Airplane Rides (9 page)

When we finally arrived at the spot where Daniel had been
standing, I got out of the car and looked for him in both directions.  A
traffic cop gave my driver the eye, pushing us to move on.

“Just give me a minute,” I shouted respectfully across the hood
of the Cadillac.

“Move it or I tow it,” responded the officer.

I thought to explain but knew it was futile.  I gave a quick
last look around to confirm that Daniel had disappeared and I got back into the
car.

Months later, I was eating dinner at a quiet table for one at
the Hudson River Club. Night had fallen on the empty boat slips in the basin of
the Manhattan Yacht Club. It was early and I was enjoying the solitude and the
last of my cabernet when my cell phone shattered the moment.  I pulled the
phone from my breast pocket and with it Daniel’s business card, which I had
inadvertently tucked away several months before. I let the incoming call go
into voice mail while weighing my aversion to the intrusion and the importance
of knowing his decision.  Swallowing my final sip, I dialed his number and
unintentionally glanced skyward as I hit “send.”

“Hello?” he answered with his gentle voice.

“Is this Daniel?”

”Yes.”

“Did you enjoy walking in Central Park?”

After a long pause I heard him exhale with recognition.

“I did.”

“I’m glad.  Everyone needs a walk though the park once in
awhile.”

I could hear Daniel’s warm chuckle on the other end of the
line.

“It was good advice.  How are you?”

“Better,” I replied honestly.

“I knew there was a prayer,” he stated proudly.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Again I heard his patient laugh in the distance.

“You’re checking up on me.”

“So, if I need to find you, this number is good?” I asked,
ignoring his statement.

“Yes,” he replied. “This number will be fine.”

AA Flight #1409
Dallas (DFW) to Los Angeles (LAX)

We Americans are fascinated by infidelity. We can’t get enough
of who cheated on whom, with whom and where.  We are perversely mesmerized by
the accounts of how the newest member of the adultery club was exposed,
humiliated and branded with a scarlet tattoo.  We want the details on the fallout,
and rely on people like Barbara Walters and Larry King to ask the wronged
partner if it hurt and, if so, how bad.  The driving factor behind this
fascination is the simple reality that infidelity is an offense everyone is
capable of. Most will claim otherwise, but it is very natural and
understandable, because sex with a new person has a powerful allure.  I
remember a film in which a woman confesses to her husband, that she fantasized
about abandoning him and their children to pursue a sexual encounter with a
military officer who she had seen but never spoken with.  The film alternated
between the confession and images of the fantasy; the handsome stranger wrapped
in her long legs, her head thrown back, her beautiful engorged lips gasping for
air. It was the kind of sex that only Hollywood can deliver and as much as we
judged her willingness to abandon her family, on some dark level we understood.

In the air, people often tell me of their infidelities,
sometimes in an outright confession, sometimes in fewer words.  One with the
fascinated, I always take the time to listen.  Occasionally, I come across
someone teetering on the fine line of “disturbing their universe,” stirred by
an innocent half kiss from a family friend or the inadvertent but recurring brush
from a colleague.  They spend hours evaluating the possible interpretations,
contemplating the undertones.  They anxiously await the next encounter, if only
for a naive illusion of closure.   The opportunist in me finds these women
dancing on the edges of their envelopes the most exciting; their monogamous
innocence there for the taking, the rush of tempting them to jump off their
ledge of indecision and into an irreversible secret almost impossible to
resist.

On a reassuringly sunny Tuesday, I boarded a Boeing 757 at
Dallas Fort Worth International Airport destined for Los Angeles, my last stop
on a three-city road show.  I had hosted a late afternoon cocktail party the
day before in Atlanta, immediately after which I caught a 6:35 flight to Dallas
in time to meet a few of the city’s larger hitters for drinks at the Crescent
Court Hotel. Cocktails at the Crescent Court were predictably followed by a
more private reception at Cabaret Royal, one of Dallas’s famous gentlemen’s
clubs. Despite the late night escapades, I had delivered a breakfast
presentation without showing signs of fatigue and was continuing on to Los
Angeles to finish my effort at another cocktail event that evening.

I was in relatively good shape for road show duty, as I had
kept alcohol consumption to a minimum the evening before.  In a room of red
neon and pink velvet couches, the most beautiful women in all creation danced
their heartbreaking dances and caressed our vanity.  They reminded us that we
were warriors and they did it all in three minutes and for only twenty
dollars.  Such events had unfortunately grown old for me, and I had long since
stopped asking the question “What’s a nice girl like you…” because I had
learned that the answer is “for two thousand dollars a night.”  It had been
equally long since I had enjoyed the dance of some young maiden while she
whispered tales of the forbidden and secret treasures only available in the VIP
room.  Instead, my role was limited to host, wad of cash in hand, selecting
dancers and sponsoring their performances for the men in my crosshairs.

Married men enjoyed these excursions the most, enthusiastically
following their instincts in the semi-acceptable forum.  Sober and at work, I
would watch them from the sidelines, making sure their glasses were full and
their laps were warm. Sometimes the dancers would smile at me, one predator to
another, like partners in crime.  But I had no partners, and I was swift to
steer my guests clear of the multiple dance scams or from getting suckered into
purchasing four hundred dollar bottles of champagne.  Ever the gluttons for
relationships, married men tended to develop a favorite dancer, keeping her
around for the duration of the evening and making their bid for a “private
show” back at the hotel.  I had witnessed the pattern a hundred times,
confirming for me again and again that each of them would cross the line into
infidelity given the chance, every single one of them.  Like hyenas on an
incapacitated zebra, the dancers were quick to spot their type and would string
them along, dance after dance into the thousands of dollars.  Betrayed by their
egos, the men believed that they were somehow special. In the end, I would
guide them home, broke, drunk and slurring their affections for the women whose
real names they didn’t know.

For sport, I enjoyed spotting the real players on the circuit
and that evening had noticed a dark brunette named Rachael circling the floor. 
She stopped by to show me her smile and offer her services.

“How much?”

“One song is twenty dollars,” she replied, draping herself
across my lap and interlacing her fingers behind my neck.

“I’m not asking for a dance,” I informed her, holding the
stare.

She eyed me carefully.

“You a police officer?”

“Do I look like a police officer?”

“Where are you from?”

“New York.”

“Let me see your driver’s license.”

From my suit breast pocket I pulled my wallet and extracted my
license, holding it out for her to see.

“I don’t really do that…”

“But in this case…”

She paused cautiously.

“Fifteen hundred and I can meet you after work. Where are you
staying?”

I smiled, finding my prostitute radar perversely amusing.  Now
that’s a skill they should teach the boy scouts; start a campfire with two
sticks - get a little brass pin, pick out the hooker posing as the Accounting
Director’s girlfriend at the company Christmas party – get another pin.

“It’s a bit late for me, but I’ll tell you what.  I’ll pay you
a hundred dollars to answer one question honestly.”

“What’s the question?”

I pulled a crisp one hundred dollar bill from my wallet and
returned it to my pocket.

“Why do men pay money to have sex with you?”

“I told you, it’s not like I…”

“But on those very rare occasions.”

Rachael’s salesman smile disappeared and she took the bill from
my hand.

“As fabulous as I am in that regard, it’s really because they
thrive on the excitement.”

I nodded to confirm my satisfaction with her answer.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“A deal’s a deal. Got any more questions?”

“No more questions, but thank you.”

Rachael’s smile returned, she kissed me gently on the cheek and
returned to her rounds.

I took my aisle seat in first class, handed my coat to the
flight attendant and pulled my shirt out slightly so it wouldn’t be wrinkled
when I arrived in LA. I was happy for a few hours of solitude before my next
performance.  Overestimating my energy, I took out my cell phone and
contemplated a last minute phone call to an old girlfriend, thinking it might
be nice to have someone waiting for me at the hotel when I returned, but before
I could dial, my seatmate arrived and the looks of her changed my plan.  I
stood to let her pass and used the opportunity to measure her at a forever
five-foot-ten, supplemented by modest black heels. She had a healthy tan and
dark brown hair cut short to reveal a carat diamond stud in each earlobe.  In
beautiful contrast with her otherwise dark features, and hidden behind stylish
black rectangular glasses, she had inviting eyes that matched perfectly with
the Dallas sky.

She said hello in a friendly voice while I admired the black
Chanel skirt suit that hugged her athletic physique.  Inconspicuously, my eyes
trailed down her body, beginning at her neck and ending at her well-defined
calf muscles that had a Stairmaster certification tattooed just above her
ankle.  When she turned to sit, my eyes were waiting for hers.  My silent gaze
informed her of my intentions.  She smiled in response, allowing me to believe
that her door was open.

“I love your glasses,” I said as I sat back down.

“Thank you,” she replied with delight. “I just bought them.”

“An excellent choice, they’re perfect on you. Heading home?”

“No, this is home.  I have a meeting in LA tomorrow.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a sales rep, I sell telephone systems.”

“Is that exciting?”

“Not really,” she said with amusement.

“Where do you stay when you’re in town?”

“This time I’m staying at the Four Seasons.  A special treat.”

“Let’s hope so,” I thought.

Her smile was beautiful, framed by naturally full lips and
accompanied by a striking jaw line.  Again she caught me looking at her, face
to face, taking in each of her attributes, individually none perfect, but
together breathtaking.

“I’m sorry for offending you this early in our conversation,
but may I ask how old you are?”

She was surprised by the question, but appeared to forgive me.

“How old do you think I am?” she returned playfully.

“I guess slightly older, but you look thirty-three, thirty-four
at best.”

“I’m thirty-nine,” she said with honest pride.

I smiled and shook my head in agreement to let her know that I
believed her.

“Well, time has been very kind to you and I can’t imagine not
having told you so.”

She smiled at me in sincere appreciation and lifted her left
hand into view.

“You’re precious, but…” she said, waving her hand to be sure I
noticed the three carat oval-cut diamond perched high atop a fountain of
platinum.

“How very Texas,” I said, taking her hand gently by the fingers
and admiring the stone.  “Is your husband this big as well?”

She laughed and let me hold her hand a little longer than I
needed to.

“He is, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she replied.

“Don’t be so sure if he knew what I was thinking.”

“And you work fast!” she added.

“Well, men are faster than women.”

“How unfortunately true!”

“Not what I was referring to, but we’ll get back to that.  Men
are faster in that they know much sooner whether or not they would engage in
sexual relations with a woman.”

“As opposed to a woman knowing if she would sleep with a man?”

“Exactly,” I answered, forcing her to ask.

She pursed her lips realizing I had put her into “check.”

“So how long does it take?”

“About thirty seconds,” I responded.

“Really?” she replied with surprise, and paused to think out
the obvious.

“So you already know if you would sleep with me?”

“I do.”

The woman burst out laughing and might have continued on for
several more seconds had we not been interrupted by the flight attendant who
came by to buckle us in for takeoff.  High into the heavens we climbed, leaving
behind Dallas, thoughts of my clients, and the perfume of the exotic dancers.

“So how long do you think it takes women?” she asked, after the
roar of the jets quieted down.

“Less time than they will admit,” I replied slyly. “How long do
you think it takes?”

She looked to the ceiling of the cabin for the answer.

“At least a full date, so… I say three hours,” she replied.

“Like I said…”

“Fine. But how could you know so quickly?  You don’t even know
my name.”

“No, but what I do know is very important,” I replied.

“For instance?”

“I know that you enjoy being out of town, that you find it
exciting.”

“How do you know that?” she asked, as though I had just raised
her skirt an inch.

“I just know.”

“What else?”

“I know that you enjoy the fact that I noticed you, that I
complimented your glasses and told you that you were beautiful.”

“That’s too easy, what woman wouldn’t?”

Once again, we were interrupted by the flight attendant, who
had appeared to take drink orders.

“I’ll have a glass of the merlot,” said the woman, after a
quick look at the beverage menu.

“Water for me, no ice,” I stated.

“You’re not joining me, you asked my age, and you haven’t
introduced yourself! I am inclined to believe you are a bit rude,” she said in
jest.

“How about I just call you Dallas?” I replied, ignoring the
other aspects of her statement.

“My husband called me that when we first met,” she informed me.

“What are the chances?” I asked myself, shaking my head. “Not
him again?” I replied, going for the easy laugh.  “Why did he call you Dallas?”

“I guess because he’s originally from Jacksonville,” she
replied.

“Well that makes perfect sense.”

“Why do you want to call me Dallas?”

“So that you never have to worry that I might try to find you.”

Dallas shifted in her seat, understanding the implications of
my statement.

“You are very persistent, but I told you I’m married,” she
stated without taking offense.

I sat there looking at her blankly.

“Happily married, with two kids,” she added, for extra support.

“Really?” I asked, sincerely intrigued mostly because I
believed her.

“Really.”

“And on all of these little trips to LA or wherever you go to
sell telephones, nothing ever happens?”

“Of course not!”

“Don’t say of course not like I’m asking you if you kill baby
seals! The rest of the world is something less than monogamous.”

“That may be true, but I’m not answering for the rest of the
world.”