Airplane Rides (12 page)

“My what?”

“Your life.  How are you doing?”

She cast a frustrated glance at her empty wine glass that I
might have noted but assumed it would only make her more self-conscious.

She squared off with me, trying to distract me with her
beautiful stare.

“I’m fine.  I’m dating a great guy. I’m happy.”

Her words were even less convincing when viewed head on, but
her delivery was flawless.

“How long have you been dating him,” I asked.

“Four months.”

“Does he know about everything that happened with Roger?”

“Somewhat.”

“Does he know how sexually advanced you are?”

Katherine played the question over in her mind, examined it for
insult but decided it was benign.

“He knows I have certain talents,” she replied in a seductive
tone.

“I bet you do!” I replied, placing my hand on hers, pulling it
in the direction of the armrest and holding it long enough to confuse its
meaning.

I looked her over, waiting to see how long it would take for
her to retract her hand from my gentle grasp. Her story timeline added up to
about thirty-six years, and I studied her face looking for confirmation of my
estimate.

“So what about children?” I asked delicately.

“What about them?’ she asked, pulling her hand away.

“Do you still plan on having any?”

“When I’m in the right relationship,” she said with a touch of
hostility.

“This guy you’re dating.  Any chance?”

“Too soon to tell,” she snapped.

I let the topic sit and called in a specialist for assistance.

“We’re going to switch to red, the pinot noir,” I informed the
flight attendant, who soon returned with the fresh glasses and a bottle.

“How long will you be in Manhattan?”  I asked her as she sipped
my selection.

“Two days and then I’ll be out in East Hampton for the
weekend,” she answered, appreciating the change of topic.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Royalton,” she replied.

“Very nice,” I said with approval.

“That’s where I always stay,” she informed me with an air of
elitist pride. “ I love the rooms.”

“I’ve only been there for drinks,” I admitted.

“The rooms are great and they have these very deco cool
stainless steel bathtubs.  I want you to come have a drink with me and I’ll
show you.”

“You’re going to show me your bathtub or your riding crop?”

Katherine smiled at the sound of it and the knowing smile
returned to her face.

“And then what?” I asked her.

Katherine looked at me quizzically.

“I deliver you into motherhood or head off to Palm Beach and
reminisce with the Cuban about how talented you are over a couple mojitos?”

“Neither of those options appealing?” she asked coldly.

“I don’t really like Florida and you’re about as ready to have
kids as I am to join the seminary,” I replied with a laugh of my own.

“That’s not true,” she protested quietly.  Her words slurred
ever so slightly.

“My mistake,” I replied, not caring enough to argue the point.
It would prove much faster to take her up on her bathtub offer.

Slowly Katherine the perfect, Katherine with everything
crumbled before my eyes.

She tried to shrug off the rejection as if it weren’t really an
offer and hid behind her sixth miniature glass of wine.   The flight attendant
stopped by for refills and we both held our half-full glasses for topping off.

“No sense in letting them run dry,” I said, smiling at the
woman, who returned the gesture by pouring to the brim.

She clearly hadn’t read the section of her handbook about not
encouraging the passengers to get blotto drunk, but then again, first class did
have its privileges. I figured as long as Katherine kept her mouth shut, we
wouldn’t get cut off.

“What are we drinking to?” I asked, raising my glass and
turning to face Katherine.

She seemed to appreciate the renewed attention.

“What do you suggest?” she asked coyly.

I though about the toast that Roger had given her. I considered
mockingly reviving it, stripping her of whatever dignity remain in her
beautiful intoxicated body.

“Too easy, too cruel,” I thought to myself.

I thought about toasting to how close I was to letting her take
me to the Royalton to sample her tricks, but that was an idea not without its
repercussions.

Then it came to me, in a silent duel between what I hoped for
and what I knew.

“To the allure of perilous women,” I said, raising my glass an
inch higher for emphasis and holding her gaze for an extended moment.

As I anticipated, she took it as a compliment and washed it
down with a mouthful of wine.

“I think you do want to see my tub.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admitted.

“Now you’re talking!”

“What about this man you’re dating?”

She eyed me cautiously before responding.

“We all need our secrets,” she replied.

“I don’t disagree, but what if he’s the one?” I pressed.

“What if you are?” she answered playfully.

“I’m not,” I replied confidently, and gave it a moment to sink
it. “In any event, how does this help matters?” I asked.

“What ‘matters’ are you referring to?” she asked defensively.

“Well, if you wanted to drink wine and seduce strangers, I am
certain you could have worked that out with Roger, and you would have much
nicer flatware.”

My words slapped her harder than I had intended, sending her
reeling back into her seat and taking the wind out of her breathy voice.  She
recoiled in preparation for retaliation.

“I didn’t realize you were such a bastard.”

“You should pay closer attention,” I replied coolly.

“But if I were really a bastard…” I muttered, envisioning
Katherine tangled naked in the sheets at the Royalton, hung over and asleep and
one hand still tied with the terry robe belt to the bed frame.  I took a long
sip of my wine and swallowed hard, forcing the vision from my evening’s realm
of possibilities once and for all.

“You’d what?” Katherine asked in a threatening tone.

I stared at her carefully without answering.

She placed her forefinger onto the top of her tongue,
moistening it in a blatantly erotic gesture. Leaning towards me she ran the
finger across my mouth and gently inserted it between my lips, leaving a trail
of warm saliva in its path.

“Come on,” she coaxed in a high-pitched voice. “The words are
in there somewhere.”

Arching her finger slightly, like a fishhook to the back of my
lower teeth, she pulled my mouth towards hers.

“Tell me what you would do to me.”

My lips were on fire and I could smell the sweetness of her
shampoo.  I took her finger from my mouth and pushed her hand down into her lap
but intentionally maintained the two-inch space that separated us from kissing.

“I already told you.  I’m not your guy.”

I brushed her hair away from her face, touched my upper lip
against hers and turned her away for the final time.

We were two hundred and thirty miles from JFK, and I could feel
the jet engines slow.  Katherine decided to disembark early by slipping the
headset over her ears and closing her eyes. I watched her for a while,
listening secondhand to a tortured country rendition of a 1950’s ballad playing
in a metallic tone from the sides of her head. I closed my eyes as well and let
the lyrics distract me with the unhappiness of others.  A short while later, the
flight attendant came to clear our glasses, tapping us back from our respective
distant places.  The woman gave us a final chance to finish off the contents
and we each took her up on it. In a final unspoken toast without the politeness
of a glance, we each drank to the certainty of a lonely night ahead.

CA Flight #333
Las Vegas (LAS) to New York (LGA)

Waking up in Las Vegas is like waking up next to a one-night
stand.  While each was breathtaking in the glow of neon light, they are inevitably
flawed in the clarity of daybreak.  I had surrendered the evening before to the
slow jazz-fusion of a martini quartet and kisses from a woman named Chloe.  In
the morning, Chloe and Las Vegas are one in the same, with smeared makeup and
tangled hair.  I fled the hotel trying not to wake either, and scowled at the
breeze for rustling the thirsty tattered palm trees and whispering to me that
more time had passed than I cared to admit.  In the hotel rotunda, the
evening’s illusions were exposed by the unforgiving desert sunlight, from the
dirty water in the fountain pools to the electric wires that fed the monument
signs.  It was morning in Las Vegas, and there was no denying its sordid
reality.

I rode a pink taxicab the short distance to the airport.  In a
matter of two hundred yards, the building landscape changed from high-rise
hotels to dilapidated single story buildings surrounded by dirty sand,
graffiti-laden concrete block walls and more dirty sand.  The back of the
taxicab seat advertised the various strip joints in town, as well as places
farther away outside the boundaries of the no solicitation zone.  It was an a
la carte menu of sexual services that confirmed for me, once again, how
available physical intimacy had become.

The final casino was cleverly disguised as an airport.  It was
the last chance for the hopeful to hit it big on winnings that could buy them
happiness.  As I made my way to the gate I passed them all, sitting like
statues, feeding coins that fueled their empty stares into the glass screens. 
In the time that they waited to board their flights home, they would hand over
the equivalent of their economy class seat.  Each looked older than the next,
their faces wrinkled by years of inertia and cigarette smoke.  The stench of
their hopelessness filled my nostrils like a cheap aftershave and made my
stomach queasy.  On a double-step to get away, I navigated my way to the gate
that was manned by an attendant who looked more like a blackjack dealer.  I
couldn’t help but hope that my odds of getting to New York were slightly
better. Once I informed the gentleman that I had already lost everything, he
was happy to let me leave town.  On board, I found my seat in the poor excuse
for a first class section, fully accepting that, this time, mine was apparently
not the high roller’s ride home.  Happy to be on my way, I paid little
attention to the sparse accommodations.

I took my place on the aisle, locking in my seatmate who sat at
the window.  She was a woman in her early forties with a plain look to her:
brown hair, brown eyes and a few extra pounds under her simple blue pantsuit
and white silk blouse.   She wore no makeup over her olive skin and stirred
little excitement relative to the migrant strippers that passed us on their way
back to coach. Whatever she looked like, I had serious doubt that she had come
to Vegas to gamble.  Together in silence, we sipped our waters and waited for
the airplane to push back.

I was tired from being up all night.  Despite the fact that I
had just showered and put on fresh clothes, I couldn’t help but feel dirty. 
The desert silt had worked its way into my collar and up my sleeves.  Once
airborne, I stood up in the aisle and removed my suit coat and tie, I tucked my
sunglasses away into my breast pocket and went into the lavatory to wash my
hands and face.  When I returned, I summoned the flight attendant for a cup of
coffee and sent a glance the way of my seatmate, politely giving her the
opportunity to order something as well.

“What brings you to Vegas?” I asked her, looking to confirm
that I was still seeing straight.

“A conference,” the woman replied.

I eyed her for elaboration but she wasn’t budging.

“How’d you make out at the tables?”

“Gambling’s not really my thing,” she responded, patting my
back with the confirmation of my suspicion.

“What kind of conference?”

“DNA research.”

“So you’re a doctor?”

“I am,” she replied plainly.

“DNA doctors in Vegas? I though you guys only hung out in Cold
Spring Harbor and Torrey Pines.”

“Sometimes they let us out,” she replied with a tempered laugh.

“A chance to escape the confines of the laboratory and you guys
pick Vegas?”

“Well I guess it depends on what you are looking for.”

She gave me her best effort at a falsely devious smirk.

“DNA doctors on the prowl? I don’t think so.”

“Maybe they were just looking for an easy place in the country
for everyone to meet with cheap hotel rooms. I didn’t pick the location.”

“What does your husband think of your little furlough?”

“I’m not married,” she replied.

“Too busy pairing chromosomes?”

She laughed at the statement, apparently pleased with either my
directness or my effort to keep it all in context.  I couldn’t be sure which.

“Who are you?” she asked, emphatically.

“I’m a guy who needs to stay out of Vegas.”

She looked me over with the caution of a surgeon, studying my
self-inflicted amusement.

“I can see that,” she said with a gentle swat before answering
my question. “I’ve been married. I’m divorced.”

“Was he a doctor as well?”

“No, he ran his family business. They manufactured valves.”

“Doesn’t sound nearly as exciting as unraveling helixes.”

Again she laughed at my efforts at biology lingo.

“Valves can be exciting too,” she replied.

“You left him,” I stated.

“How did you know that?” she asked with surprise.

“Because you must still feel badly about it if you’re still
trying to convince people that valves are exciting.”

“You are very perceptive.  I’m impressed.”

“So why did you bail out?”

Again she looked me over, deciding how much to share.

“Because I didn’t love him.”

“How long were you married?”

“Seven years.”

“And you just fell out of love?  Too much time in the lab, or
what?”

“I never really loved him, I just cared about him a great deal
and I married him because it seemed right at the time.”

“Did he remarry?”

“No,” she replied with a subtle sadness.

“And I take it you didn’t as well.”

Her cheeks flushed in hesitation.

“I did marry again.”

“And?”

“Same,” she admitted.

“You’re a regular heart-breaker, Doctor. What happened with
number two?”

“It wasn’t making me happy.”

“Was he a good guy?”

“He was a great person. Also a doctor.  We had a lot in
common.”

“So what went wrong?”

“I guess he was more of a friend, picking me up out of my first
marriage.  I realized that even though he was this wonderful man, he wasn’t
going to be that totally ‘in love’ person that we want in our life.”

“Is that what we want?”

“I think so,” she said optimistically, “but there are so many
red herrings along the way, some of which I suspect you found last evening,”
she replied with a smile.

“My whole life has been a red herring.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she offered.

“Don’t worry, I’ve decided to turn over a new tree,” I said
with resolve, and raised my coffee cup.

“No sense in aiming too low,” she replied, smiling and raising
an imaginary glass to join me.

“How long were you married the second time?”

“Three years.”

“And how soon into it did you realize that it wasn’t going to
last?”

She hesitated before answering.

“I think I always knew.”

“So you kind of used this guy to climb out of your emotional hole. 
Sounds a bit like the Willie Nelson song about the angel and the ground.”

“Well I certainly don’t feel like an angel.”

“More guilt.”

“Well, I had to give these two men, who were both very good
people, some of the worst news of their life.”

“But you would have been doing them a disservice to live a
lie.”

“Of course, but it came down to me not wanting them. Me having
to say, ‘I can’t find happiness with you.’  That’s a very hard thing to say to
someone who does profess to love you in that way.”

“They had to see it coming. They had to know something was
wrong.”

“Not my first husband. The only thing that caused him concern
was that I kept putting off getting pregnant.”

“Was he putting pressure on you to have kids?”

“Yes, but I always had a great excuse - residency and then the
research programs that I was always chasing.  He never contemplated the
possibility that it was an issue between him and me, so it was a big surprise. 
My second husband saw me go through what happened with my first, so I think he
always knew I wouldn’t stick around if it wasn’t right. I had already gone
through too much to still be unhappy.”

“Did that make him go way out of his way trying?”

“I don’t know if I would say ‘way out of his way.’  He was a
bit of a workaholic. In some ways I think I was attracted to him because most
of his time was not about me.  He had less time to force the issue, and I got
to hide out for a while.”

“So you carry guilt because you chose your own happiness over
theirs,” I stated.

“I do, but I realize there was no alternative.”

“I bet lots of people stay in relationships because they fear
giving the bad news.”

“I don’t disagree,” she replied.

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“Maybe because they can’t stand to hurt someone they care about
or maybe because they are afraid to.”

“So they’re either compassionate or cowards?”

“I’d hoped that at least I was compassionate!”

“Compassionate doctor is an obvious oxymoron,” I said teasing
her.

“Are you still friends with either of them?”

“Not really,” she answered sadly.

“Why?”

“Well, Robert, my first husband, felt betrayed. And I can’t say
that I don’t understand. First marriages hold a certain innocence.  It’s the
first pure promise to build your lives together. Everything conveyed is about
being in it ‘forever.’  Second marriages have the understanding of experience.
It’s a different feeling.”

“More misled than betrayed,” I pointed out.

“No, it was betrayal as well,” she conceded.

“Did you have an affair?”

“I did.”

“With your second husband?”

“Yes.”

“And then you married him?”

“I did.”

“Did your first husband find out?”

“No.”

“Had this happened before?”

“Never.”

“So what pushed you over the edge?”

“I was looking for something and foolishly thought a different
man was going to give it to me.”

“So what happened with the second guy?”

“Trent.”

”Trent,” I repeated, to confirm his name mattered.

“Same issue,” she replied with precision.

“You left him for another man?” I asked with surprise.

“Not exactly.”

“You still had this happiness void?”

“I did.”

“Was there someone in the wings?”

“There was, but it was more of a friendship than a
relationship.”

“That turned romantic after you left Trent?”

“It did.”

She kept being intentionally vague and I was growing
suspicious.

“Are you still in that relationship?

“I am.”

“How long has it been?”

“Almost four years.”

“So have you found happiness?”

“I think so.”

“Bravo. What’s his name?”

She smiled and waited before answering.

“Joyce.”

I paused for a moment to hide my surprise, not out of
gamesmanship but more so not to convey judgment.

“Do many people know that Joyce is in your life?”

“Including you?  No, but I think my sister is onto us.  I’m
avoiding the conversation.”

“That’s no fun.”

“Actually, in that regard I do feel like a coward,” she
replied.

“You’re covering a lot of ground, Doctor.”

“I guess so.”

I could tell from her hurt expression that she misunderstood.

“I didn’t mean to imply that you are promiscuous. I meant you
are moving fast with your life. It’s a compliment.”

“I often feel like life is moving faster,” she replied, in a
slightly beaten tone.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re wasting much time to me,” I
stated firmly.

With a glimmer in her eye, she smiled at me in appreciation. 
For the first time in our conversation, I noticed her as a woman.  Her hair
looked fuller and her skin more vibrant.  Her simple understated beauty, was
delicately blossoming before me as her expressions took life.  Enjoying the
transformation, I was content to keep listening.

“That’s the really wonderful part about being a doctor,” she
said, changing the subject.  “There are these constant reminders that life is
short and time is always running out. It’s a hidden bonus.”

“Not depressing?” I asked.

“Quite the opposite actually.  It forces you to make all of
your days count.”

I didn’t dare to calculate the days I had wasted.  Another
Willie Nelson line about picking up hookers instead of a pen came to mind.

“Did it all click together when you realized you were gay? You
must have always known.”

“Not really, it wasn’t an epiphany where suddenly everything
made sense. It was far more difficult than that.”

“How so?”

“Well, in a sense, it’s more bad news that you have to give the
people you love.”

I waited for additional explanation.

“My parents, for instance.  They did their best to raise me,
and then in a way I rejected the domestic model that they demonstrated.”