"I t'ought you tall guys liked bein' on da aisle," he said. I recognized his stupid Chicago accent immediately.
"Just a myth, my friend. Probably cooked up by a secret society of insecure short
people. Fact is, if I stay here, these silly stews are likely to trample my poor left foot right into oblivion. How 'bout it, holmes---I'll be more than happy to pay you for your trouble," I said with great sincerity, holding out a fifty dollar bill. The key was talking fast enough so he couldn't think.
"No-no, put'cher money away, pal. I'll be happy'da trade wit'cha."
"You sure?"
"Makes no dif'rence ta me, one way'r da other."
(So he bought it. He was actually kind've a nice guy, though, even if a little dense.
Funny thing is I normally like having the aisle seat. In case you have to get up and take a piss or something.)
"Thanks bud. I'll buy you a drink when the cart comes around."
"Done."
The girl didn't see us make the trade, either because she was too stupid to notice or
because she was busy stuffing something into the overhead compartment even though
everybody was still supposed to have their seat belt on, to be fair I'm not sure which. But I
do remember she was on her tip-toes, reaching up as high as she could, and so the short,
skintight leather skirt she was wearing rode right up those few marvelous inches, naturally, as she strained to get up a little higher. I loved it. Her back was to me, giving me a wonderful opportunity to assess the "splendid musculature" of her legs and ass, long a favorite leisure pastime of mine. I can still picture it: legs that could theoretically, you might say, have been shaped by Michelangelo's chisel, just as easily as they were probably shaped by countless hours at some trendy westside health club. But it was that caboose I really loved. Two perfect potatoes. And I was sure that those potatoes would be the most magnificent spuds in the world if I could just get my friggin' hands on them.
When she sat back down her fresh-scrubbed glance caught me full in the face; bright,
blonde, tan, daft, and grinning like a clown gone mad.
Now I didn't say anything right away. No way. That would have been, you know, tactically ill-advised. But I admit I wanted her. Yeah, I truly did. There was no kidding myself and so there's no reason to kid you.
Finally I came up with a decent opening move:
"Ever wonder how it gets up?"
She looked me up and down. Just like a guy would size up a girl. It was pretty funny.
"I beg your pardon?" she said clumsily.
"This incredible flying machine. Ever wonder how it gets off the ground?"
Predictably, not a word. She smiled a smile of pure relief, rolled her eyes, seemed to
sneak in a couple of deep breaths to steady herself, and then said, predictably and coolly and evenly, "No, not really. I'll leave that to the engineers." I could tell she was interested,
though.
"I'm truly disappointed. I would've thought a smart-looking girl like you would be
dying to know."
"Well do you know?...how it gets off I mean."
"Just so happens I do," I said, patting my huge right hand soothingly on her smooth left
forearm. Naturally she started squirming in her seat right away. As some've you guys
already know, it's essential to bring the sense of touch into the equation early on: "It's called airfoil," I said. "It'd take me about a hundred years to explain it, but let's just say it has something to do with the way air flows over the wing and under the wing to create a vacumn above the wing. Advanced aerodynamic theory, very high tech. My old man was an ace fighter pilot in Korea. Shot down a couple dozen enemy planes in defense of his country. Taught me everything I know." (Man, the things a guy will feed a chick when he's horny!)
"Oh come on!...really? Like a vacumn cleaner?"
"I swear," swore I, holding up three fingers of my right hand in the official Boy Scouts
salute. vacumn cleaner....Jesus....
It was at about this point that we actually introduced ourselves.
With the ice completely broken I proceeded to regale her with all sorts of fascinating stuff, including a detailed account of my fabulous college hoops career, as well as a more abbreviated account of my somewhat less fabulous and "ill-fated" career in the Pros that I started to tell you about, because women tend to love that sort of thing. It was sure better than talking about her boring job, that of a computer systems analyst or systems data consultant or something. The point is that we seemed to hit it off, words flowed freely, we each made a couple of sly references to how cute each thought the other was, you know. I mean I figured there was a genuine case of biology between us! You know? So I told her everything. The whole thrilling story of my life. I even showed her this neat old black-and-white snapshot of my mother that I keep in my wallet. (She showed me a picture of her cocker spaniel.) At least she was likeable, showed a lot of unnecessary concern about my knee, that sort of thing. She was pretty clever in one way, though. She had this upscale news magazine in her lap that I just know she was pretending to read, called U.S. News and World Report. Give me a break! Ever hear of a chick that given the choice could resist some "modern woman" rag along the lines of Cosmopolitan or Vogue or McCall's? Sure enough, each of those very publications was sticking out of the magazine pouch on the back of the seat in front of her. But in keeping with her own routine all she wanted to talk about was "world affairs", hardly the type of affairs either of us had in mind, believe me. She even tried to throw me off the track every so often, with provocative, worldly one-liners such as "Isn't Ollie great?" or "Isn't that slime-bucket Hart awful?", and I just wanted to grab that beautiful blonde mop and slap her twice and say "you got it backwards, honey", but all I did was smile like an idiot and nod my head. And then she starts asking questions about me, which I hate. All sorts of questions, especially about how I hurt the knee, and even though it's honestly no big deal I let her gush a little bit just to make her feel good. It's a proven fact that most women, even the hot-looking ones, like to mother a guy. Which is fine, I guess. Up to a point....
And so on and on she went, chatting urbanely away on both world affairs and her own
magnificent life, telling me all about all the fabulous places she'd travelled to, I mean she was so damned excited about the very act of travelling you wouldn't believe it, South America, the Orient, the Caribbean, Europe this, England that, et cetera et cetera blah blah blah blah blah, and when I couldn't take it any more, when I finally got sick to death of the obligatory smalltalk we males must endure just to make it look good, I just went for it:
"So have you decided yet?"
"Decided?"
"Yeah. If you wanna do it. Tonight. With me."
"....do it?"
"Come on. Don't play stupid."
"I beg---"
"You want I should entertain you first? Maybe make a rhyme? Okay, try this---birds do
it, bees do it, guys with bum knees do it.... satisfied?"
"I don't---"
"Look, darlin'. I'm more than willing to be the first one to say I'm interested, and I
surely do suspect that yer interested, and I've never been one to waste time on verbal foreplay so why don't we just cut to the chase. Make some plans for when this thing finally touches down. We'll split a cab. Get a room in London, west end. Skip dinner. Sound
reasonable?"
"You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you!" she said finally, and with a wicked sort of grin. And I suppose I am. In addition to being six-foot-five (I'm sorry, but this must be stated flatly for the sake of the story) I'm extremely good-looking myself. Quick summary: We're talking muscular dead-fit body, year round tan, Italian movie star face even though I'm only half Italian, heavy-lidded brown eyes, and a head of short, curly, "comic book" hair; meaning that type of black hair in comic books so black that it looks like there's a little blue in it. The w
hole package. I suppose I'm blessed with the kind of looks that make women whisper things to their friends when they see me at a nearby table in a restaurant, or at the other end of a bar. And I don't say these things to be boastful. I really don't. I could've been born ugly or disfigured or with a face chocked full of zits or pockmarks, but the fact is I wasn't. It doesn't make me a great guy or anything, or a bad guy for saying so, it's just the way it is. Truthfully it's a little embarrassing even mentioning it....
But I'll tell you this. I wasn't any better looking for a guy than she was for a chick. She was something. Y'know what, she sort of reminded me of this one cheerleader-type chick I
first went out with when we were at UCLA, who I suppose I'll be forced to tell you about
later. Same gymnast's body, same medium-to-large tits just big enough to jiggle under a
sweater when she moved her shoulders a certain way. Same legs and ass. My same
involuntary reaction to all of it, just like every other poor slob who has ever been born with a penis dangling between his legs. God damn, she was scrumptious....
"Not really," I answered humbly. "Just honest. What about you, you a big fan of
honesty? Honestly? Let's be honest, now."
Like a lot of fine-looking women do she just sat there and smiled and didn't say anything. Turns out she was kind of shy about the whole sex thing. The usual. When she finally got up enough nerve to actually fight back she couldn't even look me in the eye right away.
"What about....safety?" she said quietly.
"What, you mean birth control?" I said louder.
"No!" she whispered, "I mean safe sex....I mean what about, you know....AIDS!"
That was the killer. It didn't matter that it was the middle of a crowded stuffy airplane, I just had to burst out laughing. Y'know, that's the thing I hate most about fine-looking women. They're just like us biologically, basically the same urges and instincts and everything, how do you think we wound up with these five billion stupid people, right?, but they just don't play the game honest. I mean this sweet young thing practically admitted she couldn't wait to bag my bod as much as I couldn't wait to bag hers, that's the way it should be goddammit, but just like practically every other two-bit female I've ever known she didn't have the guts to follow through right from the opening gun. Always the stupid gamesmanship first. And then comes the inevitable shifting of gears, the making of excuses, the changing of mind. Cowards. Flakes and cowards. That's all they are. At least the ones that are, anyway. Anyway, that's why I laughed.
"Ssh! People are looking!"
"Oh! People are looking! At us? Wow! Excuse me, princess! Who knew anybody'd
be looking!" Man, I was laughing all the way through it.
"Ssh....please....there's no need to be obnoxious."
"Look, if yer not interested all you gotta do is say so. No need to put up a smoke screen and call me names just because you don't happen to be a spontaneous person," I said. Now I was beginning to get pissed off.
"Oh no, it's not that, really," she said. You wouldn't have believed the way she was whispering. You would've thought we were plotting to overthrow the free world, not deciding whether or not to get laid: "I am interested, and I am spontaneous. But I think it's just as important to be responsible, don't you? I mean, don't you ever read anything? It's an epidemic! We have to be careful! And now they're saying that when a person....well, sleeps with somebody....well you just don't know who you're getting nowadays---orwhat!"
I guess I should take a minute to say a thing or two about this so-called "epidemic"; especially for those of you who might be reading this thing five or fifty years from now. This of course was the year the whole damn country was losing its collective mind over the AIDS scare, the most popular panic in years, and I never could figure it out. A few thousand sexual deviants and needle jockeys shrivel up from this thing, and the way people fretted over it you would've thought it was the second coming of the Bubonic Plague. I guess it must've been because it's mainly a sexually transmitted disease that AIDS got so many people so worked up. That part makes sense, sure. And when that fruity movie star and that swishy piano player and those "honorable" Congressmen kicked off it didn't help matters any. But hell, the way I understand it, for a healthy red-blooded heterosexual to get AIDS from another heterosexual, he (or she) would have to get naked and horizontal practically every hour on the hour with a different partner for about six months straight! And I'm not sure, but I think there would have to be open sores or cuts involved, too. I'm no expert or anything. But there's easier ways to die, right? Look at all the poor saps who get cancer, and heart disease. Millions of people die every day. I tell you, there's plenty in this world for a guy to worry about without making it worse. A regular guy's in more danger crossing the street or driving a car, or riding in a goddam airplane for that matter. And as far as a chick is concerned it doesn't really matter if she's gay, straight, bi, or an inflatable plastic doll, she's pretty much in the clear....right?
Now before you all go and mentally jump all over me, let me just say that I'm not insensitive about the poor unlucky souls that actually catch AIDS. I'm not. Obviously it's a
rotten deal, if you've got it. But the subject had no business polluting this particular
conversation between me and this outrageous girl, I'm sorry. The odds are just too
astronomical. And that's the only point I'm trying to make bout AIDS, okay? My mom says that's my problem, that I always insist on saying exactly what's on my mind (no matter what), and maybe she's friggin' spot-on in her analysis of me (she usually is), but that's just the way I am. I can't help it the times when honesty isn't popular.
Anyway, for those of you who weren't born yet, or in case you were spending the
decade on Mars or something, I wanted to let you know what it was like living in America in 1987. It was crazy.
But at this stage of the game there was no point in me telling the girl how stupid I thought she was. At least not yet:
"Honey, let me ask you something. Do you come from a good family?"
"Why, yes---"
"Me too," I half lied. "And do you, sexually at least, consider yourself a responsible,
discriminating adult?"
"Well, sure I do, but---"
"Same here," I exaggerated. "Now then, pay attention. Are those silky smooth, milky
white, and seemingly uninfected loins of yours fairly dripping, in fact, with the dreaded killer-virus AIDS?"
"My what? No! I mean no, of course not!" She was whispering again.
"Ditto! How 'bout that for coincidence! And to think I was worried there for a minute!
Whew. So, now that we've established what great people we both are, why don't we just cut the bull_ _ _ _ and do something about this obvious attraction we have for one another--- sound reasonable?"
She was pretty confused but I could tell she could tell I was serious, so she did the
predictable female thing and just didn't say anything. She just looked at me. So I said,
"Well?", and she, looking very stressed out by now, finally blurted out, "Well, maybe when we're both back in L.A., maybe then. We could go out! We could get to know each other, and---"
"Look, Petunia, let me tell you something," I think I began. By this time I probably felt like calling her every filthy name in the book. But I didn't. I guess I have Mom to thank for that too. That fine old lady did a friggin' great job of raising me, man---by herself---always teaching me what was and was not cool, always bailing my ass out of trouble, and all the while working about 60 hours a week at one grunt job after another just so we'd get by. (Small wonder when I got my Pro signing bonus the first thing I did was put a chunk of cash down on a rad little condo for her, in South Pasadena.) She drilled it into me from the start not to swear, said that God wouldn't like it and all that jive, she's the reason I don't ever use the "f" word. Or the "s" word or the "p" word or any of the "c" words, for that matter. So I guess you could say
she's the reason I didn't tell that stupid cover-girl phony what I really thought of her act....
But all that having been said, I guess you can tell I was still about to sort've lose my
temper. It's like I was trying to tell you earlier---it's amazing how a fine-looking woman can get under a guy's skin, even when he has far more important things on his mind:
"I don't plan on coming back here in the near future, understand? The reason I'm on this stupid flying sausage is that I hafta get out of here! I hafta do a job over there! I'm not some jerk tourist taking his goddam two weeks of vacation, for godsake! So it's now or never, sweetmeat. Don't waste my time. When this pig touches down you'll either never see me again or I guarantee you'll have one of the greatest nights of your magnificent, globetrotting life. It's that simple. So which is it?"
At first, not a word. She just looked at me. But when all that pathetic phony silence
became too embarrassing she had to say something. This is how I remember it:
"You sure don't make it easy for a girl."
"That's my line, isn't it?"
"It's not that I....don't like you....but your attitude....I guess I'm trying to make
The Basketball Expatriate Page 2