Airplane Rides (4 page)

I could feel my own air passages begin to dilate.  The circular
motion of her right forearm created a slow and rhythmic rocking that passed
across the armrest where only our shoulders touched.  I began to move along,
discreetly shifting my weight back and forth in assistance.   Leaning towards
her, I whispered in her ear, allowing the warmth of my breath to dance across
her neck.

“Can you imagine what I want to do to you?” I asked her.

Anne nodded her head and closed her eyelids tighter.  The pace
of her rhythm began to increase.

“I am going to come,” she said. “Talk me through it.”

“That’s it, I’m right here with you,” I said, in a quiet but
encouraging voice.

With that, Anne made her final charge, climbing her mountain
while holding her breath. I held my breath as well, waiting for her to finish,
which she did with a tiny shudder and sigh that I was confident sounded enough
like airplane frustration or exhaustion to the travelers around us.  Eyes still
closed, a single tear ran down her cheek.  Passion or sadness, I did not
inquire. She shifted around in her seat, adjusting her clothing and melting
into post-orgasm serenity. For about five minutes, she remained quiet, and then
gave me a smile through half-open eyes.

“You are a very bad influence,” she said in a satiated voice,
maintaining our hushed conversational tone.

“I am not sure the world is ready for you Anne,” I replied, not
addressing her comment.

She smiled, adjusted her seat for a final time and closed her
eyes.

My own breathing was still heavy but gradually returning to
normal.  I looked down at her and thought her face more innocent with her eyes
closed.   I put my hand on hers, hoping for her forgiveness, while through the
window I could see the place of my penance emerging through the clouds.

There is silent music that plays in my mind to the slow-motion
visions of the world around me.  Dire Straits’ “Romeo and Juliet” was playing
as I drove down Montana Boulevard in Santa Monica and made a left turn through
the glare of the sunset onto Ocean.  In the blinding haze I saw the silhouette
of a tall bearded warrior with a shield in one hand and a sword in the other. 
Respectfully, I waited to let him pass through the sunlight until he emerged
into plain view, a homeless man carrying a dirty blue knapsack and shredded
umbrella.

I had met a salesgirl earlier in the day who was working in the
men’s department at Fred Segal.  She had just arrived from New York, chasing
her dream and a little bit more homesick than any beautiful girl deserved.  I
had stopped in to buy some causal clothes and put together the pieces of her
story as she assembled a new West Side wardrobe of black and more black.  I had
arranged to join her for drinks, but then decided against it immediately before
arriving at the restaurant.   I used my cell phone to send regrets through the
hostess. I asked her to explain that I had been called out of town at the last
minute and would make contact upon my return. I then watched from my car as my
stood-up date emerged from the front door, handed her parking slip to the valet
attendant and did her best to conceal her disappointment over a lost evening
with the man we both wished I had been.

Continuing south into Venice, I parked the car and walked out
to the strand just as it was getting dark.   My silent etude was playing louder
as I passed the vendors selling costume jewelry and tuxedo t-shirts. A man on
roller skates playing an electric guitar with a battery amplifier tied to his
back roared past me, and the smell of boardwalk food filled the air.  Passing
strollers stopped to watch a street performer pull a red silk sash from his
throat.  I watched with them for a few seconds and then moved on to a tattoo
shop, where I pretended I was contemplating a Harley eagle while spying on a
teenage boy who was trying to talk his girlfriend inside.

Further down the walkway a couple of fifty-somethings who
looked like they were from the Midwest had paid a mobile piano man to sing
“Crazy” while they danced in the sand. They held each other around their waists
and stared into each others’ eyes as if their love was larger than the ocean in
front of them.  I lingered long enough to see them finish, and threw the piano
player five bucks to let them dance again.  It all fused in a swirl of sea air:
the glitter of the jewelry, the spectators and the illusions, the sweet smell
of cotton candy and the unpainted girlfriend; each an instrument in the private
song of my evening.

DA Flight #14
New York (LGA) to Miami (MIA)

Raymond Trevello looked like the man that every boy from an
underprivileged neighborhood dreamed of growing into.  He was already seated in
his first class window seat when I boarded the Delta flight to Miami, and I was
certain that every person who boarded the airplane after me had noticed him. 
He gazed out the window through his gold-framed Cartier sunglasses as if his
time were reserved exclusively for important thoughts.  He was striking in
every respect, beginning with his perfectly tailored navy blue Armani suit
accompanied by a light blue custom shirt and radiant regal blue Hugo Boss silk
necktie. His ensemble probably cost five times the price of the exorbitant
three-hour leather seat to Miami. He had dark brown hair that was full and
neatly cropped, with only the slightest speckles of gray highlighting the edges
of his sideburns, adding to his respectable aura.  Even though he was sitting
down, I estimated him at six foot, three inches, but the assembly of
characteristics made him seem even larger. Everything about Raymond Trevello
conveyed success.

I took my seat next to him quietly so as not to disturb
whatever important thoughts were running though his mind, removed my coat,
tucked my sunglasses into my breast pocket, and waited for a flight attendant
to approach.  Less than a minute or so later a young blond woman in her Delta
blue pinstripes greeted me by name.  Her smile was designed to convey the
feeling that she was happy to see me again, even though we both knew we had
never met before.   Her nametag said Katie, and she moved with an enthusiasm
that suggested it was her first week out of flight attendant training camp.  I
handed her my suit jacket and smiled back in appreciation of the effort despite
its contrived nature.

“Something to drink before takeoff?” she asked politely, as if
reciting from a handbook.

I glanced down to the right, noticing my seatmate had his large
tanned hand wrapped around a glass tumbler filled to the brim with scotch and
ice.

“Stolichnaya rocks,” I replied, deciding to join him absent a
formal invitation.

I was scheduled to speak the next morning at a conference of
about 500 people in Boca Raton.  Burdened by a series of unexpected events, I
hadn’t found time to prepare. While Katie went forward to pour my drink, I
shuffled through my briefcase, extracting a legal- sized yellow pad on which I
had jotted a few random notes during the car ride to the airport.  I searched
unsuccessfully for my pen before remembering I had placed it in my suit
pocket.  Katie returned with my drink on a small tray and placed it on top of a
white cocktail napkin on the center armrest table.  I thanked her with another
smile and carefully picked up the glass.   The man watched me as I did, letting
me know with his eyes that any mishap would be unwelcome. With the glass safely
in hand on my side of the armrest, he lifted his own tumbler and extended it
towards mine, revealing from under his suit jacket sleeve a gold Rolex
Presidential and monogrammed gold cufflinks.

“To a pleasant ride,” he said smoothly.

“A pleasant ride,” I confirmed, raising my glass to the same
altitude as his and making proper eye contact with his sunglasses before taking
the first sip.

He returned his tumbler to the armrest and shifted his position
slightly, again returning to his thoughts.   I left him there, made my way
forward and asked Katie to help me locate my stowed coat so that I could
retrieve my pen.  My hectic day must have been showing, because she gave me a
sympathetic frown as she parted the other coats, holding mine out towards me. 
Another setback surmounted, I returned to my seat in hopes of finally focusing
on my presentation.  On my arrival, I noted that Raymond had polished off three
quarters of his scotch, rather fast even for a big man. Without giving it a
second thought, I settled back in and turned my eyes to the note pad while
twirling my silver-cased pen in my fingers like a miniature baton.  The airplane
had begun its taxi, and Katie returned to collect our drinks, allowing us each
a quick last sip and promising she would return with refills once we were in
the air.  The rage of the jet engines increased my already nervous pulse,
making concentration on my disorganized speaking notes virtually useless.  I
mentally counted the hours until I would be standing before five hundred people
with nothing to say.  I tried to get my thought process moving by rewriting
words more neatly on the yellow pad, but they were the same words, just
slightly more legible.

The noise of the engines had disrupted my seatmate as well. 
When the climb was complete and the engines slowed, he decided that talking
with me might help him pass the time.

“Do you live in Miami?” he asked.

“No, just a quick trip,” I responded. “You?”

“I do, but my office is here in New York,” he replied.

“How does that work out?” I asked.

“Fairly well.  I keep a place in town, and I’m up every week.
No luggage, it’s just like taking a longer cab ride,” he answered with a
polished charm.  Obviously he had used the line before.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I’m an attorney,” he responded, extending his hand and
offering his name as if I should know it. “Raymond Trevello.”

“Pleasure to meet you Raymond,” I replied, giving his big hand
a shake and introducing myself.  “What type of law do you practice?” I asked,
keeping the conversation on him.

“I’m a defense attorney,” he responded.

“That must be interesting.”

“Sometimes,” he responded casually, implying that there were
not many things that could challenge his mighty presence.

I tried again to focus on my notes, but moments later, like the
reminder of a ticking stopwatch, the jet engines slowed, signaling that we had
reached cruising altitude.

“Christ that was fast,” I thought to myself, trying harder to
focus.

Just as a worthy thought began to take shape, Katie cheerfully
returned with two fresh drinks, arranging them on the armrest exactly as the
originals had been.

“Thank you darling,” said Raymond to Katie in a tone that
conveyed both social and gender superiority.

Katie appeared oblivious to the undertone.

“You are very welcome,” she replied graciously.

“You’re a bit young to be working first class?” Raymond further
inquired, referring to the way flight attendants with seniority typically work
the front and far more civilized sections of the aircraft.

I watched the exchange, the distraction both welcome and
distressing.  It was always interesting to watch another man at work.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” replied Katie tactfully,
smiling with her full Midwestern lips and shimmering blue eyes before
retreating forward.

“Pretty girl,” I said complimenting his conversation choice and
testing his reaction.

“She’s cute, but when you live in South Beach, it raises the
bar a bit,” he replied, implying the young woman was below his standards.

“I need to get out more,” I said, laughing a bit carelessly and
taking a long draw on my cocktail.

“What type of clients do you represent?” I asked, changing the
subject.

“Primarily narcotics offenders,” he replied.

It reminded me of when my manicurist referred to herself as a
nail technician.

“Drug dealers?” I clarified plainly.

“Mostly, yes,” he answered, equally as calm.

“Ever saved any wrongly accused?” I asked, sounding like I had
read one too many Alan Dershowitz books.

“No, they’re all guilty!” Raymond responded with a cynical
smile that he washed away with the last of his drink.

“As long as they pay their bill,” I said, trying to keep the
conversation light.

“Exactly,” replied Raymond.

Through his window, I could see the sun setting into the
horizon, charging the clouds with bright silver outlines.  It was a beautiful
sight to behold, and for a moment Raymond and I sat quietly in appreciation.  I
turned back to the aisle and caught Katie’s attention with my eyes.

“Did you see that sunset?” I asked her.

“I did!” she responded with surprise.

“Is that the first time anyone has asked you that?” I said
sarcastically.

“No, I’m sorry. You just don’t seem like the sunset type,” she
replied honestly, embarrassed the moment it emerged.

Raymond snickered in delight as she rolled her eyes to
acknowledge her own clumsiness and apologized again.

“A fair presumption,” I said shrugging it off.  “My friend here
can use another and I’ll follow along,” I said to her.

Raymond nodded in agreement and thanks, wrapping both responses
efficiently into a single gesture.  Katie blinked her eyes to register the
request and scampered off to fill it.

I quickly wrote out a few sentences that I hoped would make
sense, praying I would get them down before being interrupted again.

“They pay alright,” said Raymond coolly.

I heard his words but they didn’t register for a few moments,
as if there were a translation delay in my mind. At first I thought he might be
making reference to deserved prison sentences.  I looked up at him in
confusion, searching for clarity in his expression, and found him gazing out
the window, exactly where I had left him, searching for a sunset that had since
disappeared.  I mentally backtracked the conversation and realized he was
responding to my earlier statement that for whatever reason had lingered with
him.

“As long as they pay their bill,” I repeated, to establish that
I was back up to speed.

“They pay big,” he continued. “Once a guy sent me a Ferrari for
getting his kid off.”

“A drug dealer?” I asked.

“That’s right. Paid my fee, sent me a car. Case closed.”

Absent the sun’s rays that had danced across our faces, the
horizon was slowly turning metallic gray.  In the safety of the twilight,
Raymond removed his own armor, gave his eyes a rub and, for the first time,
demonstrated signs of fatigue.  Katie returned with the fresh drinks, clearing
the empty glasses as she set the new ones down.

“You lay over in Miami, young lady?” Raymond asked her.

“We do,” she replied, still polite and unassuming of the
proposition that to me seemed the only possible reason for posing such a
question.

“Come back later and I’ll give you some suggestions on where to
go with your girlfriends tonight,” he said presumptuously.

“That would be wonderful,” Katie replied graciously.

A twitch of her brow told me she had no such intentions.  Maybe
Katie from the Midwest wasn’t so naive.

Raymond nursed his third scotch while I tried to focus again on
the pad that I held idle in my lap. What I had finished of the two drinks had
settled my apprehension a bit, and I began to make some more notes that,
enhanced by the alcohol, seemed more insightful than they probably were.

“What do you do?” Raymond asked, interrupting the minor
progress I was making.

“Finance,” I replied, intentionally vague.

Raymond shook his head in understanding, not possibly having
the slightest notion of what I was referring to.  I relaxed my writing hand and
waited for a follow-up question that didn’t arrive.  I couldn’t help but take
in his face.  He had finished his third drink, and the sharp expression I
remembered at our introduction had been replaced with a less brilliant one.

I looked at my watch and realized we would be landing in an hour
and forty minutes.  Charged once again by the fear of embarrassment, I took a
last shot at assembling my speaking notes. Undisturbed for about 30 minutes, it
was enough time for me to at least to get my thoughts in order.  The main
points were clear, but I needed to figure out how exactly to make them.  I
began to run through opening lines and key sentences in my head, listening to
my inner voice and admitting the awkwardness.  Like everything about me, it was
going to need a lot of work and I was running out of time.  I made an attempt
at self-consolation, trying to convince myself that a good night’s rest and
some early morning refinement would make a world of difference.

“I hope I’m right,” I whispered to myself.

Having returned from his thoughts, Raymond glanced over.

“Have it all figured out?” he asked clearly.

“Not really,” I replied, somewhat surprised he was aware of my
frustration.

“It can be very difficult. There have been many times I have
walked into a courtroom not knowing what I was going to say,” he continued.

“But it always came to you?” I replied, noting my expectation.

“Most of the time. Certainly when it mattered the least,” he
said with a forced grin, trailing off a bit as if he were about to turn back to
his thoughts.

Instead he turned back to his drink and took down the last of
it.

“Did you always live in Florida?” I asked, already knowing he
was a transplant, but allowing him some more airtime and keeping the focus off
of me.

“Moved down in eighty-five,” he responded, without indicating
the catalyst.

“Your family from down there?” I asked.

“No, all from New York,” he replied shortly, while shaking the
ice cubes in his empty glass trying to get Katie’s attention.

I noticed a hint of redness in his cheeks hiding behind his
bronzed skin.

“And you never married?” I asked carefully.

“No I did, I did it all,” he responded like a small confession,
exhaling to demonstrate his increasing impatience with the young woman.

I looked at him for a moment, noting that he, too, was
practiced at the art of avoidance, carefully dissecting the indications of
weakness and noting how well they had been initially concealed.  Katie arrived,
still smiling, but eying us both for signs of intoxication.  I smiled at her
warmly in an attempt to convey that we were still manageable.