Fucking Daphne (21 page)

So I should also say that by desire I mean not only the desire to own another human fully, but the desire, as well, to be the one desired, and this is, of course, complex.

I should also say that I am not someone who talks to strangers on planes. I assure you of this. I assure you that I am the one who gets annoyed when talked to. I am the one who will aggressively sigh and stare you down. I will tell you I need to sleep. I will press the flight attendant button. I will ask to be moved to another seat. I am not a terrifying human. But I am, admittedly, a bitter human, and
I do not want to hear what most want to tell—stories about kids, homes, wretched pasts. So the fact that I even spoke to this woman, that I even initiated speaking, says something of the charm of the woman herself and says nothing of me, who, on the flight to New York, that spontaneous red-eye to see my mother, was forced to sit by a talkative man with one extremely small thumb, meaning it was remarkably smaller than the other, a detail that upset me so much that I ordered two drinks at once.

Perhaps I spoke to the woman because, in comparison to the man with the thumb on the flight to New York, she seemed so stable, sturdy—upscale perfume, pendant dangling into her collar—unlike the rest of the messy humans who consumed my daily life. And, as the takeoff was smooth, the flight, up to that point, still smooth, my breathing controlled, the drink cart rattling its way down the aisle, I asked, “Are you from New York?” because I didn't know what else to ask. And more, I can admit it, I wanted to talk because she was a woman who was named, of all the names one's mother could name one, as I'd read on the boarding pass poking out from the seat pocket beyond her knees, Daphne.

This was a name I had always found extremely exotic, a name that I—as a child and perhaps into my teen years or even my twenties—wished to name all of my children, male or female, if I ever were to have children. And I had yet, now in my thirties, to meet anyone named Daphne. I wanted to say to her,
Daphne, you're so lucky, you're so fucking lucky,
for my mother had chosen a rather bland name for me, thus assuring I would grow to become, in at least one way, a rather bland human, unlike Daphne. But were I to say to her,
Daphne, you're so lucky,
she would know that I had been
studying her boarding pass and that I therefore knew her middle initial and last name, and this would put me into a category I wished not to inhabit, for it was a far worse violation than the man with the thumb had committed when he offered, during our six-hour red-eye, to buy me—in part as a joke, in part to show me he had been paying attention, and in part as a means of seduction—my third and fourth drinks.

I should say right now that I am not the type to be easily seduced. And even if I had been that type, there was no way I could have been seduced on the flight to New York, on that wretched flight to see my mother, for I was filled to my ears with an intense bitterness I had never before then felt.

I should also say that I asked the flight attendant, after the man with the thumb had proposed buying me two more drinks, if I could switch seats. But, as there were no more seats, I spent much of the flight standing in the restroom, a little drunk and closely studying my face in the mirror.

I should also say that it was there in the restroom that I more deeply considered how I was not a member of the so-called mile-high club you may have heard of, a club that I always found inappropriately named, for planes never fly a mile high. And so I was fine to not be in a club that didn't even have a proper name.

Besides, I never wanted to be in any club that required one to get fucked against any one of the awful and obstructed four walls of a rickety airplane restroom, hands pressed flat to some mysteriously wet surface, to become a member.

Though I supposed one could find a way to join the club from one's seat. But this prospect seemed even less appealing, as it would
require both physical flexibility and the risk of public display, neither of which I could accept.

Not to mention my baseline fear of flying, which made it necessary for me to focus not on sex, but on overdrinking before and during every flight, with the goal of blacking out in my seat.

All this is to say that I was in no way a human who entertained thoughts of having sex a presumed mile high. It was nothing that ever crossed my mind, except when I thought, on occasion, that I was not a human for whom this seemed in any way fun. And, as I was filled with a nearly intolerable bitterness, even after a week with my mother, even after she tried her best to convince me that my life was—her word—worthy, I was clearly as far as one could get from thinking of sex.

And so I had grabbed Daphne's arm for the support my hand seemed to know I needed, by which I mean, solely, emotional support, for the plane was undoubtedly going to plunge into whatever lay below. I say this to defend myself, as I was thinking not of sex, but only of what it would feel like for the plane to plunge, and whether one would get that feeling of losing one's gut, the feeling I often got when my recent ex, before he was an ex, drove fast through the hills when he'd drive me home from his place. And, again in my defense, I sensed that the plunge from my and Daphne's presumed mile-high spot would be far worse than the plunge from the top to the bottom of Fillmore Street, even though when my recent ex rushed down Fillmore, I screamed. And, as I was thinking of how I wasn't yet ready to so dramatically lose my gut, I was suddenly struck by the many possible interpretations of the term “losing one's gut,” and it all felt so profound that I looked at Daphne's face, hoping to share
with her my thoughts on this, but was stopped by her look, which made me feel perverted in a way I had never before then felt.

Perhaps she looked so scared because she was sleeping when I grabbed her arm, and I had awakened her. I never looked to see what she was doing before I grabbed her arm, as it was an involuntary grab, and I was busy trying to remember to breathe, as the drink cart had not yet made it to our row. I knew how to attach the air-sickness bag to my face, to breathe in to ten, to breathe out to ten. My recent ex, before he was an ex, had shown me how to do this on our last trip, some months before, to see his parents, neither of whom I liked, but both of whom I liked more than I liked him now, since neither of them had cheated on me. On that flight, we were in row thirty-two, the drink cart rows and rows away, and, as the breathing wasn't working, I pressed the flight attendant button above my head, ordered an emergency cocktail, finished it in two swallows, and started a fight with my recent ex about my suspicions of his cheating. The fight lasted until I, at long last, spiraled into a blackout.

All this is to say I much preferred to control my fear of flying through drinking until I blacked out, rather than by breathing. And until the drink cart reached Daphne's and my row, which would not happen until the flight attendant resumed its wheeling, which she would not resume until the plane stopped shaking, I had to control my breathing. But that did not necessarily mean I could control what my hands did when my body was suddenly and violently jolted. I know. I've said the grab was involuntary. And it was, despite any desire I may have been feeling toward Daphne deep in some rarely accessed part of my gut when, just after takeoff, when the plane had leveled and the smell of jet fuel had dispersed, I smelled her
upscale perfume and felt a need to strike up talk. And, as stated, the desire, mixed as it was with jealousy, may have played a role in why I grabbed her arm so hard, with nails. For behind the mix of jealousy and desire—at least behind mine, historically speaking—was always some profound lack of control. And it was this lack of control, I realized, that had made me seem so terrifying to others in the past.

Like the man with the small thumb, who, after the flight attendant pounded on the restroom door and gave me a suspicious look and asked me to return to my row, was so offended by my request to switch seats that he refused to rise from his seat to let me get to mine.

Or like my recent ex, whom I'd tried to run down, minutes before he was an ex, in my rickety hatchback after a party, after I had seen him speaking to another woman, a pretty blond who was laughing at something he had said, something unlikely to have been funny, and I thought,
Don't.

Or like the woman herself, the pretty blond to whom my ex had been speaking, when I cornered her, after my ex had left the party in a rage, after I had snapped at him in front of her, and before I had driven up the alley through which my ex was running faster than I had ever seen him run.

I could not always control my hands.

I should mention here—because I had no way of actually knowing, because I was not in the mile-high club—that I believed that to join, one could get fucked only from behind, if one was the one being fucked and not doing the actual fucking, for to do it any other way required one's ass to be pressed against the sink, a wall, the door, or worse.

I bring this up in part because I used to insist on making my recent ex fuck me solely from behind, once I suspected he was cheating, so that I could pretend I was being fucked by someone else, like any number of the charming humans I had seen on streets, in bars, on planes, and never dared to confront.

Though, as stated, we never had sex in the restroom of an airplane, perfectly suited for our position as it was, even though he tried to coerce me during the flight to see his parents, and I, for several reasons already stated, refused and started a fight instead.

All this is to say that I could live without sex. And that I was not a pervert. And I wanted to prove this to Daphne. I wanted her to know I was someone deeper than who I likely seemed to be. Historically, many humans had found me to be attractive, but I could see that Daphne did not. Big deal I didn't bother to get my teeth fixed when I should have, when my mother said, in an attempt, I'm certain, to preserve something of the blander me, “Crooked teeth give you character.” We were not so different, she and I. I wanted her to know that I recognized her perfume. Chanel. Coco Mademoiselle. I was a human who recognized Chanel. I was worthy of grabbing her arm. I said, “Mademoiselle.” I said, “I love your perfume,” but the plane jolted at that very moment, and the words came out somewhat jumbled. And she looked scared.

Would that Daphne and I had met at a party where I knew more people than she. I would have taken her around, introduced her proudly as my friend Daphne, mixed her a complex drink, whispered with her in the corner about my ex, about the other women at the party. Daphne would have called even the pretty ones bland.
Like paper dolls,
she would have whispered, and I would have laughed into her hair.

She said, “Jesus,” and I noticed that her skin was so unbearably soft. Thinking then of her skin, I have to admit, I felt even more like a pervert, but it was profoundly soft, her skin, and I said, “What?” and she said, “What?” and I said, “What?”

And it was then that I wondered if Daphne was in the mile-high club, and, if so, who had coerced her into the restroom. Or if she had coerced another. Or if it had been a mutual decision on some vaguely romantic overseas flight. And I wondered if she had been the one pressed against a wall. Or if she had been the one who pressed the other against a wall. And I wondered, if she had been the one pressed against the wall, which wall she had chosen to press against. Face to the mirror. Face away from the mirror. Face to the door. Face away from the door.

My hunch was she was face to the mirror.

Though perhaps it took place at her seat, her face pressed to the face-size window.

She said, “Please,” and I looked down at my hand gripping her arm tightly. It was positioned between two elegant bangles, a choice of accessory so fitting, in my opinion, for one called Daphne, I nearly said so. I nearly said,
Daphne,
in my most playful voice. I nearly said,
Oh, Daphne.
I should have said,
I need to explain.
But Daphne said, “You need to let go of my arm.” I looked at my hand again, and this time it looked nothing like my hand, and more like a tool for grabbing—some horrifying and perverse tool that I couldn't believe was the same delicate hand I had used just after takeoff to lower the blind on the window; the same delicate hand I had used just hours before takeoff to lift the receiver at my mother's house to call my ex to tell him to fuck off—even though he had already fucked
off; the same hand I had used to pound my mother's kitchen table until every last object on the table—the salt and pepper shakers, the knives, the forks—were all jumping about; the same hand I had used to zip up my suitcase, even though my mother was begging me to stay a while longer, to take some time to—and I swear she used this word—heal.

I said, “I will.” Daphne said, “Please.” She said, “You're hurting me.” She said, “Jesus.”

Had I let go of her arm then, I could have apologized, explained to her that I was truly and pathologically terrified of flying, that I was nearly the cause of an emergency landing at some Midwestern airport when, on the trip to New York, the flight attendant refused to serve me more drinks, having found my time in the restroom suspicious, and, sobering up, I couldn't pull my fear inward.

Had I let go, I could have told her how the man with the thumb hadn't budged to let me take my seat when I came back from the bathroom. He had said, “Thought this row wasn't good enough for you,” and pretended to be sleeping when the flight attendant asked him to please move.

I could have told her of the tantrum I almost threw, how upset everyone would have been, how I stood in the aisle, thinking about causing a scene, until a different flight attendant slipped me a tiny bottle of vodka and found a woman to switch seats with me.

So, no, we didn't make an emergency landing. But had I not been slipped the vodka, and another, I would have thrown a remarkable tantrum.