Anne glanced around and pulled the blanket neck high, readjusted her seat and closed her eyes in a manner designed to feign sleep. A moment of fiddling under the blanket, followed by an occasional pursing of her engorged lips, paired with the ever-so-faint increase in her breathing, were the only hints of what was going on. About every fifteen or twenty seconds, she opened her eyes to make sure I was paying attention, which I was while simultaneously standing watch, waving off the occasional flight attendant offering a final water, wine or chocolate. Anne shifted her position towards me so that she could whisper across the armrest. Her eyes were half closed and her hands still buried under the blanket.
I could feel my own air passages begin to dilate. The circular motion of her right forearm created a slow and rhythmic rocking that passed across the armrest where only our shoulders touched. I began to move along, discreetly shifting my weight back and forth in assistance. Leaning towards her, I whispered in her ear, allowing the warmth of my breath to dance across her neck.
“Can you imagine what I want to do to you?” I asked her.
Anne nodded her head and closed her eyelids tighter. The pace of her rhythm began to increase.
“I am going to come,” she said. “Talk me through it.”
“That’s it, I’m right here with you,” I said, in a quiet but encouraging voice.
With that, Anne made her final charge, climbing her mountain while holding her breath. I held my breath as well, waiting for her to finish, which she did with a tiny shudder and sigh that I was confident sounded enough like airplane frustration or exhaustion to the travelers around us. Eyes still closed, a single tear ran down her cheek. Passion or sadness, I did not inquire. She shifted around in her seat, adjusting her clothing and melting into post-orgasm serenity. For about five minutes, she remained quiet, and then gave me a smile through half-open eyes.
“You are a very bad influence,” she said in a satiated voice, maintaining our hushed conversational tone.
“I am not sure the world is ready for you Anne,” I replied, not addressing her comment.
She smiled, adjusted her seat for a final time and closed her eyes.
My own breathing was still heavy but gradually returning to normal. I looked down at her and thought her face more innocent with her eyes closed. I put my hand on hers, hoping for her forgiveness, while through the window I could see the place of my penance emerging through the clouds.
“Romeo and Juliet”
There is silent music that plays in my mind to the slow-motion visions of the world around me. Dire Straits’ “Romeo and Juliet” was playing as I drove down Montana Boulevard in Santa Monica and made a left turn through the glare of the sunset onto Ocean. In the blinding haze I saw the silhouette of a tall bearded warrior with a shield in one hand and a sword in the other. Respectfully, I waited to let him pass through the sunlight until he emerged into plain view, a homeless man carrying a dirty blue knapsack and shredded umbrella.
I had met a salesgirl earlier in the day who was working in the men’s department at Fred Segal. She had just arrived from New York, chasing her dream and a little bit more homesick than any beautiful girl deserved. I had stopped in to buy some causal clothes and put together the pieces of her story as she assembled a new West Side wardrobe of black and more black. I had arranged to join her for drinks, but then decided against it immediately before arriving at the restaurant. I used my cell phone to send regrets through the hostess. I asked her to explain that I had been called out of town at the last minute and would make contact upon my return. I then watched from my car as my stood-up date emerged from the front door, handed her parking slip to the valet attendant and did her best to conceal her disappointment over a lost evening with the man we both wished I had been.
Continuing south into Venice, I parked the car and walked out to the strand just as it was getting dark. My silent etude was playing louder as I passed the vendors selling costume jewelry and tuxedo t-shirts. A man on roller skates playing an electric guitar with a battery amplifier tied to his back roared past me, and the smell of boardwalk food filled the air. Passing strollers stopped to watch a street performer pull a red silk sash from his throat. I watched with them for a few seconds and then moved on to a tattoo shop, where I pretended I was contemplating a Harley eagle while spying on a teenage boy who was trying to talk his girlfriend inside.
Further down the walkway a couple of fifty-somethings who looked like they were from the Midwest had paid a mobile piano man to sing “Crazy” while they danced in the sand. They held each other around their waists and stared into each others’ eyes as if their love was larger than the ocean in front of them. I lingered long enough to see them finish, and threw the piano player five bucks to let them dance again. It all fused in a swirl of sea air: the glitter of the jewelry, the spectators and the illusions, the sweet smell of cotton candy and the unpainted girlfriend; each an instrument in the private song of my evening.
Chapter Three
DA Flight #14
New York (LGA) to Miami (MIA)
Raymond Trevello looked like the man that every boy from an underprivileged neighborhood dreamed of growing into. He was already seated in his first class window seat when I boarded the Delta flight to Miami, and I was certain that every person who boarded the airplane after me had noticed him. He gazed out the window through his gold-framed Cartier sunglasses as if his time were reserved exclusively for important thoughts. He was striking in every respect, beginning with his perfectly tailored navy blue Armani suit accompanied by a light blue custom shirt and radiant regal blue Hugo Boss silk necktie. His ensemble probably cost five times the price of the exorbitant three-hour leather seat to Miami. He had dark brown hair that was full and neatly cropped, with only the slightest speckles of gray highlighting the edges of his sideburns, adding to his respectable aura. Even though he was sitting down, I estimated him at six foot, three inches, but the assembly of characteristics made him seem even larger. Everything about Raymond Trevello conveyed success.
I took my seat next to him quietly so as not to disturb whatever important thoughts were running though his mind, removed my coat, tucked my sunglasses into my breast pocket, and waited for a flight attendant to approach. Less than a minute or so later a young blond woman in her Delta blue pinstripes greeted me by name. Her smile was designed to convey the feeling that she was happy to see me again, even though we both knew we had never met before. Her nametag said Katie, and she moved with an enthusiasm that suggested it was her first week out of flight attendant training camp. I handed her my suit jacket and smiled back in appreciation of the effort despite its contrived nature.
“Something to drink before takeoff?” she asked politely, as if reciting from a handbook.
I glanced down to the right, noticing my seatmate had his large tanned hand wrapped around a glass tumbler filled to the brim with scotch and ice.
“Stolichnaya rocks,” I replied, deciding to join him absent a formal invitation.
I was scheduled to speak the next morning at a conference of about 500 people in Boca Raton. Burdened by a series of unexpected events, I hadn’t found time to prepare. While Katie went forward to pour my drink, I shuffled through my briefcase, extracting a legal- sized yellow pad on which I had jotted a few random notes during the car ride to the airport. I searched unsuccessfully for my pen before remembering I had placed it in my suit pocket. Katie returned with my drink on a small tray and placed it on top of a white cocktail napkin on the center armrest table. I thanked her with another smile and carefully picked up the glass. The man watched me as I did, letting me know with his eyes that any mishap would be unwelcome. With the glass safely in hand on my side of the armrest, he lifted his own tumbler and extended it towards mine, revealing from under his suit jacket sleeve a gold Rolex Presidential and monogrammed gold cufflinks.
“To a pleasant ride,” he said smoothly.
“A pleasant ride,” I confirmed, raising my glass to the same altitude as h
is and making proper eye contact with his sunglasses before taking the first sip.
He returned his tumbler to the armrest and shifted his position slightly, again returning to his thoughts. I left him there, made my way forward and asked Katie to help me locate my stowed coat so that I could retrieve my pen. My hectic day must have been showing, because she gave me a sympathetic frown as she parted the other coats, holding mine out towards me. Another setback surmounted, I returned to my seat in hopes of finally focusing on my presentation. On my arrival, I noted that Raymond had polished off three quarters of his scotch, rather fast even for a big man. Without giving it a second thought, I settled back in and turned my eyes to the note pad while twirling my silver-cased pen in my fingers like a miniature baton. The airplane had begun its taxi, and Katie returned to collect our drinks, allowing us each a quick last sip and promising she would return with refills once we were in the air. The rage of the jet engines increased my already nervous pulse, making concentration on my disorganized speaking notes virtually useless. I mentally counted the hours until I would be standing before five hundred people with nothing to say. I tried to get my thought process moving by rewriting words more neatly on the yellow pad, but they were the same words, just slightly more legible.
The noise of the engines had disrupted my seatmate as well. When the climb was complete and the engines slowed, he decided that talking with me might help him pass the time.
“Do you live in Miami?” he asked.
“No, just a quick trip,” I responded. “You?”
“I do, but my office is here in New York,” he replied.
“How does that work out?” I asked.
“Fairly well. I keep a place in town, and I’m up every week. No luggage, it’s just like taking a longer cab ride,” he answered with a polished charm. Obviously he had used the line before.
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m an attorney,” he responded, extending his hand and offering his name as if I should know it. “Raymond Trevello.”
“Pleasure to meet you Raymond,” I replied, giving his big hand a shake and introducing myself. “What type of law do you practice?” I asked, keeping the conversation on him.
“I’m a defense attorney,” he responded.
“That must be interesting.”
“Sometimes,” he responded casually, implying that there were not many things that could challenge his mighty presence.
I tried again to focus on my notes, but moments later, like the reminder of a ticking stopwatch, the jet engines slowed, signaling that we had reached cruising altitude.
“Christ that was fast,” I thought to myself, trying harder to focus.
Just as a worthy thought began to take shape, Katie cheerfully returned with two fresh drinks, arranging them on the armrest exactly as the originals had been.
“Thank you darling,” said Raymond to Katie in a tone that conveyed both social and gender superiority.
Katie appeared oblivious to the undertone.
“You are very welcome,” she replied graciously.
“You’re a bit young to be working first class?” Raymond further inquired, referring to the way flight attendants with seniority typically work the front and far more civilized sections of the aircraft.
I watched the exchange, the distraction both welcome and distressing. It was always interesting to watch another man at work.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” replied Katie tactfully, smiling with her full Midwestern lips and shimmering blue eyes before retreating forward.
“Pretty girl,” I said complimenting his conversation choice and testing his reaction.
“She’s cute, but when you live in South Beach, it raises the bar a bit,” he replied, implying the young woman was below his standards.
“I need to get out more,” I said, laughing a bit carelessly and taking a long draw on my cocktail.
“What type of clients do you represent?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Primarily narcotics offenders,” he replied.
It reminded me of when my manicurist referred to herself as a nail technician.
“Drug dealers?” I clarified plainly.
“Mostly, yes,” he answered, equally as calm.
“Ever saved any wrongly accused?” I asked, sounding like I had read one too many Alan Dershowitz books.
“No, they’re all guilty!” Raymond responded with a cynical smile that he washed away with the last of his drink.
“As long as they pay their bill,” I said, trying to keep the conversation light.
“Exactly,” replied Raymond.
Through his window, I could see the sun setting into the horizon, charging the clouds with bright silver outlines. It was a beautiful sight to behold, and for a moment Raymond and I sat quietly in appreciation. I turned back to the aisle and caught Katie’s attention with my eyes.
“Did you see that sunset?” I asked her.
“I did!” she responded with surprise.
“Is that the first time anyone has asked you that?” I said sarcastically.
“No, I’m sorry. You just don’t seem like the sunset type,” she replied honestly, embarrassed the moment it emerged.
Raymond snickered in delight as she rolled her eyes to acknowledge her own clumsiness and apologized again.
“A fair presumption,” I said shrugging it off. “My friend here can use another and I’ll follow along,” I said to her.
Raymond nodded in agreement and thanks, wrapping both responses efficiently into a single gesture. Katie blinked her eyes to register the request and scampered off to fill it.
I quickly wrote out a few sentences that I hoped would make sense, praying I would get them down before being interrupted again.
“They pay alright,” said Raymond coolly.
I heard his words but they didn’t register for a few moments, as if there were a translation delay in my mind. At first I thought he might be making reference to deserved prison sentences. I looked up at him in confusion, searching for clarity in his expression, and found him gazing out the window, exactly where I had left him, searching for a sunset that had since disappeared. I mentally backtracked the conversation and realized he was responding to my earlier statement that for whatever reason had lingered with him.
“As long as they pay their bill,” I repeated, to establish that I was back up to speed.
“They pay big,” he continued. “Once a guy sent me a Ferrari for getting his kid off.”
“A drug dealer?” I asked.
“That’s right. Paid my fee, sent me a car. Case closed.”
Absent the sun’s rays that had danced across our faces, the horizon was slowly turning metallic gray. In the safety of the twilight, Raymond removed his own armor, gave his eyes a rub and, for the first time, demonstrated signs of fatigue. Katie returned with the fresh drinks, clearing the empty glasses as she set the new ones down.
“You lay over in Miami, young lady?” Raymond asked her.
“We do,” she replied, still polite and unassuming of the proposition that to me seemed the only possible reason for posing such a question.
“Come back later and I’ll give you some suggestions on where to go with your girlfriends tonight,” he said presumptuously.
“That would be wonderful,” Katie replied graciously.
A twitch of her brow told me she had no such intentions. Maybe Katie from the Midwest wasn’t so naive.
Raymond nursed his third scotch while I tried to focus again on the pad that I held idle in my lap. What I had finished of the two drinks had settled my apprehension a bit, and I began to make some more notes that, enhanced by the alcohol, seemed more insightful than they probably were.
“What do you do?” Raymond asked, interrupting the minor progress I was making.
“Finance,” I replied, intentionally vague.
Raymond shook his head in understanding, not possibly having the slightest notion of what I was referring to.
I relaxed my writing hand and waited for a follow-up question that didn’t arrive. I couldn’t help but take in his face. He had finished his third drink, and the sharp expression I remembered at our introduction had been replaced with a less brilliant one.
I looked at my watch and realized we would be landing in an hour and forty minutes. Charged once again by the fear of embarrassment, I took a last shot at assembling my speaking notes. Undisturbed for about 30 minutes, it was enough time for me to at least to get my thoughts in order. The main points were clear, but I needed to figure out how exactly to make them. I began to run through opening lines and key sentences in my head, listening to my inner voice and admitting the awkwardness. Like everything about me, it was going to need a lot of work and I was running out of time. I made an attempt at self-consolation, trying to convince myself that a good night’s rest and some early morning refinement would make a world of difference.
“I hope I’m right,” I whispered to myself.
Having returned from his thoughts, Raymond glanced over.
“Have it all figured out?” he asked clearly.
“Not really,” I replied, somewhat surprised he was aware of my frustration.
“It can be very difficult. There have been many times I have walked into a courtroom not knowing what I was going to say,” he continued.
“But it always came to you?” I replied, noting my expectation.
“Most of the time. Certainly when it mattered the least,” he said with a forced grin, trailing off a bit as if he were about to turn back to his thoughts.
Instead he turned back to his drink and took down the last of it.
Airplane Rides Page 4