Say Cheese
Page 4
He watched the plane taxi to the gate. Well, lurch might be a better word. It did seem to be having some difficulty maintaining a straight line, like a little airplane flunking a roadside sobriety test. Shep was absently working his way backward from Z to A, just to see if he could do it, now that the subject had been raised, but his attention slipped at the letter S. The little airplane had decidedly stopped in the middle of the taxiway, far from any gate or guide man, and yet the front door was clam-shelling open, dropping its built-in stairway to the ground. Shep hoped he was imagining the smoke that wafted out, even as one, and then both of the window exits behind the wings popped out, expelling running people onto the ground and gusts of smoke into the sky. Fire trucks raced up in a blitz of blinking lights, the whole scene unfolding on the other side of the soundproof glass like a surreal silent movie, minus the jangling piano accompaniment.
Passengers, and shortly the pilots, hurried away from the airplane even as fire fighters hurried toward it. The first and burliest on the scene lifted a diminutive flight attendant bodily from the airplane, set her off on a run toward the terminal, and then the night erupted in whipped cream, the firefighters all but obliterating the fuselage with foam like nine-year-olds in firemen’s hats gone wild at the popular kid’s birthday sundae bar.
As a unit, Shep’s fellow aspiring passengers had flung themselves against the window, cell phones drawn in a mad rush to Instagram. From his perch atop a window-side chair, Shep clung without shame to his hope: Maybe that wasn’t our plane.
Until “Ladies and gentlemen” squawked over the P.A. system. Shep didn’t bother to listen to the announcement past the word ‘obviously’. It was indeed obvious: wherever he ended up tonight, it wouldn’t be home.
The airline’s employees were very diligent, first in ensuring that everyone from the evacuated flight was quite all right, and then in soothing the boarding area full of frantically-tweeting witnesses with that information. When the reporters and cameras crushed into the concourse, the line of folks waiting to be rebooked evaporated as they clamored instead for their chance at five seconds of face time on the Phoenix news, and Shep magically jumped from twenty-eighth in line to “Next!” He was given a boarding pass for a flight to LAX in the morning, and a hotel voucher, and then sent on his way to the courtesy van. In the hubbub, first to YouTube the evacuation, and then to crow about having done so on the local news, people had scattered coffee cups, burger wrappers, and magazines until the gate room looked like the scene of a tornado touchdown. Shep picked his way around and through the crumpled pictures of Felix, knowing that the sad frowns in them were all in his imagination. Still, feeling equally trod upon, he tapped out a text:
I tried. Stranded in Phoenix. Flt tomorrow. I’m going to bed. 143
THE ENGAGEMENT party is over. It had gone over more or less as a hit: the food had been tasty, and everyone had gotten along like old pals, celebrities and waiters having more in common than they sometimes admit. All that had been missing was the actual engagement, and really only Felix had missed that, although rather acutely.
Now Felix is alone on the Re/LAX patio. His friends have gone home, the trio packed up an hour ago, the staff has cleared the table and, like most of the candles, melted away. Shep’s not coming home. It’s not his fault—apparently the circumstances at the Phoenix airport had been eye-poppingly extenuating—and Felix is trying hard to allow disappointment about his failed surprise without extrapolating rejection. Of course Shep loves him. It’s not like he bailed on the party—he hadn’t even known about it, and even if he had, events had been (apparently far) beyond his control. Still, Felix feels the littlest bit sorry for himself. He’s imagined the moment of proposing to Shep a million and one times, especially in recent weeks. The creeping look of suspicion as his toast took its romantic turn; the cries of delight at his unveiling of the pair of perfect, hand-tooled silver rings; the awwws and applause as Shep kissed him a big, fat, juicy Yes! The Re/LAX is nice and all, but pouting alone on its patio to forestall slouching home to an empty bed does rather pale in comparison to his original plan.
Still, he is eventually reminded by his half-numb butt that passing the night sitting up in a hard-backed dining chair is the least tantalizing of his available options. He gathers his coat, his shoes, and the rings, and plods through the lobby. Recognizing him, the valet tears himself from the beguiling young redhead behind the front desk and scurries away, and soon Felix’s car is idling at the top of the hill in front of the hotel. He tips the toothy valet, slides behind the wheel, and drives away.
“ROOM SERVICE!”
Eventually the call penetrates Shep’s dream, and he wrenches one eye open. The thudding on the door carries less ‘Sir, your breakfast’, and more ‘Help! Zombies!’ Either someone is desperate to drop off a tray of eggs, or the hotel’s burning down. He figures he’d better stumble to the door and ascertain which.
The blackout curtains are outlined by weak splashes of morning, but the room is still blue with dark. It takes him a second to find and wriggle into his undies, during which the pounding starts up anew. “Room service!”
“I didn’t order any room service,” he calls through the door.
“Room service.” Again.
“You have the wrong room.”
“I’d better not have the wrong room,” comes the waiter’s muffled voice. “Cuz I’m here to ask the guy in this one to marry me.”
Shep’s already padding back across the room to the bed. “Yeah, well, best wishes and all that. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.” His eyes drift closed. When he hears the waiter’s laugh, his top eyelids bounce off the bottom ones, and they open wide. “Felix?”
“It’d better be me, or you’re in big trouble. You wanna let me in already?”
Shep staggers back to the door, now so eager to see it open he fumbles with the chain of the night lock. Squinting into the glare of the hall, he can really only make out his silhouette, but he’s still tickled into giggles at the sight of Felix, fuzzy though it is. “What are you doing here?”
Felix, draped in the remnants of last night’s suit, steps into the room and gathers mostly naked Shep into his arms. “I just told you.”
Shep looks around. He leans out the door to make an exaggerated sweep of the hallway. “Where’s breakfast?”
“Not that part.”
“You mean...?”
Felix pulls a small box from his jacket pocket. Shep grabs his other hand and pulls him into the room. He lets the door slam itself shut and scampers across the room to open the curtains. Again he squints. Again he giggles. Again he takes Felix’s hand. Felix’s face is tired—unshaven, certainly puffier than they’d ever let it look on TV—but his eyes are dancing with a gleeful anticipation Shep usually only sees when ice cream or anal beads are imminent.
“What exactly did you have planned for last night?” Shep asks.
Felix allows a little grin. “There may have been a party.”
Shep’s heart swells at Felix’s puppy face. “All those pictures....”
“Just trying to set the mood.” Felix shrugs. “I figured if you knew I was feeling romance-y, you’d find a way home.”
“Oh honey, I tried.”
“I know you did. But then I was feeling romance-y, and I just couldn’t wait for you to get home today. I had to ask you. I had to know.”
“You already know.”
“Well?”
Shep’s eyes narrow even as his grin grows. “Let me see the ring.”
Felix pops the little box open with a practiced flourish, revealing identical silver rings—broad, flat bands, unadorned except for their polished sparkle. Simpler than Felix’s taste, they’re Shep to a T, and he squeals his approval.
Felix plucks one of the rings, sets the box on top of the oversized television, and takes Shep’s left hand in his. “Grover Shepherd,” he intones as he slips the ring onto Shep’s finger, “will you marry me?”
“Are you sure yo
u want me forever?”
Felix nods. “I want you forever for starters.”
Shep holds up his newly decorated hand, and nods approval. “Like I could ever want anyone else?”
“Is that a Yes?”
Shep smiles, first at his new ring, and then at his new fiancé. “It’s a Hell Yes.”
“Thank God.” Felix flops down on the bed. “You know, for two states that touch each other, California and Arizona are awfully far apart. I’ve been driving all night. You wanna go back to sleep?”
Shep hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his undies and gives the tug they require to drop to the floor. He steps out of them and climbs atop Felix. “I wanna go back to bed,” he says, unbuttoning Felix’s light linen shirt. “You won’t be getting any sleep for a while yet.”
MICHAEL P. THOMAS is a flight attendant whose writing is continually inspired by his work with the flying public, who flatly refuse to be boring. The author of three novel-length gay romances and a number of romantic and erotic shorts, he writes gay fiction because when he was coming out he sure was glad to have it to read. After misspending his youth in San Francisco, he now lives in his native Colorado with his husband.
MICHAEL P. THOMAS can be found at:
Website: http://misterstewardess.com/
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Twitter: https://twitter.com/MrStewardess