Perfect Fifths (9 page)

On another day, a surprise doppelganger wouldn't be a cause for alarm. But in light of everything that has already happened today, Jessica is starting to question her sanity. She turns to ask Garanimals whether she noticed a shift change while they were waiting on line, only to discover that Garanimals is gone. At some point during Jessica's conversation with Hope, or perhaps after, while in the midst of her gastronomic voyage to Donutopia, Garanimals was replaced by an assortment of new and unhappily waylaid travelers. Jessica is a bit surprised that Garanimals cut and ran without one last farewell poke. Hadn't she and Garanimals bonded? Briefly, of

course, but in the intense way that soldiers invoke, you know, in the trenches against a common enemy?

Apparently not. Jessica is feeling irrationally slighted by Garanimals's brisk disregard.

"Please step forward," says the woman who looks exactly like Sylvia, the Clear Sky gate agent who has already spurned her once today. It is only when Jessica gets within a few inches of the counter that she can read the employee name tag —SYLVIA—that confirms this is indeed the same woman she squared off against at Gate C-88 and not her (more) evil twin. Jessica thinks it's odd that Sylvia didn't bother to mention at any point during the finger-in-the-air cartography that a two-hour stint at the Clear Sky customer service center was the next shift of her rotating schedule, one designed by the Clear Sky Airlines Employee Satisfaction Task Force in the effort to relieve monotony and help alleviate the long-term psychological damage inflicted by hour after relentless hour of air rage.

"Hello again!" Jessica's sugarcoated teeth are gritted into a deranged smile. All her donut energy is being exhausted by this smile, and it isn't nearly enough. This

smile is a grueling effort; she can feel the tension straining muscles well below her neck. Her shoulders are carrying more than their fair share of the weight of this smile.

She might develop bursitis from this smile. "So, I'm still hoping to get to St. Thomas!"

Though Jessica was too busy licking smudgy frosting off her fingers to notice, it was Sylvia who'd had the unenviable task of informing the Tristate Chapter of the Barry Manilow International Fan Club that they were stuck in the city of Newark indefinitely. Sylvia is not ready to move on without a gripe or two, even though it's totally unprofessional and frowned upon in the official Clear Sky Customer Ser vice Center Handbook, the same one that advises employees to be impersonal yet polite with all disgruntled passengers.

"You're not one of those fan-clubbers, are you?"

"Noooooo," Jessica insists.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

When Sylvia looks heavenward and mouths THANK GOD, she is revealing more personality than is recommended in the Clear Sky Customer Service Center

Handbook. To Jessica, this Sylvia is nothing like the brusque robot at Gate C-88, so she chuckles at the gesture to keep up the unexpected camaraderie.

"Such a fuss over Barry Manilow's Final Farewell tour. Ridiculous!" Sylvia's tone is light, but five decades' worth of frowns undermine any effort at turning them upside down.

"I totally agree with you," Jessica says, running her tongue over her teeth. She can feel the erosion of tooth enamel already. Why did she eat that donut?

"I've never been much of a fan of his, to be perfectly honest," Sylvia says.

Jessica is tempted to force a segue. Me, either! Though that "Copacabana" song is kind of fun to dance to at weddings, don'tcha think? And speaking of weddings, I'm hoping you'll be able to get me to my best friend's wedding ...

But Sylvia doesn't let Jessica get a word in edgewise. "Final Farewell? Ha! That's what they all say.

Didn't Cher's farewell tour go on for five years? And what about that Celine Dion? Hasn't she gone into retirement three times already? It's just a ticket-selling scam."

"You're right!" Jessica says, again too eagerly, having chosen forced politeness over her other options.

"Say what you want, but that Celine Dion sure can sing. She's sure got some pipes. But Barry Manilow?

Meh!"

"Meh!" Jessica mimics.

Sylvia nods, simpatico, and wiggles her fingers over the keyboard. Jessica is now confident that Sylvia will do whatever is in her power to get her on the next flight to St. Thomas.

Of course that's when, as if on cue, Jessica's phone starts singing.

You know I can 1 smile ...

Sylvia frowns, and her hands freeze. "I thought you said you weren't a fan." She obviously feels betrayed by Jessica in a meaningless, minuscule way that is not

unlike how Jessica still feels after being abandoned by Garanimals.

"I'm not!" Jessica glances at the caller ID and sees that it's a text message: NO WORRIES!!!! XO, B&P

The number of exclamation points undermines the message. Jessica is more desperate than ever to get on the next flight.

"I got this phone for work a few years ago, and I still don't know how to use it. I'm not really techy, and this thing has more buttons, bells, and whistles than I know what to do with."

Sylvia's face is unchanging.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"Anyway, a girl I know programmed this ring tone as a joke because an old boyfriend once tried to win me back with a Barry Manilow toilet seat cover."

Jessica stops midsentence, not only because she sounds like a lunatic but because she's caught herself in the kind of public overshare that she finds so distasteful.

She hates being on the inadvertent receiving end of these types of conversations. In Manhattan one can take unwilling part in conversations about infidelity, abortions, genital infestations, all out loud, in public, without shame, on a daily basis. It's commonplace, she knows, and she feels like an anachronistic curmudgeon for wanting to adhere to some outmoded sense of propriety and discretion. Whenever she overhears one of these shameless conversations, she can't help but look at the

oversharing narcissist and think, / don't want to know this about you. Jessica doesn't want Sylvia—or anyone on line behind her, for that matter—knowing about Sunny.

"Let me start over," Jessica says.

She explains her problem: She missed her flight to St. Thomas. And her goal: To get on the next available flight. As well as the complications therewith: The flight she missed was itself a change to the original reservation, which means that the airline is under no obligation to make yet another change, with or without the hundred-dollar surcharge. Sylvia takes this all in and—with newfound professional resolve—starts clicking away at her computer. "Ms. Daring?"

"Darling," Jessica corrects. "With an L."

"Oh, right!" Sylvia says, squinting at the screen. "I need a new prescription." She types, then stops.

"Darling with an L. That's quite a name to live up to." Sylvia, bless her, clearly does not know about the porn star and how she's chosen to live up to the Darling name. "It's like the family in Peter Pan!" Sylvia yelps, her fingers still hovering over the keys. "What was the girl's name again? Not Tinker Bell. You know, the girl in the family."

"Wendy," Jessica answers, as she has many times before. "Wendy Darling."

"Right! Wendy Darling! Thank you!" Sylvia says, finally touching her fingertips back down on the keyboard. "That would have bothered me all day. I wouldn't have been able to get anything done."

"You could have Googled it," Jessica says.

Sylvia waves at the computer dismissively "Not here. No Internet connection. Clear Sky wants us cut off from the outside world so we can concentrate on serving

customers ... like you!"

Jessica laughs politely, sticking to that game plan for getting this done. She congratulates herself on her sense of restraint and maturity, thinking about how a

younger, less patient Jessica Darling might have resorted to huffing and puffing and blowing the whole thing out of proportion. But the mere fact that she is so proud of her progress points to just how tenuous her grip on maturity really is. Did Garanimals pat herself on the
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

back for not throwing a hissy fit? No. She just whipped out her cell phone and went into problem-solving mode without causing a ruckus or putting up a fuss.

Full-fledged grown-ups shouldn't celebrate themselves for resisting behavior unbecoming of a toddler. Jessica's getting there, but she hasn't arrived yet.

"I don't like Google," Sylvia says. "Call me old-fashioned, but I like getting all my answers the hard way, by racking my brain! I swear, my son can't think thirty seconds into the future. Everything is now now now, with all that texting and instant-messaging nonsense. I don't think his generation knows how to think for themselves in any way that makes sense."

"They can think for themselves, and they do," says Jessica. "They just choose not to share those thoughts with you."

Sylvia fixes Jessica with a skeptical look. "Are you a teacher or something?"

"More of an 'or something1 than a teacher," Jessica says. "But I hope to change that." She realizes she could end the conversation here, but she's compelled to push it further, to defend all the Girls who aren't here to defend themselves. "Texting makes sense to your son.

He doesn't want it to make sense to you. That's the whole

point. Didn't you pass coded notes in class when you were his age?"

"I did," Sylvia concedes, before regaining momentum, "because we wanted to keep things private. But that's not how it is nowadays, with everything on the Internet.

None of these kids want privacy. They're all addicted to attention. Nick dropped out of college and thinks he deserves to be famous for doing nothing. He didn't have a job until I forced him to get one. Argh!" Sylvia slaps a hand to her forehead.

Jessica's eyes spin around in their sockets. Sylvia's comments are indicative of precisely the kind of collective character assassination that gets the Girls all riled up. And no one fought back against the youth bashing more fiercely than Sunny.

Dearest Mom and Dad,

I'm writing this letter to apologize on behalf of the Look at Me! generation. We think we deserve the world's undivided attention. We demand it! While I have yours, I will use it to make a confession: You are right.

The world is passing through troubled times, and yet we think of nothing but ourselves. Today's teens love luxury. We want it all and we want it now and heaven help you if you don't give it to us. We are the biggest culprits in this culture of excess, the most fickle consumers, the biggest contributors to the global garbage pileup resulting from our disposable society.

We have bad manners, contempt for authority, and show disrespect to our elders. We contradict our parents, chatter before company, and are tyrants over our

teachers. We have no reverence for parents or old age. We talk as if we know everything, and the wisdom of our elders is passed off as foolishness. I can only speak for myself when I promise: No more!

I understand why you see no hope for a future dependent on the frivolous youth of today, for we are reckless beyond words. When you were young, you were taught
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

to be discreet and respectful of elders, but teens today are exceedingly wiseassed and incapable of showing restraint. As a girl, I offer an extra apology for being forward, immodest, and unladylike in speech, behavior, and dress.

By the way, this letter is a plagiarized mash-up of quotes attributed to Plato, Peter the Hermit, Hesiod, and vintage Dear Abby that I found on the Internet. So, urn, I guess my generation isn't any more spoiled, entitled, or narcissistic than teens who lived hundreds or thousands of years ago ... or those who grew up in the 1960s and 70s, for that matter, LIKE YOU.

Your daughter,

Sunny

P.S. This cut-and-paste approach is intentionally ironic. Thank you.

Jessica's eye roll, as fantastically executed as it was, barely registers with Sylvia. As an overworked mother of a bitter son not much younger than Jessica, she has developed a high tolerance for parental disdain as a means of survival.

"We can put you on a flight that leaves tomorrow morning at nine A.M., connects in Miami, and gets you into Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, at one P.M."

Jessica is already shaking her head in protest. 'The wedding is tomorrow morning," she pleads. "Is there any flight that can get me there tonight? I don't care how late."

"Ooooh!" exclaims Sylvia. "A destination wedding! How fun! Who's getting married? I love weddings! I wish my son would get married."

Jessica sighs before responding, wondering if she passed up her best opportunity by eschewing the

"Copacabana" segue. "Two of my oldest and dearest friends."

The description is inadequate. Bridget and Percy aren't merely her friends, they are the two people who make her "believe in love. Not just love but love in all its mutinous mutations over time." Over the course of their nine years together, Bridget and Percy have taunted lovesick cynics like Jessica by "serving as flesh-and-blood proof of the impossible: Two young people can fall in love, stay in love, and continue to choose loving each other over everything and everyone else ... and still be deliriously happy with that choice." (Again, all quoted passages come from Jessica's sermon.) It's the last part that seems to trip up other long-term couples, like her parents, who fight monotony by traveling all over the world, or her sister's husband, who fought monogamy by philandering all over the city until her sister finally came to her senses and dumped his trans-fatty ass for good.

"Well, the last flight out today leaves in three hours," Sylvia explains. "It connects in Miami and will get you to St. Thomas by ten P.M. tonight."

Jessica flexes and poses like a victorious prizefighter. "Yesssss!"

"It's overbooked," Sylvia buzzkills. "I'll confirm you for tomorrow's flight, but you could try standby for the one that leaves today."