Airplane Rides (7 page)

“Condemned to the memory of one dance?”

“Sorry, two dances is a relationship.”

I protested with only my expression.

“Of course it does, on the second date we can reflect on the
first.  History.”

“But we already have history.”

“Not the kind that I would build a relationship on.”

“My immense loss.”

“You’ll get through it.”

We were silent for a while and I contained my thoughts not
risking what was left of the one dance I had been granted.

“Your house seems very lonely.”

“Thank you.  I was going for lonely.”

“Sorry.”

“The truth is there is nothing to miss.  It makes things much
simpler.”

“A real live cowboy.”

“Our only dance, and you insist on taunting me.”

“Oh, my dark friend in his empty house has feelings.”

She reached forward with her forefinger gently pulling forward
my lower lip and let it rest on my upper into a pout, which I quickly dismissed
with a swipe of my tongue.

It was time to check out of the conversation, and I began to
get up.

“Too close for comfort?” she asked.

“I am getting a glass of water.  Would you like one?”

“You stay here and I’ll go,” she replied lifting her naked body
from the bed and stretching to full height in front of me.

It was the first time I had the perspective to see all of her
at once.  She was flawless.

Leela disappeared into the kitchen.  I could hear her search
through the cabinets and remove the glass bottle of still water from the
refrigerator.   She returned with two glasses, climbed back into my bed and
propped herself with pillows against the headboard.  I finished the water in a
single draw, cooling the inside of my mouth still warm with her taste.

“You never talk about yourself,” she stated.

“That’s not true, I just told you what I wanted to do to you.”

“Cute, but I really don’t know anything about you other than
you show up every once in a while.”

“That’s not enough?”

Leela shifted her position and draped her legs across my torso,
locking me down from escape.

“Do you have family?”

“Like a mother and father?”

“I need to define family?”

“I have a mother and father.”

“Very funny.  Are they both alive?”

“Yes.”

“Still together?”

“Not even close.”

“Bad divorce?”

“I’m surprised they didn’t try to set each other on fire.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding like she meant it.

“Don’t be, their not.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“I do.”

“I have all night.”

“Two sisters.”

“Did they deal as well as you?”

“No, they’re really pissed off.”

“Do you talk to them often?”

“Hardly ever.”

“And why is that?”

“I suppose because I don’t have the answers to their
questions.”

“Sometimes it’s just about listening.”

“I know all about listening.”

“You do?”

“Listening is my specialty.”

“I don’t think it counts if it is to avoid talking.”

Leela shifted her position and pulled the comforter across her
chest, making it clear that the conversation was just beginning.

“Ever been in a relationship?”

“Besides this one?”

“Take your time.”

“I have.”

“And?”

“It ended, They all did.”

“How many were there?”

“How do you define relationship?”

“Someone you really cared about.”

“I always cared.”

“Why don’t I believe that?  All the women I have watched you
cart home, and you’re telling me you cared about them.”

“You said relationships, not distractions.”

“Why did they always end?”

“I guess because it was time for me to go somewhere else.”

“And whose choice was that.”

“It isn’t always that simple.”

“It isn’t always that complicated.”

“Is this an intimacy problem or do you just not respect women?”

“You’re way off.  I love women.”

“Love them ‘conquer’ or love them ‘adore’?”

“It’s not conquer but adore sounds too obsessive.”

“Then why all the conquests?”

“I don’t think of them that way.”

“I know, distractions.  Have you ever been in love?”

“I have.”

“Do you wish things turned out differently?”

“If they did, I might not have met you.”

“Nice try.  So is my dark friend my heartbroken friend?”

“I’m Ok..”

Leela took a long sip of water and unlocked me from beneath her
legs.

“So are you hopeless?”

“I ask myself that all the time.”

“Have an answer?”

“Sometimes I am without hope.”

“Why?”

“Minimal disappointment.”

“So you drown it out with distractions of strangers and an
endless stream of cynical sound bites.”

“What do you want me to admit, that I can’t deal or that I’m
some selfish and abusive coward who would rather swim in a glass of vodka than
look in the mirror?”

“Maybe.”

“Disappointment is an emotional charity for the gratification
of others, and I already gave at the office.”

“Angry seems to run in your family.”

“That’s not fair. You asked.”

Leela climbed from my bed and began the search for her clothes
in the darkness, putting on each item as it was found and identified.

“Finding me hopeless and worthy of solitude?” I asked softly.

She continued to get dressed without responding.

“Realize I’m heartless?”

Leela paused to take her last look, and bent down to give me a
small kiss on the forehead.

“I know you have a heart.”

“You do?”

“Why else would I sing to you?”

UA Flight  #1382
Chicago (ORD) to New York (LGA)

A woman whom I had known only once, left me with a question
that lingered in my mind long after the image of her face or the sound of her
song had faded.  She pointed to my hopelessness as if it were an accessory to
the ensemble otherwise known as my existence?  It was a simple but ominous
accusation that began to burn its way into my daily conversations. In business
I retreated further into my exactness, providing little if any superfluous
information that might tip somebody off.  During more leisurely pursuits, I
eyed young women skeptically, wondering if they were attracted or simply
responding with the natural female instinct to save me.  It was more of a poker
game than ever before.

Beyond my interactive paranoia lay other repercussions of
hopelessness.  To be without hope is to lack all of its inspirations and
resultant passions.   For the first time in my life, my superhero senses
started to ebb.  There was a time I could smell a glass of wine being poured
three tables away – now I was lucky to recognize the label. Food began to lose
its succulence, the personal theme songs in my head went quiet, and the touch
of the women I seduced felt imperfectly dull.  I found myself testing the
limits of my vintage red Spider convertible around the turns of Benedict
Canyon, verbally emasculating men twice my size in the strip joints on Sunset,
and swimming past the point of retrieval from the lifeguard stands of Manhattan
Beach.  My hopeless nature, as suggested by a woman I would never see again,
was beginning to detract from my attention to consequence.

Ironically, I was making more money than ever – apparently
hopelessness was profitable, or perhaps I had simply found certain efficiencies
in losing the friction of optimism.  When you aren’t hoping for the way things
might be, you are either dealing with how they are or wishing they had been
different. The latter, for me, was not a consideration for obvious reasons,
thus leaving me with a lot of time on my hands for the reality of what was. 
Noticeably absent the capacity for hope, people stopped suggesting I should,
and in business that equated to them not wasting my time.  Fine by me.  Deal
after deal, city after city, the endurance race between the aggregation of
wealth and the loss of everything else was neck and neck and entering the final
stretch under a cold mist that had settled over the city of Chicago.

I was eighteen-stories high, looking down at the waterlogged
streets from a conference room window and awaiting the return of a real estate
owner named Martin Bowman.  With me was his lawyer, whose name I never bothered
to register.  I was there to finance a building Martin owned that was fully
leased to General Motors and used as a facility for the development of concept
cars. The loan would amount to approximately $25 million, on which my firm
would make a neat little profit of approximately $875,000.  Not bad for the sum
total of 50 hours work – but hey, that’s what being a real estate investment banker
is all about, getting paid ridiculous amounts of money to take risk with other
people’s cash.  The issue on Martin’s deal was a simple one often faced in
financing commercial real estate – how in the world would Martin pay back the
$25 million should GM decide to vacate the building?  The solution was to
require Martin to fund an escrow account that could be used to make mortgage
payments while a new tenant was signed up should the unthinkable occur.

It was a simple negotiation.  I wanted the amount of that
escrow as high as possible, and Martin’s goal was to keep it as low as
possible.  Circumstances, however, were in my favor, as Martin was short of
time on multiple fronts.  His existing financing on the building was supposed
to be retired in less than a month.   Despite this, he had the good sense to
continue negotiating, even though I had made it very clear that I was not
missing my afternoon flight to New York.  Further complicating matters,
Martin’s indulgence of steak and eggs and onions, apparently the Chicago
breakfast of champions, had betrayed him, requiring him to make a dash for the
bathroom every fifteen minutes or so.  While I was respectful enough not to
laugh out loud, I was perfectly willing to use all of these factors to my
advantage.

“I am sure Martin will be right back,” offered the nervous
attorney.

“I’m sorry he doesn’t feel well.”

“His stomach hasn’t been right all morning.”

“Well, we are going to need to wrap this up. I’m running out of
time.”

“So if GM extends for another ten years, you will release the
escrow?” he asked, trying to make some progress in his client’s absence.

“Ten years beyond the existing term.”

“That means you have a seventeen year lease.  Not much risk in
that.”

“Then you lend him the $25 million and I’ll make my plane.”

Martin reentered the room. The middle-aged, overweight man’s
face was red with embarrassment, and his brow lined with beads of perspiration.

“I apologize.  Where are we?”

“We need to agree on the final terms of the escrow account. How
much and under what circumstances it gets released,” his counsel informed him.

“I don’t see why it’s an issue. If GM leaves, I will continue
to pay the loan and find a new tenant just like I found GM.  You’ve seen my
balance sheet. Paying the loan is not a problem.”

“I don’t control the size of your balance sheet or the
checkbook that goes along with it. I have the right to take control of the
property and any escrows that we establish.  Without those things in place, I
cannot complete this transaction.”

Martin was again shifting in his seat and I knew another
bathroom run was only moments away.

“Fine. How much?”

“Two million dollars escrowed at closing. Stays there until GM
extends or until the building is released to another comparable tenant.”

“You know that’s more than needed,” interjected the lawyer.

“What I know is that it is a matter of opinion and I have
stated mine.”

Martin stood and started moving towards the door.

“I’m sorry, I need to break again.”

“Martin, while I am sorry you are not feeling well, I do need
to catch my plane. Decide.”

Martin shifted his eyes to his counsel who offered no support
and then returned for one last look for a bluff on my part.

“Fine.”

“Feel better,” I said to his back as he hurried from the room.

“Be prepared to close on Tuesday,” I instructed the lawyer
before heading off to my next destination.

Down at street level I waited what seemed an eternity for a
sedan that had been scheduled to drive me to O’Hare.  Mid-block on LaSalle
Street, I eyed the passing taxicabs through my frosted sunglasses and
contemplated abandoning my reservation for less luxurious transport.  I
shivered beneath my wool overcoat, and I could feel the damp chill of the
street soaking through my leather soles.  I could hear church bells ringing in
the background, and from a bakery on the opposite side of the street, the
welcome smell of fresh bread filled the air.  I considered making the dash
across for a cup of coffee to warm my hands on the ride, but the river of slush
that filled the street looked too difficult to navigate.  I ignored a white
stretch limousine that stopped in front of me and looked for another landing
spot for the black town car I was expecting.  After another few minutes, the
driver of the stretch reached across the front passenger seat and propped a
sign in the window on which my last name was scrawled in thick black magic
marker.  I displaced my irritation with a sigh, tapped on the window and headed
towards the rear of the car where the driver rushed around to meet me.  He
greeted me with a quick “sir.”

“O’Hare, ” I instructed, not taking any chances.

Without response the driver opened the door and took my bag,
stowing us each into our respective positions before climbing back in and
speeding off to our destination.

I had started to thaw out by the time we reached the airport,
but my body was still moving slowly.  The lobby in front of the ticket counter
was strangely quiet, and I headed through security and up to the gate,
disappearing into the blue-gray depths of the tremendous steel building.  The
plane had already been boarded, and I hurried the last few yards, trying to
create the illusion that at least I was making an effort to be on time. I had
trouble removing my identification from my wallet for presentation to the gate
attendant because my fingers were too numb to differentiate between the edges
of my credit cards and that of my driver’s license. I smiled humbly, feeling
uncharacteristically spastic.

“I’m sorry. My fingers are still a bit frozen,” I explained to
the silver-haired attendant who waited patiently.

She smiled, reached across the countertop and wrapped her hands
around mine, rubbing them maternally in a quick warming motion.  Surprised by
the physical extension that violated my wallet’s personal space, I shot her a
look but resisted the urge to pull my hands away.  The older woman sensed my
discomfort but only held on firmer.

“They are cold!” she agreed. “We’ll wrap you in a blanket on
board.”

“You’re very kind,” I said, handing her my license, which I had
finally pulled loose.

“I’m sure you would do the same for me.”

I wondered if I would.

After a few taps at the keyboard that was hidden behind the
counter, she glanced up and smiled at me as if she had pulled some strings to
make sure the airplane didn’t leave without me.

“We’re ready to depart so go ahead on,” she said instructively,
returning my license and a first class boarding pass, and motioning towards the
jetway entrance with her hand.

Through the large glass windows overlooking the tarmac I could
see the fog descending, obscuring from view the outer edges of the runway. I
hesitated, doubtful the plane would be permitted to take off.

“We definitely going?” I asked the attendant who had followed
me over to close down the station.

“Believe it or not.”

She tore off the stub and handed it back as if it might help
convince me to move forward.

“What about the fog?”

“Don’t worry about the fog. The pilot knows the way,” she
responded sounding amused, patting me gently on the shoulder and nudging me in
the direction of the doorway.  “Enjoy the flight,” she called from behind me
finishing with my name in an eerily familiar tone.

I made my way onto the aircraft and found my seat next to a
Japanese-American man. He wore dark green trousers and a cream-colored polo
shirt that accentuated the richness of his reddish brown skin. He looked like
he was circling his late forties, but it was difficult to be more precise
because his eyes were closed and his head tilted against the window.   I left
him to his rest, not looking for conversation and more interested in shaking
the lingering chill that slowed my limbs and clouded my brain.  Through the
pushback, the de-icing and the takeoff, the man remained silent and apparently
asleep.

Over the next twenty minutes, the flight attendant occupied me
with coffee and mixed nuts arranged neatly on the wide armrest between us. I
began to feel like myself again as the hot coffee ran through my veins and I
worked my jaw muscles on the cashews. My seatmate began to stir and soon opened
his eyes, treating me to a wide yawn and extended stretch.

“Hello,” he said in a friendly voice, blinking several times as
though to clear the cobwebs from his eyelids.

I returned the greeting with a simple nod, removing my coffee
cup from the armrest to avoid the possibility that he was unaware of its
location.  He followed the move with his eyes and paused when he noticed the
two ceramic nut bowls.

“I saved one for you,” I said, motioning to the full bowl with
my coffee cup.

“How very kind,” the man replied with a chuckle.

One by one he lifted the nuts from the bowl with his forefinger
and thumb, placing them meticulously in the center of his mouth.

“Do you live in New York City?” he asked me in between nibbles.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“I suppose I haven’t thought about it in a while.”

“I live in Los Angeles,” the man offered.

“Well, do you enjoy living there?”

The man paused and looked me over for a few moments.

“Will it be too cold to walk in Central Park?” he asked, giving
me a second chance to converse with him politely.

Again I was tempted to deliver a wise crack, but a force higher
than my self-serving tendencies caused me to hold back.  I knew instinctively
that I was missing something, a recognition that I couldn’t place.  I looked
the man over cautiously, expecting a delayed realization, but came up empty.

“I don’t think so.”

The man smiled and nodded approvingly at my elected politeness.

“I have always wanted to walk through Central Park,” he said
through his grin.

“First time in New York?” I asked, as though it were some place
that traveled with me.

“Yes.”

“How long will you be in town?”

“Unclear,” the man replied.

“Well then you should have plenty of time.  Are you here on
business?”

I was still waiting for my brain to completely thaw and for
whatever it was that I had sensed to click into view.

“You could say that.”

“Going to cause a little trouble?” I asked with a man-to-man
smile.

“Let’s hope not.”

The man shifted his position to face me and put his back to the
wall of the aircraft.  The base of his neck was centered in the window and the
sunlight streamed in from behind him illuminating the edges of his head.