Dumb Luck

by J G Jerome

  “Oh, that’s terrible! How do you ever take a moment to unwind?”

  She shrugs and says, “There really hasn’t been much opportunity…” She looks down to her lap for a moment, and then back up to my eyes, “...although, I’m starting to think it might be a good idea.”

  I sense an opportunity for another pithy comment, but in an unusual moment of wisdom I chose instead to cock an eyebrow at her in the hopes she would continue. She shrugs again, looks down, and just as she’s about to start, the male flight attendant introduces himself over the intercom as “Greg, the Purser” and encourages us to watch the pre-flight safety briefing.

  First class passengers get the treat of Erica doing the safety dance. She keeps her eyes focused towards the floor most of the time, which really wakes up my inner Dom. I do catch her looking at Myra and myself a couple of times each, but mostly at the floor about four feet in front of her. I don’t know if swaying her hips or pushing breasts forward as she slowly pushes the inflation tube in-and-out of her pursed lips are part of the official presentation, but they keep my attention on the demonstration. Or maybe it’s my overactive imagination. Lord knows my libido is running higher than normal with all the flirting this morning.

  We immediately push back as Erica wraps up. We taxi to the end of the runway and hold for the stars and aircraft to align. Just before the pilot punches the accelerator, Myra reaches over to place her fingers gently on my arm. I look over to see that she is pushed back into her seat with her eyes squeezed closed. She cracks her eyes open and looks at me sideways with a wry grimace. I just hold her hand and watch her. About 10 minutes after Erica’s dance we are jetting towards Philly.

  As the plane levels out, Myra turns to me in her seat and puts her right hand over my left. “I hate these flying tin cans. They are just not natural. I can’t say that I like trains or cars much better. I am better about riding in them all now having been in this job for several years, but I will never like it.”

  “I got the impression you were going to tell me a little more about your impending need to unwind,” I prompt.

  She again looks down to her lap for a moment as though she was marshalling her courage, and then back up to my eyes. “How do you do this to me,” she asks.

  “Do what to you?”

  “Make me want to tell you about myself.”

  “Mad skills,” I respond.

  A little laughter returns to her eyes as her lips sketch another wry grin. Both slowly fade as she drops her eyes and begins to speak. “The work I do is very political in nature. I work for a private organization that provides a wide variety benefits to a wide variety of concerns world-wide. My job is to resolve conflicts between different factions in a manner that keeps at least the appearance of peaceful co-existence and cooperation without eroding the power and influence of the central organization. I go from one conflict to the next between people that are completely wrapped up their own interests. They refuse to see how completely fulfilling their personal agendas will have seriously negative consequences to the other parties or the community in general. I’ve been doing this job ever since I completed my education, and the drain on my soul is making me very weary.”

  She pauses a moment, and I interject, “So...you are responsible to make the White House and congress actually work? Oh God! That is soul-destroying work!”

  She barks out a laugh as her eyes light up. Aw, my magic is working! “No,” she chuckles, “as messed up as the current administration is and how completely worthless the modern congress is, that would be child’s play by comparison. Imagine groups that all consider themselves royalty or gods all working at odds with each other while all supposedly working for common goals.”

  “Oh you mean like Mr. Wonderful?” Pointing at GC.

  “Exactly,” she chuckles. She leans forward and whispers, “How did you get to ‘GC’ from that name?”

  “Gerald with a ‘G.’ Apparently it’s important to him,” I say. At that point GC stirs a bit in his seat. Myra stares intently at him for a moment, and he promptly falls back into passivity. ‘That’s an interesting coincidence.’

  Instead of pointing it out, I say, “Sounds like you need a vacation.”

  “You may be onto something. I doubt it will be possible for a while. This job in Sedona is likely going to require a bit of travel back-and-forth to arrange. The parties involved are not particularly enthusiastic about traveling to get around a table to iron out their differences because they refuse to give up the home field advantage. Some are getting better about leveraging technology to discuss issues and open negotiations, but they are just starting to build trust in technology. I am setting up a concord in Sedona as it is outside the territory of all the parties involved in this current conflict, plus the vortexes make it a desirable place to visit for all parties. If I can pull it off, it should reduce the normal level of stupidity significantly”

  ‘Spiritualist nuts’ I think, then respond with, “How did you end up in Hartford?”

  “I needed to shake up one of the parties to get them to the table. He was visiting his office outside of Hartford; so, I flew in to catch him by surprise and give him some encouragement. Phoenix, to Philly, to Hartford and then turn around immediately to back.”

  “So, that’s why you’re traveling without your posse,” I joke.

  “Exa-actly!”

  We chat back and forth for the rest of the trip. Myra is adorable when she wraps her arms around my right arm and buries her face in my shoulder as we make the approach. Erica sees us in that posture as she hustles to her jump seat, and she sketches a quick wink at me as she buckles in.

  When the bell dings, I launch up, retrieve Myra’s bag and my own, then stand beside my seat to let her out. Of course Mr. Center-of-the-universe across the aisle blocks the walkway before Myra gets out. I am patient for about half a minute as he stands stock still in the aisle having his phone conversation while blocking everyone’s egress. At that point, I drop my left knee into the back of his right knee, catch his right elbow as he starts to fall, and snag his phone. I say into the phone, “I’m sorry, but he’ll have to call you right back,” and then hang up the call. I hand the phone to the “gentleman” as I help him sit on the arm of his seat.

  “Are you OK, sir? Why don’t you sit here while I get your bag down. Which one is it?”

  He points it out, and I pull down one that was nearly as big as GC’s. I help him to his feet and wish him well on his way. He keeps staring at me like I ate his dog, but he does leave rapidly. I push Myra’s bag in front, and she pushes it towards the door. As she passes GC, she tells him, “have a safe trip home Gerald.”

  GC looks up at her with wide eyes and replies, “Thank you. I will.” Then he returns his gaze to the bulkhead and starts blinking. Myra turns past the galley and heads out onto the jet bridge to stop in front of Erica, who is wishing passengers safe travels. They wrap each other in a warm hug. I could not hear what Myra said to her, but Erica’s eyes pop for a moment, followed by a huge grin. She gives Myra a quick peck on the cheek and short nod, and the two separate.

  I also stop in front of Erica, who also gives me warm hug. “Please call me,” she whispers into my ear.

  “I definitely will, Beautiful,” I whisper back. And then as we part I said louder, “You’re right! She’s got a mighty fine motor!” We share a laugh as I walk up the jet bridge.

  Myra is throwing a pose half-way up the ramp looking back with her eyebrow arched, “Only ‘mighty fine?’ ” she asks with a smirk.

  “A man has to be careful singing the praises of one beauty while he holds another in his arms,” I deliver back as deadpan as possible. Her laugh indicates my career as a straight-man may be short-lived as she turns to march on up the ramp.

  Chapter 2 - Interrupted Schedule

  When I exit the gate, Myra is checking the nearest monitor for our gate. She nods once, hangs her blazer over the handle of her roller-bag, then squats next to it to put her portfolio int
o the outer pocket. At that point I immediately upgrade my assessment from ‘mighty fine’ to ‘completely divine.’

  I pull up next to her. “We are at F8 and we need to go to B14,” she says as she looks up at me.

  “March or ride, I ask?” She stands up and gives me the universal ‘watchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Willis’ look as she smooths the lapels of my blazer. “The tram takes a significant amount of time off the trek and we only have 55 minutes,” I clarify.

  She closes her eyes for a moment to marshall her courage, and then says, “Another tin-can it is.”

  I look her in the eyes for a moment and then slide my arm around and pull her into an embrace. She lays her head on my shoulder and pulls me close. “I will keep you as safe as possible, Darling.”

  She gives me a squeeze and then steps back. “Okay, let’s do this.” She drapes her blazer over her left arm and then grabs my right arm above the elbow. I give her a crook to hold as she snags her bag. We step off in search of the tram.

  Once on board, I wrap one arm around a post and pull her close with the other. I whisper my upgraded assessment of her ass into her ear to distract her from the ‘tin can’ experience. She gives me a squeeze in return, but my line of sight does not allow me to see if it registered in her expression.

  How did I get lucky enough to have this divine woman attached to me? I have no idea, but I learned long ago not to question good luck. Now my standing operating procedure is go with it, enjoy it, and be ready for it to run out. So, I just stand there holding onto her as if her life depended on it, absorbing the vibrant warmth and smell of her. Her scent is amazing. She wears just a hint of lightly floral perfume. The smell of her own unique scent is apparent underneath the perfume, but it is not at all easy to describe. It stirs visions of dark chocolate and cherries, but that’s more of a mental picture than the actual smell. Yet, I can’t describe what she actually smells like other than comfort and sweetness.

  We quickly arrive at our stop for B concourse, and I lead the way through the press of the crowd to our gate. The gate display says we have roughly 20 minutes until boarding starts. We take turns watching bags while we rotate to the loo. During her turn I pick up a couple of waters at the adjacent gift shop. As I hand one to Myra, I ask if she will indulge me for about 10 minutes. She agrees; so, I lead her about 50’ past our gate to an open area between some infrastructure closets and the next gate.

  I pull my bag up to the window and pull off my blazer and the ¼-zip sweater I had on underneath. I explain as I disrobe down to the dark t-shirt under my sweater, “I have a hard time sitting immobile as long as these flights require, and the next one is going to be a bitch. I need to do some stretches.” I then pull off my boots.

  Her eyes pop and she responds, “That’s a great idea. I wish I were dressed for it.”

  I shrug and say, “get rid of the blazer and the shoes, back up to the window and do some Mountain pose, twists, and hip bends. Only the guys on the tarmac will be able to stare at that gorgeous ass of yours. I really can’t begrudge them the view.”

  She laughs and says, “You’re on,” as she kicks off her shoes and hangs the blazer over the handle of her rollaboard.

  We go through a sunrise salute together with some twists thrown in for good measure. She surprises me by following me into the Plank-Cobra-Downward Dog sequence. She performs them better than I do. I guess she is familiar with them. When I do some basic animal motion exercises, she stops and watches as I flow through the Bear, Frogger, and Monkey motions. I usually pick up spectators when I do those in public; so, I try to avoid it unless I’m cooped up in one of Myra’s tin cans for a long flight. I figure we are far enough out of the traffic pattern to mostly avoid an audience. Only a couple of folks were obviously gawking when we finished.

  Feeling much more alive, we dress and head back to the gate sipping our water. The energy at the gate is unbelievably negative. The gate display makes the reason apparent - we have a two-hour maintenance delay. I pull up my phone, and check available flights as Myra grabs my arm and looks at the screen with me. The next flight leaves in over two hours, and the one after that was one and a half hours after it.

  I look at Myra, raise both eyebrows, and ask, “Shall we find a campground for a while?” She nods. “What is your preference - bar, food court, restaurant, or gate?”

  She considers for a moment while looking around the gate area. She finally responds with “Wait here for just a minute?” I nod, and she glides up to the gate to place a hand on the shoulder of a harried, older gate agent. They have a quick discussion, and then Myra gives him a 100 kilowatt smile and turns back to me.

  She takes about ten steps towards me in a quick business-like stride when she sees me watching her. She gives a little twist of her head and grins, then she drops from ‘glide’ to a panther-style ‘stalk.’ Her eyes never leave mine and they appear to light from within as she slowly stalks right up to me, wraps her arms around my neck, and whispers, “See something you like, handsome?”

  I hesitate for just a moment, and then quietly reply, “Like is not nearly a strong enough word to describe what I have going on at the moment.” At that point she pulls me into a hug, burying her face into my neck as she presses her breasts hard into my rib cage.

  I keep looking down at her as I wrap my arms around her and give back as good as I’m getting. She looks up at me and asks, “What are you doing to me?”

  “I don’t know. I was going to ask you the same thing. I’ve known you for roughly two hours, and I already have more chemistry with you than I have with any of my former girlfriends or ex-fiancé. I haven’t even kissed you.”

  She smirks and says, “I recommend you correct that.” So I do.

  I think the current term is “OMG!” Sweet, warm, honey-flavored lips, and then a tongue swimming in ambrosia. Our tongues dance, and our lips devour each other. I have no idea how long we stand there wrapped up in each other, but the energy at the gate is much better by the time we come up for air.

  “Damn, girl! What are you doing to me,” I whisper to her.

  “I asked first,” she chuckles quietly back to me.

  “Shall we go find a campsite?”

  “Let’s,” she says. And then we stroll arm-in-arm down the concourse in the direction the gate agent recommended.

  Chapter 3 - a Delay to Remember

  She was not kidding about getting accosted everywhere. We are strolling down the concourse locked in each other’s arms, and I bet we look like a couple on their honeymoon. Despite that, not one, but two “high-powered businessman” stereotypes, one with a beer barrel under his shirt and the other a 5’6” Arnold wannabe, approach her to convince her that she needs to upgrade. Beer-barrel gives up with only a “here’s my card. You can call me when you’re ready.” Later, the lunk-head actually puts his hand on my chest to push me away. The arrogant prick probably would have pushed my face if he could have reached it.

  I already have his hand pinned and am moving towards a submission lock when Myra lets go of her bag and thrusts the palms of both hands up under his chin and walks him back about ten feet before he falls on his ass. Since his face barely cleared her breasts when standing in front of her, I doubt he has any clue what she did to him until she steps on his right arm with her heel spike, and drops her right knee into his solar plexus. She points a finger in his face and says in her clear warm voice, “Do not ever touch my man again, and do not ever speak to me again. If you even try to break these rules the pain will be unbearable.”

  The prick’s face has that same moon-glow that GC did on the airplane as his eyes pop wide open like she is twisting his scrotum. “Y-y-y-yes, ma-a-a-am,” he stutters as a policeman walks up.

  The policeman walks up with his hand on his taser, but Myra looks up at him and quickly says, “No longer a problem, officer. I would rather go have a quiet drink with my man than waste the time it would take to file charges against this piece of walking excrement.” The officer has the moon
glow for just an instant before it fades from his face too, but I‘m concentrating on the fact that she has called me her man twice in a minute. Heady stuff!

  She walks back to me and winks as she grabs my arm and snags her bag. “Shall we, Darling?”

  I do what any reasonable man would at that point. “Yes, ma’am!”

  We are only about 20 feet from the bar that is our destination. We walk in the ‘door’ and angle toward the back corner booth. It is stacked full with about 6 bags, which apparently belong to the 20-something road warriors at the next table.

  Myra walks up to them, and asks “Would you boys mind moving your bags so my man and I can get off our feet?”

  ‘Three in two minutes.’

  They look up with disdain on their faces, which quickly evaporates into awe when they cast their eyes on the glory of Myra. And then, as though they had rehearsed it, they respond in unison, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Myra asks me while they are clearing the space if I would take the booth facing the room. “It helps reduce the likelihood of someone accosting me,” she explains.

  “Sure. Given my background, I’m more of a back to the corner and facing the doors kind of guy anyway.”

  “Given a couple of the stories on the airplane, I am not surprised,” she responds with a sympathetic smile.

  We take our seats, settle our bags out of the way and look at the menu. I have been in this place a couple of times on previous trips, and table service was non-existent. This time, we just cracked the menus open when there is a server standing at Myra’s shoulder. We each order a Yuengling draft and a large club soda. The nice young man runs off to get them while we peruse the menu.