How to Kill a Rock Star (45 page)

I rose, brushing crumbs from the back of the leather pants I’d purchased for the flight. Then I put on my imaginary blinker, merged into the line of passengers, and before I knew it I’d handed over my boarding pass, shown my passport to the woman at the gate, and was making my way down a telescope-shaped tunnel.

The closer I got to the plane, the colder the air became.

There was a loud sucking noise coming from the engines. I was shivering and sweating, something I didn’t know a body could do at the same time.

And the man behind me was carrying a briefcase that kept banging into the back of my legs.

I stopped and spun around. “Two foot rule,” I said, trying not to throw up.

“Sorry?” The man had an accent. Norwegian, or one of those other cold, blond countries.

“You’re invading my body bubble, and I real y need some space right now. How about taking a few steps back?” But he couldn’t. There were other passengers prodding the man to keep going. He had no choice but to push on, and I let myself get swept up in the horde, knowing that otherwise I’d never make it.

And then, just like that, I was on the plane.

It was big inside. An oversized waiting room.

The air in the cabin was stale and insipid, exactly like it had been on the Lear jet, and I couldn’t understand why, after decades of aviation, no one had figured out how to make a plane smel safe or pleasant.

I found my seat, which was considerably larger than the coach seats I could see behind me, and I immediately began the pre-takeoff checklist I’d prepared. First, safety issues: I stowed my carry-on, fastened my belt low and tight around my waist, made sure my seat was in its ful , upright position, double-checked that my tray table was secure in its compart-ment, and memorized the locations of the two nearest exits.

Al was good to go. And for what I knew would be a very short period of time, I felt ready. Not calm. Not comfortable. But more ready than I’d expected.

The problem was the passengers. There were dozens of them stil boarding, al in a row, like cows on their way to the slaughter. They moved close together with dumb cow looks on their faces, and couldn’t seem to find any space for their bags. They spent a lot of time standing around, opening and slamming the overhead bins. I was afraid al the slamming was going to damage the plane. I started sweating again.

A narrow-faced flight attendant humming “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” brought over a blanket and pil ow, a little ramekin of smoked almonds, and offered me a glass of either champagne or orange juice, neither of which I took. The flight attendant’s blouse advertised her as Samantha.

I asked Samantha if she was acquainted with the pilot and copilot.

“Yes,” Samantha said.

“To the best of your knowledge, are they heavy drinkers?” I was certain I had just made an enemy of Samantha.

“No, Miss—” Samantha perused the papers on her clip-board. “Caelum. I assure you they are not.” To ease my nerves, if that was possible, I reviewed a few of the facts I’d recently learned about the 767-400, mostly from the Boeing website, which meant it was probably prop-aganda, but it was al I had: The plane had never crashed.

Its safety record was impeccable. It sat approximately three hundred and seventy passengers, depending on its configu-ration. And it was the first plane to implement a vacuum waste system in the lavatory. This was a good thing, I guessed, but not real y going to come in handy in the event the plane went into a nosedive.

40With departure imminent, it was time for a weather check. Channel Seven had promised that the skies in the New York area would remain clear until the fol owing morning but, tragical y, two smal clouds were forming directly above the airport.

Things only got worse when the captain’s voice came blaring out of the ceiling. He introduced himself as James Morgan, and he sounded nice enough at first. But then he had to go and say he was anticipating a smooth ride once we got to our cruising altitude of
thirty-seven thousand feet
, and I could taste the bile.

I darted to the bathroom, pul ed my hair off my face, and threw up in the toilet. If nothing else, the experience demon-strated the merits of the vacuum waste system.

Moments later, there was a tap-tap on the door. A flight attendant who was not Samantha, but an older woman named Vicki, peeked in and said, “I’m sorry. I gather you’re under the weather, but we’re going to need you to sit down very soon.”

Vicki handed me a damp cloth, a disposable toothbrush, and a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash. After freshening up, I stepped out of the lavatory, and Vicki asked me if I was feeling better.

“I’m not a very frequent flier.”

“I know,” Vicki said, smiling brightly. “Your fiancé told me.”

Vicki said she thought it was sweet, the way Paul and I fel al over each other, kissing and laughing and crying like we hadn’t seen each other in months.

“But you real y need to sit down,” she told us.

I hadn’t recognized Paul right away. He’d been standing in the middle of the aisle when I rounded the corner, but I was looking to my seat and almost walked past him until I heard him say, “
There’s
my betrothed.” He had the green suit on, paired with a dress shirt and a hideous yel ow tie that was covered in tiny green golf clubs. He was attempting to look unlike a rock star—an attempt that wasn’t remotely successful. No matter how hard he tried, Paul would never be kempt enough to pul off the businessman vibe.

His hair was shorn. Or rather, it was in the early stages of growing back, and it was bleached a pale blond that clashed with his dark eyebrows and lashes. He was also wearing tortoise-colored glasses I was sure he didn’t actual y need, despite his drol claims to the contrary.

“Tel me you’re not going to look like this for the rest of our lives,” I said after we final y composed ourselves and sat.

“God, no. Do I look like a salesman, though? I told the stewardess I was a salesman from Peoria.”

“You look a little like that dead guy from Bananafish.

What do you sel ?”

He pointed at his tie. “Sporting goods. With an emphasis
40on high-end leisure activities.”

Paul took a glass of champagne from Samantha and I caught a glimpse of the new tattoo peeking out from under his cuff. I flipped his wrist and examined the art against my old wound.

“Cool, huh?” he said.

I was about to rest my hand on his chest and kiss him again, but the plane’s door shut with a bang that sounded violent and terminal and I screamed. “Please, Paul! Please don’t make me do this!”

He took my hand, leaned in, and whispered, “It’s probably a good idea if you stop cal ing me Paul.” The plane started moving in reverse and I felt like I was going to faint, which would have been a blessing.

“Inhale, exhale,” Paul reminded me. “We’re together, everything’s fine, and I love you.”

I pressed my forehead against the cold plastic window, imagining my mom doing the same thing years earlier.

“I love you too,” I told Paul.

“You’re breathing al wrong.”

He was right. I was taking in air in short, shal ow spurts like someone with emphysema.

“I have a confession,” he said.

“Right now?” I half-turned to see what he wanted.

“My dick is hard.”

I elbowed him and then went back to looking out my portal. At the same time, I extended my arm behind me so that I could hold his hand.

“I think it’s those goddamn pants you’re wearing.”

“Not now, Paul. I mean it.”

“Stop cal ing me Paul.”

Then the captain said, “Flight attendants please prepare for takeoff,” and I knew there was no turning back. I dug my nails into Paul’s palm until he winced. “You hate me, don’t you? That’s why you’re making me do this. Pure hatred.”
“I just told you I love you. What do you want, a formal goddamn decree?” He made me turn and look at him. “Hey,” he said, his eyes sharp and sincere. “I’m doing this because I love you. I want you to be free.”

I was about to lean over and kiss him once more, but the plane turned onto the runway and I had to refocus on my breathing.

Paul grabbed a handful of almonds.“You know what I’ve been thinking about al day? What color underwear you’d be wearing.” I found his nonchalance staggering. “Don’t make me kick you before we die.”

“We’re not going to die. But look on the bright side—if we do, at least we’l die together.” He peeked down the back of my shirt. “Mmm. Pink. Is that pink?” The plane started thundering down the runway, picking up speed by the second. “This isn’t fair,” I sobbed. “If we make it out of here alive, you’re taking the Chunnel.”

“The what?”

“The subway-train thingy that runs under the English Channel. It’s cal ed the Chunnel.” I was hysterical, my voice getting increasingly louder to compete with the roar of the engines. “If we survive this, you’re going underground!”

“Fine, we’l go tomorrow if you want. Can you keep it down, though?”

The nose of the aircraft tilted toward the sky and I immediately assumed the crash position—head between my knees, hands protecting my skul — until Paul pul ed me up and said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

The wheels lifted off the ground, and I was instantly aware of the sensation of being airborne.

It felt like a dream.

It felt like my stomach was floating above my head.

I was afraid I was going to throw up again.

And then the coolest thing happened.

I heard music.February 16, 2003

February 16, 2003

Cal ing Eliza a high maintenance flyer might be the understatement of the goddamn decade. During takeoff, I wondered if I’d made a big mistake, if maybe we should have just hopped on the Love Boat, let Isaac serve us some drinks, let Julie McCoy plan us a few shuffleboard games, and saved ourselves a lot of trouble. She was out of control. Like one of those little rubber bal s they sel for a quarter in gumbal machines—the crazy kind that, once you dropped it—and you didn’t even have to drop it with any force—it would bounce left and right and up and down and diagonal y, ricocheting for al of eternity unless you scooped it back up and put it in a goddamn drawer or something. That was Eliza for the first hour of the flight. Forget that she was chained to her seat as tight as the belt would go, she was al over the place.

She was also squeezing my fingers like a vice grip, and I had to switch hands every few minutes, otherwise I thought I might never play guitar again.

Al the same, I knew it was my responsibility to keep her amused, distracted, and basical y try to get her to forget where she was.

My first attempt was singing. I started right as we were taking off. I was going to do “The Day I Became a Ghost” because of its uncanny relevance to the situation, as wel as its sentimental value, but that seemed too obvious so I broke into “Shadows How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM

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of the Night” by Pat Benatar instead. And get this—even though Eliza was having a breakdown, I stil saw goose bumps on her arms.

Unfortunately, the song only pacified her until the landing gear was retracted, at which point she had another convulsion.

That’s when I changed tactics. I informed her I was stil hard—

I was—and suggested she might want to throw a blanket over my lap and touch it if she didn’t believe me.

It was those goddamn pants she was wearing. And don’t forget, moisturizer and free Internet porn were al I’d had in the way of companionship for months.

“Paul,” she said, “for the love of God.” I begged her for the zil ionth time to stop cal ing me Paul.

Then I asked her to kiss me and she did. This turned out to be a very good thing. Kissing is the perfect distraction because there’s no limit to how long you can do it. We went at it for a while, and I figured we’d keep at it until she pul ed away, or until the captain shut off the fasten-seatbelt sign.

The latter came first.

I put my hands on her face because I couldn’t believe she was real y there. I told her she was brave and she said, “I’m not brave, I’m in love.”

Ha. Same goddamn thing.

Then I pointed at the sky and said, “Look. You did it. Cruising at thirty-seven thousand feet, stil alive and kicking.” At first this did nothing except incite another riot, but when she calmed down long enough to look out the window, and I mean real y look, I’m pretty sure I saw half a smile.

This is not to say the rest of the flight went off without a hitch. Whenever there was the slightest bump she thought we were a second away from tailspinning into the ocean.

Something as routine as an altitude change spurred a grab for the ralph bag. And every time she heard a weird noise, she’d jump and say, “What was that?” and then expect me to give her a dissertation on aeronautical engineering. I had to make shit How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM

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41up. “They’re just deploying the spoilers,” or “Oh, that? That’s the vertical stabilizer.” Funny thing is she knows a hel of a lot more about aviation than I do, but she never cal ed my bluff.

For a while she wouldn’t eat anything either, but final y gave in when Vicki, our friendly neighborhood flight attendant, wheeled out the dessert cart and told us we could design our own sundaes.

First Class—always the way to go when you’re dead and have an advance to burn.

Eliza got vanil a ice cream with butterscotch sauce, whipped cream, and a cherry. She asked me to get chocolate ice cream with hot fudge and marshmal ows. This way, she explained, we could share without overlapping flavors. Except she was pretty goddamn stingy with hers. She only gave me one bite.

Meanwhile I was supposed to let her eat half of mine.

“Wil …” She couldn’t keep a straight face when she said my name. Stil can’t. “We have to talk.” I’d been waiting for this. Knew it was a matter of time. But it turned out to be the best diversionary tactic of al . Every second Eliza wasn’t freaking out she was talking or asking questions about our lost months, like she thought we had to cram every day we’d spent apart into the time it took us to fly across the ocean. I tried to tel her we had forever, there was no need to rush, but in case we didn’t make it, she said, she wanted me to die knowing the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help her God.