“Ten years beyond the existing term.”
“That means you have a seventeen year lease. Not much risk in that.”
“Then you lend him the $25 million and I’ll make my plane.”
Martin reentered the room. The middle-aged, overweight man’s face was red with embarrassment, and his brow lined with beads of perspiration.
“I apologize. Where are we?”
“We need to agree on the final terms of the escrow account. How much and under what circumstances it gets released,” his counsel informed him.
“I don’t see why it’s an issue. If GM leaves, I will continue to pay the loan and find a new tenant just like I found GM. You’ve seen my balance sheet. Paying the loan is not a problem.”
“I don’t control the size of your balance sheet or the checkbook that goes along with it. I have the right to take control of the property and any escrows that we establish. Without those things in place, I cannot complete this transaction.”
Martin was again shifting in his seat and I knew another bathroom run was only moments away.
“Fine. How much?”
“Two million dollars escrowed at closing. Stays there until GM extends or until the building is released to another comparable tenant.”
“You know that’s more than needed,” interjected the lawyer.
“What I know is that it is a matter of opinion and I have stated mine.”
Martin stood and started moving towards the door.
“I’m sorry, I need to break again.”
“Martin, while I am sorry you are not feeling well, I do need to catch my plane. Decide.”
Martin shifted his eyes to his counsel who offered no support and then returned for one last look for a bluff on my part.
“Fine.”
“Feel better,” I said to his back as he hurried from the room.
“Be prepared to close on Tuesday,” I instructed the lawyer before heading off to my next destination.
Down at street level I waited what seemed an eternity for a sedan that had been scheduled to drive me to O’Hare. Mid-block on LaSalle Street, I eyed the passing taxicabs through my frosted sunglasses and contemplated abandoning my reservation for less luxurious transport. I shivered beneath my wool overcoat, and I could feel the damp chill of the street soaking through my leather soles. I could hear church bells ringing in the background, and from a bakery on the opposite side of the street, the welcome smell of fresh bread filled the air. I considered making the dash across for a cup of coffee to warm my hands on the ride, but the river of slush that filled the street looked too difficult to navigate. I ignored a white stretch limousine that stopped in front of me and looked for another landing spot for the black town car I was expecting. After another few minutes, the driver of the stretch reached across the front passenger seat and propped a sign in the window on which my last name was scrawled in thick black magic marker. I displaced my irritation with a sigh, tapped on the window and headed towards the rear of the car where the driver rushed around to meet me. He greeted me with a quick “sir.”
“O’Hare, ” I instructed, not taking any chances.
Without response the driver opened the door and took my bag, stowing us each into our respective positions before climbing back in and speeding off to our destination.
I had started to thaw out by the time we reached the airport, but my body was still moving slowly. The lobby in front of the ticket counter was strangely quiet, and I headed through security and up to the gate, disappearing into the blue-gray depths of the tremendous steel building. The plane had already been boarded, and I hurried the last few yards, trying to create the illusion that at least I was making an effort to be on time. I had trouble removing my identification from my wallet for presentation to the gate attendant because my fingers were too numb to differentiate between the edges of my credit cards and that of my driver’s license. I smiled humbly, feeling uncharacteristically spastic.
“I’m sorry. My fingers are still a bit frozen,” I explained to the silver-haired attendant who waited patiently.
She smiled, reached across the countertop and wrapped her hands around mine, rubbing them maternally in a quick warming motion. Surprised by the physical extension that violated my wallet’s personal space, I shot her a look but resisted the urge to pull my hands away. The older woman sensed my discomfort but only held on firmer.
“They are cold!” she agreed. “We’ll wrap you in a blanket on board.”
“You’re very kind,” I said, handing her my license, which I had finally pulled loose.
“I’m sure you would do the same for me.”
I wondered if I would.
After a few taps at the keyboard that was hidden behind the counter, she glanced up and smiled at me as if she had pulled some strings to make sure the airplane didn’t leave without me.
“We’re ready to depart so go ahead on,” she said instructively, returning my license and a first class boarding pass, and motioning towards the jetway entrance with her hand.
Through the large glass windows overlooking the tarmac I could see the fog descending, obscuring from view the outer edges of the runway. I hesitated, doubtful the plane would be permitted to take off.
“We definitely going?” I asked the attendant who had followed me over to close down the station.
“Believe it or not.”
She tore off the stub and handed it back as if it might help convince me to move forward.
“What about the fog?”
“Don’t worry about the fog. The pilot knows the way,” she responded sounding amused, patting me gently on the shoulder and nudging me in the direction of the doorway. “Enjoy the flight,” she called from behind me finishing with my name in an eerily familiar tone.
I made my way onto the aircraft and found my seat next to a Japanese-American man. He wore dark green trousers and a cream-colored polo shirt that accentuated the richness of his reddish brown skin. He looked like he was circling his late forties, but it was difficult to be more precise because his eyes were closed and his head tilted against the window. I left him to his rest, not looking for conversation and more interested in shaking the lingering chill that slowed my limbs and clouded my brain. Through the pushback, the de-icing and the takeoff, the man remained silent and apparently asleep.
Over the next twenty minutes, the flight attendant occupied me with coffee and mixed nuts arranged neatly on the wide armrest between us. I began to feel like myself again as the hot coffee ran through my veins and I worked my jaw muscles on the cashews. My seatmate began to stir and soon opened his eyes, treating me to a wide yawn and extended stretch.
“Hello,” he said in a friendly voice, blinking several times as though to clear the cobwebs from his eyelids.
I returned the greeting with a simple nod, removing my coffee cup from the armrest to avoid the possibility that he was unaware of its location. He followed the move with his eyes and paused when he noticed the two ceramic nut bowls.
“I saved one for you,” I said, motioning to the full bowl with my coffee cup.
“How very kind,” the man replied with a chuckle.
One by one he lifted the nuts from the bowl with his forefinger and thumb, placing them meticulously in the center of his mouth.
“Do you live in New York City?” he asked me in between nibbles.
“Sometimes.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“I suppose I haven’t thought about it in a while.”
“I live in Los Angeles,” the man offered.
“Well, do you enjoy living there?”
The man paused and looked me over for a few moments.
“Will it be too cold to walk in Central Park?” he asked, giving me a second chance to converse with him politely.
Again I was tempted to deliver a wise crack, but a force higher than my self-serving tendencies caused me to hold back. I knew instinctively that I was missing something, a recognition that I couldn’t plac
e. I looked the man over cautiously, expecting a delayed realization, but came up empty.
“I don’t think so.”
The man smiled and nodded approvingly at my elected politeness.
“I have always wanted to walk through Central Park,” he said through his grin.
“First time in New York?” I asked, as though it were some place that traveled with me.
“Yes.”
“How long will you be in town?”
“Unclear,” the man replied.
“Well then you should have plenty of time. Are you here on business?”
I was still waiting for my brain to completely thaw and for whatever it was that I had sensed to click into view.
“You could say that.”
“Going to cause a little trouble?” I asked with a man-to-man smile.
“Let’s hope not.”
The man shifted his position to face me and put his back to the wall of the aircraft. The base of his neck was centered in the window and the sunlight streamed in from behind him illuminating the edges of his head.
“What business are you in?’ he asked, taking control of the conversation.
I gave him my stock answer designed to prevent further inquiry. The effort proved ineffective and so I decided it harmless to tell him of my meeting with Martin Bowman as it had just taken place hundreds of miles behind us. I took the opportunity to laugh out loud as I spoke of the man’s discomfort and embarrassment as he ran back and forth to the men’s room.
“I guess you could say that was a two million dollar breakfast,” I finished through a final chuckle.
“Fascinating,” said the little man. “Your compassion is overwhelming.”
“Well, perhaps it wasn’t so funny for him.”
Seeing no need to explain myself, I quickly changed conversational lanes.
“So what do you do?”
He paused for a moment but politely permitted the question.
“I’m a minister.”
He watched me carefully and smiled slightly as my eyes widened.
“Really?”
“Really,” the man confirmed, mocking my surprise.
I enjoyed that he had descended from his altar enough to demonstrate his conversational gamesmanship. I examined him sideways to confirm that he wasn’t pulling my leg. He caught the look and in response extracted a worn brown leather business card case from his front pant pocket. He handed me a white card with a red flame and crucifix in the upper left corner. Along the bottom was his contact information at a church in Los Angeles.
“Where’s your outfit?” I asked, motioning to my collar.
“You’re thinking of priests.”
I let it go, noting his decision to correct my impression rather than answer my question.
“So what kind of minister are you?”
“I’m a Senior Minister in the Methodist Church.”
“What do I call you?”
“You can call me Daniel,” he replied, again enjoying my surprise.
“Father Daniel?”
“Just Daniel is fine.”
“Been at it a long time?”
“Over thirty-five years,” he replied, marking himself older than I had guessed.
“The church must be paying well these days?” I asked rhetorically, referring to our first class status. The capitalist in me would never have forgiven myself for not putting it out there.
Daniel reached over and patted my forearm the way a father might an incorrigible son.
“I have a friend in New York who arranged the trip,” Daniel replied, permitting the inquiry.
“Some friend, making you connect in Chicago.”
I looked Daniel over again, leaning in to see if I could feel the radiance of his goodness. Maybe there was something, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Do you give mass?”
“Every Sunday,” he replied, nodding his head with solid affirmation.
“Do you enjoy that?”
“Sometimes,” he responded with a chuckle.
“Do you give confession?” I asked, my eyebrows probably halfway up my forehead.
Daniel laughed out loud at the transparency of my inquiry.
“Methodists don’t have formal confession the way Catholics do, but I have counseled many people who have come to me with their problems.”
“Then how does the whole absolution thing work?”
“God forgives those who ask for it, regardless of ceremony,” Daniel responded with almighty patience.
We were interrupted by the flight attendant who was balancing a cocktail glass on a small silver tray, announcing the contents as she placed it on my armrest.
“Stolichnaya rocks,” she proclaimed, as though it were a party guest I hadn’t yet been introduced to.
“As much as it may look as though I need this, I didn’t order it,” I stated, politely rejecting what I knew was probably an excellent suggestion.
The flight attendant looked at me blankly and without acknowledging the mistake picked up the glass and moved it to the same position one row back.
I returned to Daniel, trying to regain the momentum.
“How many people are in your congregation?” I asked, trying not to sound overly focused on market share.
“We have about seven hundred people.”
“Is that a lot?” I asked, looking for a benchmark.
“Not really, business is not so good,” he replied, graciously speaking my language.
“Why is that?”
“I expect it’s because people are less certain about why they want faith to be a part of their lives.”
His delivery was laced with understanding.
“This must be frustrating for you?”
“Not really. Religious faith is very abstract and life is filled with tangible distractions.”
Once again I found myself holding my tongue.
“Does this affect how you feel about being a minister?”
“I love my job, if that is what you are asking,” he retorted.
“What I am asking is, has it ever caused you to question your own faith?” I responded, perhaps more directly than he was accustomed to.
“No way you’re sidestepping this one,” I thought to myself.
Daniel paused and his eyes narrowed as I watched him, waiting for the response.
“Yes, something happened that caused me to rethink things,” he replied.
“Will you tell me what it was?”
Daniel folded his hands across his lap and let out a sigh that sounded like a door opening to a difficult memory.
“A woman in our congregation came to me to let me know that she was leaving the parish. She had been with us for twelve years and I was surprised,” he stated honestly.
“Did you ask her why?”
“I did,” replied Daniel. “She told me that she was looking for something different.”
“What does that mean?”
“I wasn’t sure, but it was something different from what our parish offered,” he replied helplessly.
“Did you take this personally?”
Daniel sat back in his seat and once again gave me his patient smile.
“Of course not.”
I didn’t believe him, but pushed on anyway.
“So where is the part about questioning your faith?”
I suspected that the story had been a diversion to buy time. I waited patiently, respectfully giving him the room to continue.
“About two weeks later, I received a phone call. A young girl from our congregation had committed suicide,” Daniel said heavily.
“Nothing abstract about that. How old was she?”
“Sixteen.”
“Did she have problems?” I asked, giving him the opportunity to point me in the direction of the various unspoken.
“No,” he replied, as if it were a question he had asked himself a thousand times.
I sensed the older man’s difficulty and called a time-out. I h
ailed the flight attendant and requested a couple of vodkas, figuring that Daniel could use the hard stuff. The woman returned in a first class minute with her little silver tray.
“I don’t really drink.”
“Sure you do,” I replied, lifting my glass to him.
Daniel lifted his glass hesitantly to the same height.
“Believe me, it will help,” I offered reassuringly.
We each took a sip and carefully set the glasses down before returning to eye contact.
“Very strong,” he said through contorted lips.
“Sometimes it’s not strong enough.”
“How do you know she didn’t have any problems?”
“Well I agree with your implication that there must have been something or she would not have taken her own life. I understand that. What I know is that she was an honor student and that she didn’t take drugs. She attended mass every Sunday with both of her parents. Everything seemed fine.”
“How did she kill herself?”
“She hung herself.”
“Did she say why?”
“Not exactly. There was no note. In fact, she had meticulously cleaned and organized her room. She even did her homework!”
“So what does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
“She left a journal that her mother found,” Daniel replied cautiously.
I listened to his thoughts and heard him question the lines of confidentiality.
“How well did you know her?” I asked, bringing it back to him and testing for his discomfort with the direction.
“She was very involved with the church,” he explained. “Community projects, fundraisers, those kinds of things.”
“Was she also of Japanese descent?” I asked, trying not to suggest it made the connection any greater.
“Yes,” he replied, without taking any apparent offense.
“Did she ever approach you with any of the things that might have been troubling her?”
“Not at all. In fact we spoke the day before she died. It was on Sunday and I had just finished giving mass. I was standing in the entrance to the church and saying goodbye to people as they were leaving. I remember very clearly putting my hands on her shoulders while talking to her and her parents. Everything seemed fine, and yet she already knew what she was going to do,” he concluded, shaking his head at his confusion.
Airplane Rides Page 8