th grade girls' distracted heads!

Snugly ensconced in their plush surroundings, soon after a take-off which vindicated American technology, mother and son plunged into Allegheny's "party favors," as Daisy delicately saluted the parade of hors d'oeuvres which she and Eglon intercepted with all of the gentility and dispatch of attack dogs!

But all festivity proved premature! A volley of curses and threats dented the air! Three maniacal hijackers, peering behind ski masks like riled raccoons, burst upon the sedate first class contin-gent, leaving an equal number of confederates to subdue the stunned economy section.

Dividing between them "persuaders" of glycerin and guns, the confederates, in fractured English, shrieked for quiet, promising swift silence for any who thought obedience was optional. When the senior stewardess, propelled ahead of the leader, staggered into the cockpit, the captain quickly learned that Allegheny Air was playing host to more than ordinary holiday revelers.

A radical, outlawed wing of Jewish extremists, for whom life held the value of a trinket, commandeered the craft for purposes larger than depositing customers on oases such as the Morsels luxuriated in! All frivolity was lost in the magnitude of lethal, albeit outrageous, demands: (1) a healthy ransom for their American captives, held hostage over the last parcel of Yankee soil some may put their feet upon; (2) a public pledge never to relinquish the Golan Heights and yield other strategic territory to Palestinians and their "vile patron," the Syrians; (3) the release from Israeli jails of "patriots" whose only crime lay in supporting "true Jewish principles."

World crises and larger issues invariably coasted by Daisy Morsel's immediate grasp. She recklessly blurted: "See here, my son and I are on our way to Hollidaysburg for a vacation. We intend to go there too without your interference!" With a searing glower and moving not a dime's thickness from her mottled nose, the leader rasped: "Yes, Mama Cow!" And pointing to the emergency door, "We'll oblige you both. Just tell us when! Nothing could please us more than to empty two tubs of lard on that garbage heap you call home!" Tangled between amazement and anger, Daisy prodded Eglon to "do anything!" But "Elephant Hero," as one hijacker taunted him, remained still as a January floe. Only his jowls quavered, like a bloated carp battling for air.

Between Philadelphia International, Washington D.C., and Tel Aviv, negotiations sputtered along, flaring in spurts, with strident threats and commands. The Israeli fanatics unlocked a careful, albeit procrustean, plan, culminating in a landing at Tel Aviv, where it was hoped, on a world stage, their drama of prosper or perish would debut. Concessions surfaced, not without ambiguity. To Israel, finally, Allegheny Air was ordered; coordinates were computed, landing clearances and protection pledged. Thus it was that the Morsels veered away from Hollidays-burg, first to Havana, then, across the Atlantic, to Dakar in Senegal; next, a northerly pattern to Cairo. At last, languishingly slow, the DC 10 began its descent to Israel.

Daisy and Eglon, though seasoned travelers, verged on exhaustion. Their trauma was not lessened by the desiccated sandwiches tossed at them. Besides, when Daisy learned that their destination was the Holy Land, she sank deeper into despair. "The last place on earth I want to see," she gasped. Her imagination conjured up decaying shrines, cavernous churches, and processions of fasting monks.

Abrupt refusal to land at Tel Aviv, indeed on any Israeli soil, infuriated the conspirators, who felt betrayed; however, this reversal did not abort their plans. A strategy emerged to land on an abandoned military strip, in Jordan, whose ancient capital, ironically, was called Philadelphia. Touch-down was near the Gulf of Aquaba, within sight of Israeli territory. This wrinkled, scarred area, Al' Aqabah, in Biblical times, bowed to the rule of King Eglon, and it was known as Moab!
Though Solomon's mines are located scant miles north of the landing strip, reaches of desolation stretched like ropy tendons in every direction, hardened by scorching rays which licked the plane's interior when its doors yawned and the hapless hostages disembarked. They were permitted to seek refuge under the craft's wings from the pitiless desert blaze.

A wizened wisp of a man, a Jew, it happened, huddled close to Eglon, availing himself of the additional shade. His lips seemed to be in timorous dialogue with each other: May you receive a full reward from the Lord, the God of Israel. / Under whose wings you have come to take refuge!

With swirls of sweat beading down every fleshy recess in his body, a befuddled Eglon gasped: "What . . . what did you say?"

"An ancestor of mine once lived in these parts. .. name was RUTH. They were all starving . . . . The Lord sent one of his servants Boaz . . . . That was his prayer . . . . The WINGS reminded me . . . ."

Daisy, nudged her son, "He's delirious. Never mind. Poor thing!" But Eglon, choked with sand, simply stared beyond her, had he known it, in the fertile direction of Aqaba's gulf waters.

Veteran Israeli commandoes surrounded the plane, realizing their mission was no Entebbe. Resolutely, the troopers rejected all demands. Tempers shortened. A standoff seethed. Caught, as in a sheep-fold, the hostages, first stared anxiously at their captors, who hovered menacingly over their pawns, then squinted at their would be rescuers, whose granite expressions suggested they were "saving" them only for death.

Then it was, with stunning agility, Eglon, on his feet, hurled his lumpish frame at two terrorists. Instantly, bullets danced across the doughy floor of his belly, which seemed to absorb them as harmlessly as it would gumdrops. He blundered relentlessly on, toppling cumbrously against two killers whose guns mindlessly continued to spatter his stomach like one would tamp jam into a waffle. Each assailant sprawled grotesquely beneath the bulk across him. The tumble, the distraction, were all the loyal Israeli forces needed to riddle their enemy into deafening silence.

Through bewildered eyes, the survivors and troops followed Eglon, hushed, as he pulled himself awkwardly, grievously beneath the shadow of the airliner. There, gently cradling his wounds, he gazed up at the awesome span. His eyes bright-ened; the grimace softened. And not a soul missed his five final words: "THE WINGS . . . OH! THE WINGS!"