Airplane Rides (10 page)

“Fair enough, but why?”

Dallas sat back pretending to interpret the question but
actually buying time to respond.

“Because I made a vow.”

On the odd chance that she was being truthful, it was my
obligation to respect the answer.

“How long have you been married?”

“Sixteen years.”

“And in that sixteen years, you never ventured outside your
marriage?”

“Never.”

“Has he?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How old are your kids?”

“Fourteen and twelve.”

“And even when your kids were little and taking all of your
time, he never went to Vegas to blow off steam?”

“Well I know he never went to Vegas, but the answer to your
question is that I don’t think he did.”

“So why do you think this is?  I know you are getting offers.”
I catered to her vanity with my question.

As she gauged her response, I watched a few of her protective
layers dissolve.

“I do get opportunities. Men talk to me, they always have.  And
there have been times…”

I noted that she enjoyed my pointing to her attractiveness and
waited patiently for her to continue.

“There have been times that I was attracted to someone…” she
trailed off again, vaguely protective.

“So what held you back?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought it would call into question
the value of the marriage I think I have.”

“Have you ever imagined another person while making love with
your husband?”

“I have,” she admitted with a blush.

“Have you ever had a flirtatious relationship with another man,
someone you worked with and knew if you weren’t married there might be
something there?”

“I have, but...”

“Did you ever confess your attraction to this person?” I asked
without giving her a chance to explain further.

“Never,” she replied firmly.

“So is imagining another man during sex or having a flirtatious
relationship cheating?”

“I don’t think it is.”

I paused in thought and sipped my water.

“Have any of your girlfriends had affairs?”

“Yes.”

“How did it begin?”

“Innocent flirting, I suppose,” she replied without much
resistance.

“And did you see it coming?”

“Yes, but there were also problems in the marriage.”

“Was your girlfriend not getting sex from her husband?”

“As well as other things.”

“Was it right for her to find sex and those other things with
another man?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “I suppose the correct thing to do
is either work it out or move on without any behind-the-scenes activity.  But
things aren’t always that clean cut.  Sometimes there are little reasons that
are bigger than a person’s desire to do what makes them happy.”

“Like say, children?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

“When your children have grown up safe and sound, will you be
more likely to take chances with your marriage?”

“I hope not, but I am sure it will certainly allow for a more
objective evaluation.”

“Because you find yourself attracted to other men?”

“Sure, but that’s natural,” she said defensively.

“Of course it is, just like sex itself.  All people are capable
of infidelity.  The question is when and why. Even for you.”

“So you are suggesting that it’s inevitable that I will cheat?”
she asked flatly.

“Not at all. You will decide to cheat mostly based on whether
or not you think you can get away with it,” I replied. “At least that’s the
case for most people. They put it out there as a morality issue, but really
they remain faithful out of fear of getting caught, plain and simple.”

The flight attendant returned to refill our glasses.

“I’ve had plenty of situations while out of town where there
was not a recognizable soul in two hundred and fifty miles,” she argued.

“There are a thousand ways to get caught, and half of them have
nothing to do with anyone recognizing you.” I replied.  “Most people give
themselves away because they want to get caught.”

“I don’t know if I agree with that,” Dallas replied.

“Believe it darlin’,” I said in my best Texas drawl. “A lot of
people either admit it or semi-intentionally do something to get caught just to
relieve themselves of the guilt.  Others do it to hurt someone back. It’s all
really very understandable.  So if you did let me take you out for drinks in
LA, back to your hotel room and out of that lovely outfit, my guess is your
biggest risk would be your own conscience.”

“You are dangerous.  Certainly a bigger risk than my
conscience.”

“So then you can keep a secret?”

“If the secret is you taking off my clothes, I am inclined to
think I might have to.”

After a moment of contemplating the suggestion and taking
another sip of wine, she spoke in a more serious tone.

“It’s kind of depressing, because I have always secretly taken
comfort in knowing that if I really needed to get it out of my system, I
could.  But you make it sound hopeless, like you can’t scratch the itch without
blowing up your life.”

“I don’t know that I would call it hopeless, certainly not if
it’s for the right reasons.”

“How can there ever be a right reason to cheat?”

“If it’s an exciting and pleasant distraction without emotional
or physical repercussions, what’s the problem?  It would be no different than a
really gratifying massage.”

“Easier said than done,” she stated.

“Perhaps.”

I was intentionally tracking her neckline with my eyes, aware
that she was allowing me do so.

“Have you ever been with a married woman?” she asked, trying to
break the mounting tension.

“I have,” I replied, offering nothing more.

“It wasn’t an issue for you?”

“The only issue for me was not getting caught by her
significantly larger husband.”

“And if we were to have an affair, it wouldn’t bother you that
I’m a wife and a mother?”

It was an important question, and I paused to think about my
response.

“I wouldn’t want you to do anything that would cause you a
problem.  If what you needed was an anonymous and safe temporary escape, that
might be something I would be a part of.”

“So the answer was yes,” she stated mischievously, referring to
my thirty-second decision.

“You already knew that.”

“It’s still fun to hear,” she replied.

“So you think people in both good and bad marriages cheat?” she
asked.

“I hope so, or else the great majority of marriages are bad,” I
replied.

“I don’t believe that many people are fooling around,” she
argued.

“Perhaps my sampling is a bit skewed,” I conceded.

“That’s a nice way of saying you’re hanging out with the wrong
people.”

“Maybe.  But I still think the number is still pretty high.”

“Do you think we’re supposed to be with only one person?”

“I think it’s unnatural, particularly for men.”

“So it’s a cultural imposition?”

“Yes.”

“And you think this is mostly for men?”

”Generally. I think women are intended to be bisexual. But
that’s just me.”

“I bet it is,” she replied, laughing at the hypothesis.

“So where’s the line?” she asked.

Dallas was leaning forward, engaged eye-to-eye and gently
biting her lower lip.  I wondered if it was interest in my words or my pursuit.

“I think that a random interlude with no emotional connection
is for the most part harmless and maybe even healthy.”

“Like the full-service massage.”

“Exactly,” I replied, rewarding her with a rub of her hand for
paying attention.

“What about a recurring affair?” she asked.

“Well, on some level it doesn’t even matter if the people are
physically engaged if a relationship has developed. Say two co-workers
occasionally find time to lunch together. Maybe there’s an attraction, maybe
they begin to confide in each other about the deficiencies in their marriages.
They lie in bed at night with their respective spouses, fantasizing about what
it would be like had they chosen each other instead.

This is the kind of cheating that is only an office Christmas
party away from tragedy.”

“Tragedy?”

“Tragic because true intimacy is impossible when you’re plagued
by worry that your two worlds will collide.”

“This whole conversation is tragic,” she stated.

“Why?”

“Because it sounds so hopeless.”

“But you already said you have a good marriage.”

“I do, but…”

“Then enjoy it for what it is and don’t beat yourself up if you
ever happen to veer off course for an evening,” I said.  “Keep it to yourself
and head on back to the ranch.”

The captain came on to inform us we were landing, and the
flight attendant collected our glasses.

“Are you suggesting that tonight is that evening?” she asked
directly.

“That’s not for me to decide. All I know is that your three
hours are up.”

I had finished my cocktail reception obligations, graciously
refused several last-minute dinner invitations and switched my hotel
reservation from the Peninsula to the Four Seasons in the car ride over. I had
been waiting in a far corner chair in the lounge for about an hour, nursing a
Stolichnaya and splitting my time between keeping watch for Dallas and spying
on a Hollywood has-been who was drinking himself into the stratosphere from a
couch in the adjacent sitting area.  It was already 8:45pm, and I was betting
that she had taken dinner on Central time, and would finish with a nightcap in
the irresistibly famous bar.

As predicted, at 8:55pm Dallas entered alone, still wearing the
black Chanel suit, and looking even more beautiful than I had remembered.  Just
watching her traverse the room was worth having skipped dinner.  She went
directly to an open spot at the bar and ordered.  I sat back and gave her a
moment to settle in.

“What a pleasant coincidence,” I said to myself.  It would have
been nice had I planted the seed on the airplane, but there was no sense in
being too hard on myself, as it had been a very busy day.

As I lifted myself from the chair, I noticed a tall “Tom
Selleck” type slithering directly towards her.  I waited to see the reaction
and held my breath as she met him with a kiss on the cheek that shot a torpedo
through the hull of my plan.  I sat back and watched the bartender slide two
glasses of red wine across the bar, confirming for me that she had been
expecting him.  For over an hour, I watched her patiently from afar, running my
finger around the rim of my glass and sipping small mouthfuls of the vodka.  
As the minutes ebbed away, their body language began to flow into a continuous
rhythm of extended gestures and touches.  A second and then a third glass of
wine led to hand holding, whispers and private giggles.

A husband and wife team, in from Denver, took the couch to my
left and began scanning for celebrities.

“We saw Goldie Hawn in Brentwood this morning,” the wife
boasted.

“Well you’ll get plenty of that in here,” I replied.

“That’s what the bellman said.”

The husband caught sight of the inebriated actor and elbowed
his wife.

“God, he looks awful. Remember how adorable he was in that
movie…”

I tuned her out and contemplated sending an anonymous drink to
the aging actor.  It was a tough room and, always partial to the alcoholics, I
figured he could use a friend.

Dallas’s companion made his grand gesture towards the door at
10:17pm. She resisted at first, pulling back from his grasp and shaking her
head at his inappropriate proposition.  At 10:22 they took their last sips and
headed in my direction.  I beat them out the door without being noticed and
advanced to the patio.  From outside, I could see them make their way through
the foyer, past the center flower arrangement and over to the elevator lobby.
They held hands for a moment, his eyes asking for the answers to my questions.
Dallas looked on the edge of surrender, biting her lower lip in indecision just
as she had on the airplane. I could tell that her head was spinning from the
wine when she placed a steadying hand on the edge of the concierge desk. Tom
Selleck tried to push her off the fence with a last effort attempt to make her
laugh, while subconsciously twisting his wedding band.  The man and I waited
anxiously for her final decision, each for our own reasons. With her last ounce
of strength, Dallas reached forward and pulled him in for my kiss on the side
of his mouth and left him standing alone as she disappeared into the elevator.

AA Flight #268
Columbus (CMH) to New York (LGA)

It was a scorching summer day as I entered Port Columbus
International Airport in Columbus, Ohio a full three and a half hours earlier
than my flight was scheduled to depart.  I had arrived in town the night before
and planned on working through most of the day to complete negotiations on a
transaction that had been false-starting since early spring.  Things didn’t go
as I’d hoped, however, and the discussions went into a death spiral during
breakfast and soon thereafter could be heard splattering across the Columbus
countryside for miles around.  I picked myself up from the wreckage, and from a
good five feet out, tossed my deal file into the conference room trashcan to
send exactly the right message.  I then made a beeline to the airport in hopes
of finding an earlier flight back to New York.

The earlier flight turned out to be a beat-up 737 that had long
since been overbooked.  I explained my situation to the man at the ticket
counter, but somehow he did not understand my desire to avoid wasting another
three hours in Columbus, as he appeared destined for a considerably longer
sentence.  Eventually, the counter clerk turned me over to his manager, a rough
looking woman who quickly grew tired of dealing with me. She put me in first
position on the standby list, and had herself a good laugh when I inquired as
to the likelihood of an opening in first class.

“Quit while you’re ahead,” she recommended in a politely
threatening tone.

Frustrated, I continued on to the gate to see if I could better
my chances of getting a seat, even if it was in the tail cone.  I tried my
charm with the gate attendant, who was politely receptive but took offense when
I argued that her clock was slow, providing an unfair advantage to stragglers.

“Please wait to the side so I may assist ticketed passengers,”
she stated in as defensively firm a tone a five-foot-two woman could muster.

When she finally called up the standby list a full six minutes
late, she made good on my “advantaged” position and handed me a boarding pass.

“You made it!” she said with a revived cheer, as if I had won
the lottery.

Boarding the plane was a different issue.  I hadn’t seen the
coach section of an airplane in a decade, and it was a sight that made me
seriously contemplate walking back to Manhattan.  Even the aisle seemed smaller
as I worked my way to the rear of the plane in disbelief at how tightly the
people were packed in.  The air conditioning wasn’t on yet, and the interior of
the cabin was approaching ninety degrees and recycling air that was already
thick and stale.  My shirt was melting on my back, and my jacket was sticking
to each of the sweaty people I brushed against along the way.  In the
third-to-last row, I found the eighteen inches of hell that would be my prison
for the next hour and forty minutes.  It was a middle seat in a row of three. 
Miraculously, the aisle seat was still empty, and I planned on fighting for it
to the death the moment the boarding door closed.

The window seat was occupied by a teenage girl whom I guessed
to be about seventeen and doing her best to look older.  She was dressed head
to toe in what looked like a version of “Gothic” urban wear: worn black cargo
pants, black thick-heeled clogs and a black sleeveless sheer shirt, under which
was what looked like a black tank top. She had a dark barbed wire braid
tattooed around her lanky bicep, and her left ear was pierced with at least a
half dozen silver studs.  She had long, dyed jet-black hair tied back in a high
tight ponytail, short of a few strands of bleached blond that arched around the
sides of her face.  A softer black was her natural hair color, as it appeared
from her eyebrows, the left of which was pierced with a small silver loop. 
Like everyone else on the airplane, she was doing her best to stay cool,
fanning the tiny beads of perspiration that clung to her upper lip with the
flight safety guide.  She sat quietly without acknowledgement of my presence,
despite the fact that our bodies were touching at the elbows and knees.  I
might have thought her beautiful, as the structure of her face was refined and
her complexion flawless.  But everything about her was hard and forbidding¬ -
everything except for her blue-gray eyes that hid behind over-applied mascara,
and the reality that she was only a child.

With only moments to go before our scheduled departure, the
miracle ended and my aisle-side seatmate arrived.  He was a hearty looking man
in his early fifties with light blond hair neatly cut in barbershop fashion. 
His gentle demeanor overpowered his thick “hungry man” frame, however, much the
way even the biggest of Labradors always seem like puppies.  Dressed in a pair
of tan trousers, a white short sleeved button-up and a stainless steel Timex,
he looked like an aerospace engineer from the 1950s.  After placing a stuffed
red rope file in the luggage compartment above us, he took his seat and part of
mine.  I gladly surrendered the armrest in hope of engaging in as little
physical contact as possible.   He gave the girl and me a friendly “hello” and
then sat quietly with his thick fingers intertwined on his lap.  With a
harmless jolt, the airplane pushed back, rotated ninety degrees and headed out
towards the taxiway.  Six minutes later, the airplane was positioned at the
head of the runway.

“This is the part I don’t like.  If anyone wants to hold hands,
let me know,” he said with a chuckle, poking fun at the obvious contradiction
between his physical appearance and self-proclaimed cowardice.

I was too miserable to respond, but the girl forced an
admirably polite smile that was about as civilized as one might expect from a
teenager with an eyebrow ring. The man smiled back, amused and apparently
unbothered by the absence of volunteers.

“That’s OK, nobody ever takes me up on it,” he admitted with an
even wider grin.

Together, we sat alone in the vulnerable aeronautical moment.  
The jet engine roared as the plane lunged forward and slowly lifted into the
clear, hot Ohio sky.

When we reached cruising altitude, the service carts were
pushed down the aisles by flight attendants who appeared even more irritated
than the passengers. They went through their routine, flinging bags of
synthetic cheese pretzels and pouring plastic cups of soda.  With every motion,
they reminded their customers of their third class status.  The man became the
go-between, relaying a Diet Coke to the girl and a then a water, sans ice, to
me, all along trying to bring a touch more dignity to the process than the
flight attendant was willing to offer.  Carefully, with a napkin underneath, he
double handed the soda over my lap, making a goofy grimace at the possibility
of spilling it, which caused the girl to crack a smile.  He took me a little
more seriously, passing my drink without any additional drama, and for that I
let him keep my ration of pretzels.

The girl was looking out at the clouds, sipping her soda,
unaware that the man was taking an extra long glance across me at her.  His
lips moved as though he were trying to think up something to say to capitalize
on the momentum of her earlier smile, but came up empty.  I closed my eyes
tightly behind my glasses, trying to squeeze away the visual reality of my
circumstances.

“My name is Archer,” I heard him say, and felt him reach his
big arm across me to the girl.   I found my blood pressure increase slightly at
the thought of the old out-of-towner, looking to score a few miles with a girl
so obviously young.   I glanced down to confirm that I had noticed a wedding
band when he boarded.  It was there, simple, gold and two sizes too small.  She
was surprised by the extension but accepted the greeting with teenage cool and
a delicate shake.

“Candice,” she replied simply.

Both of them turned to me to join in the introductions.
Instead, I closed my eyes again, rested my head on the dirty seatback and tried
to imagine I was anywhere else.

“Visiting New York?” I heard Archer ask the young girl.

“Yeah,” replied Candice.

“First time?” he inquired, doing his best to be engaging.

I let out a sigh to signal my displeasure with their use of my
airspace, which neither of them translated.

“No, I was there with my family when I was little,” Candice
answered.

“Which was a month ago!” I wanted to say out loud.

“Did you go to the top of the Empire State Building?” Archer
asked with tourist enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” replied Candice casually, without elaborating on the
memory.

“So your folks letting you go it alone this time?” Archer
asked, raising my pedophile antenna even higher.

“Yeah,” Candice responded dryly.

“Staying with relatives?” Archer asked, continuing to prod into
the girl’s affairs.

I opened my eyes and shot him a glance to let him know I was
listening, just in case he was about to ask if she had remembered to pack her
nightie.  Archer ignored the look and waited for Candice’s response.

“I have a friend who lives in Manhattan.  I’ m staying there,”
replied Candice, as if she were testing the explanation for future use.

“Well, that works!” Archer stated with enthusiasm he could not
possibly have felt.

I couldn’t help but watch for Candice’s reaction, carefully
noting her discomfort with the topic from my central perch.  Archer noticed it
as well, and his otherwise welcoming eyes grew intensely sharp for a brief
instant.  I was intrigued by his approach, but remained concerned about his
intentions once inside Candice’s protective layers that he was so deliberately
peeling away.

“This friend someone from back home?” asked Archer, carefully
avoiding gender.

He was legging in, winning her confidence and trying not to
spook her in the process.

“Yeah,” Candice responded, exposing herself with a tiny smile.

“Where in Manhattan does your friend live?” Archer asked
tactfully.

I knew she was distracted by the same thought that made her
smile, and I waited for her to fall into the trap that Archer had set.

“He lives in the West Village,” she replied, answering the
question Archer had been so careful not to ask.

Her cheeks flushed with the realization that she had given away
her secret.

Archer was silently penetrating the folds of her armor and
manipulating her like the child she was.

Had I been in less painful accommodations, I might have been
willing to make the effort to tell her as much.

Archer took in the new information, processed it without
expression.

“Will you be finishing school in the city?” he asked, marking
her age with his question despite her fashion efforts to appear older.

“I’m taking the year to decide what I want to do,” replied
Candice, trying to sound convincing.

“Does your friend attend school?” inquired Archer.

Candice studied his face looking for signs of judgment while
deciding whether she wanted to tell the truth.

“He’s older,” answered Candice, hoping the explanation stuck.

“I see,” replied Archer.

“Do you live in New York?” asked Candice in a transparent
attempt to change the topic.

“No, I live in Ohio,” answered Archer patiently, as if even he
thought his origin obvious.

Candice shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with Archer’s
patience.

“Is this a business trip?” she asked nervously.

“I wish it were,” replied Archer earnestly.

Archer’s words caught my attention and set off an alarm in my
head.  I waited for Candice to, in her nervousness, ask my question.

“Why are you going?” the young girl asked, innocently immersed
in her own issues.

Archer looked into the young woman’s eyes for a long moment.
His eyes were heavy and sad, as if he had seen things we’d be better off not
knowing.  His expression had turned serious, making him look much older than
his years.  In that moment, I understood that he was deliberating his response
as though it carried larger consequences than those words already offered.

“I am here for a board meeting for a foundation that I chair,”
Archer stated clearly.

“What kind of foundation?” asked Candice.

“I had a son about your age who was killed by a drunk driver. I
created a foundation in his name that helps families who have experienced
similar losses,” Archer replied.

It sounded rehearsed, like the opening statement at an AA
meeting.  Archer waited quietly for a reaction from Candice, his expression
generously inviting her questions, despite the pain they might conjure for him.

“That must have been very hard,” she replied with a stammer.

“Yes it was, Candice.  It was very hard on our whole family,”
Archer replied, again demonstrating his graceful attention to others.

Candice was uncomfortably searching for something to fill the
silence that had fallen on their conversation.  Once again, Archer, in his
wisdom, came to her rescue by detailing the finer points of his family
portrait.  He had raised three children to the edge of adulthood, and he beamed
with pride as he said their names.  The name of the son who had been killed was
Bowen; a typical middle child personality, who had always taken a back seat to
the attention-getting antics of an older sister, Grace, and a younger brother,
Benjamin.  When Bowen was crushed to death at an intersection by a man rushing home
from happy hour, he got everyone’s attention.  Archer talked about his wife and
how the event had forever altered the once endlessly happy woman he had
married.  All the while Candice listened like a child paying careful attention
to her own father, and slowly the makeup and ornaments became less apparent.