Airplane Rides
Authors: Jake Alexander
Airplane Rides
Observations From Above
By
Jake Alexander
*******
Published by
Jake Alexander
Airplane Rides Observations From Above
Copyright 2014 Jake Alexander
License Notes
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Chapter One – AA Flight #232, Chicago
(ORD) to Newark (EWR)
Chapter Two – UA Flight #1287, San
Francisco (SFO) to New York (JFK)
Chapter Three – DA Flight #14, New York
(LGA) to Miami (MIA)
Chapter Four – UA Flight #3102,
Washington DC (IAD) to Saint Louis (STL)
Chapter Five – UA Flight #1382, Chicago
(ORD) to New York (LGA)
Chapter Six - AA Flight #1409, Dallas
(DFW) to Los Angeles (LAX)
Chapter Seven – AA Flight #268,
Columbus (CMH) to New York (LGA)
Chapter Eight – UA Flight #196, San
Francisco (SFO) to New York (JFK)
Chapter Nine – CA Flight #333, Las Vegas
(LAS) to New York (LGA)
Chapter Ten – AA Flight #569, New York
(JFK) to Los Angeles (LAX)
Sometime early in my adult existence I made certain career
decisions that sealed my fate as a modern day nomad, flying from city to city
with all of my tools for life organized neatly into a rolling carry-on bag.
While qualifying as a young adult in years, I was more a child then; searching
for heroes and, perhaps even more immature, still thinking I might be one of
them. So as life would have it, I would complete my transformation from boy to
man on the road, slowly blurring life’s rights and wrongs, polishing my act
and, most importantly, learning how to listen to others.
This book is hundreds of thousands of frequent-flyer miles in
the making and is possibly the most perfect representation of who I am and how
I came to be. Initially, I had expected that these memories would fade, but
instead they continued to haunt me until I had no choice but to better
understand why they mattered. The answer was not found in a particular encounter,
no sudden realization about myself or the choices I’ve made. Instead, these
interludes in their collective assembly are each a small but permanent and
relevant component of my odyssey over the decade during which the stories
occurred.
I have chosen these conversations because they have been the
ones to stay with me through the years, the voices that I remember most clearly
while staring out at the clouds or into a miniature glass of cheap chardonnay
on yet another excursion. So in some respects, while so much of my time has
been lost, traveling from one place to the next only to land again a stranger,
these conversations have become my adopted life experiences. Experiences
perhaps understood more clearly when conveyed 36,000 feet closer to, or a mere mechanical
malfunction away from, heaven.
Early in this process, temptations frequently weighted me with
confusion. I often found myself morally wayward and exploiting the weaknesses
of others. Years of such behavior resulted in a low point, leaving me burdened
by the realization of my hopelessness, as suggested by a woman who may have
been something more than a casual romance. Later on there were the occasional
enlightenments that elevated me to a more lasting clarity. These were
opportunities to demonstrate a more selfless capacity and ultimately to be
awakened by the unexpected and liberating nature of compassion.
These stories come specifically and truthfully from people I
have had the pleasure of sitting beside on journeys through the sky. I will never
disclose the true identities of these individuals who are unknowing
contributors to this work and I make the sincere representation that while
listening, it was not my intention to take their lives to print but rather
simply to lend an ear, learn and sometimes help pass otherwise very lonely
time.
As does each of us, these people had an important and
captivating story to tell.
Fitting these conversations together like small pieces of a
lifelong collage allows us to see that people are hopeful when life is hardest
on them. This hope is enduring despite their unfortunate nature to repeat the
same obvious mistakes that tangle them. This hope captivates them as they
observe the difficult situations of others, searching for reassurance that it
is not foolish to hope in the first place.
I expect you will find these stories remarkable and perhaps
suspect that I have embellished. My response is that most people want to talk
about themselves, and in many instances need to confess. You may play the
skeptic if you like, but the truths of life are far more exciting than anything
one may conjure. Life has a detailed reality inside a definitive context that
no one except perhaps a brilliant artist could assemble. I am no such artist,
simply a good listener who has honed his skills at reading between the
sentences, asking the questions that race through each of our minds but rarely
off our tongues and capitalizing on the power of knowing that in all likelihood
one will never see a person again.
I was on the ground in New York at a late night dinner
gathering, hosted by an old business school friend named Marcus. There were
six of us in all, evenly sided and subtly matched, no man under 30, no woman
over 20. Marcus was the oldest of the group chronologically. His life was
primarily about doing his best to enjoy the enduring goodwill of his family
name while making his own as a perennial Manhattan bachelor. The other man at
the table was named Jonathan, an equally “well-positioned” reluctant socialite
who hailed from the more northern town of Greenwich, Connecticut. Jonathan was
taking advantage of a four-hour furlough granted by the lady he was committed
to marry on some undetermined date in a galaxy far, far away. I liked
Jonathan, and found his pompous nature amusing. He was one of the few people I
knew who could make smoking pot look aristocratic. In addition to selecting
the restaurant, Marcus had provided the women: three young models, all recent
arrivals to New York, all looking to break into “the business,” as it was
referred to for the duration of the evening.
The six of us gathered around the table, dimly lit by several
small candles. We ate trendy Thai food with metal-tipped chopsticks and sipped
fine Chablis. The women were flawless white canvas, tall and thin, their
features perfectly proportioned. Each was addressed by a nickname for which
only Marcus knew the derivation.
“Really Marcus, where do you find these beauties?” Jonathan
asked.
Smiles were shared among the compliment recipients.
The blondest of the trio, who Marcus referred to as
“Blackjack,” gave Jonathan a friendly swat on the shoulder, a sign that she
still relied on adolescent conveyances of affection.
The waiter showed up to peddle another over-priced Chablis to
Marcus.
“We are going to switch over to red, so if you could be so kind
as to show the wine list to my father here,” he stated, pointing graciously at
me with an open hand.
It was one of his standard lines that always got a laugh. This
time was no exception.
I pulled the trigger quickly on a bottle of 97 Martinelli
Reserve so not to allow the conversation to get too far along without me.
“Wait, I thought you were older,” inquired Kendra, a delicate
brunette who was still made-up from the hair conditioner shoot she had worked
that day.
Always a sucker for the Audrey Hepburn type, of the three
women, I was the most attracted to her and it was not by accident she was
sitting to my right.
“You’re correct,” I informed her.
“Thanks, Dad,” Marcus shot back.
“How old are you Marcus?” asked Wendel, also a blonde and too
young to have learned it was impolite to ask, even for a woman.
“Twice as old as you,” jabbed Jonathan.
“Stop exaggerating,” replied Marcus.
“His birthday is coming up,” I offered, greasing the skids
before ducking behind my glass of wine.
“You do the math Wendel. I’ll whisper Marcus’s age in your ear
and you tell everyone if I am guilty of exaggerating.”
The young girl agreed, leaning into Jonathan and smiling so
widely I had suspected he provided more than an age.
“Really?” she asked, looking Marcus over for false teeth or a
hearing aid to corroborate the claim.
“Twice and then some.”
The group howled in stereo, well above the voices of the other
establishment patrons.
“My God. They are children!” exclaimed Jonathan motioning at
them with his manicured hands.
“Here we go, Mr. Engagement is going to go moral on us, ”
replied Marcus with a disappointed shake of his head. “These children my friend
could teach you a thing or two.”
The three young women sat up a bit straighter in unison.
“Right, and next week we’ll be trolling for dates at the Junior
High School.”
Everyone laughed at the joke except Jonathan himself.
“When are you getting married?” asked Wendel.
“He doesn’t know yet. He’s on the relationship equivalent of
death row. It’s going to happen, he just doesn’t know when,” said Marcus.
More laughs were had.
“With all your gallivanting, let’s hope you don’t end up with a
faster sentence,” replied Jonathan.
“Now that hurt.”
Blackjack decided to speak up in Marcus’s defense.
“I’ve had plenty of boyfriends, it’s not like anyone is taking
advantage. I enjoy dates like this much more than the things we would do back
home. At least when I have sex, now it’s in a bed.”
The pre-dinner apple martini was showing its weight, causing an
ever so minor slur in Blackjack’s delivery.
“Jonathan, I’m having fun. You should try it sometime. But
more to the point, they’re having fun, going to exciting places and meeting
cool people and never once were they put in a bad position. Not once.”
Marcus was making the zero sign with his fingers for effect.
Wendel jumped in. “I love hanging out with Marcus.”
“Ok, but what’s the price? He is clearly an adult and supposed
to know better than to encourage you to trade excitement or access for sex.”
The girls didn’t like the sound of that one, and as for the sex
that he was referring to, I was fairly certain that Jonathan wouldn’t be having
any that evening.
“And what if I like the sex too?” retorted Blackjack.
The very statement was arousing, and Marcus couldn’t help but
smile at Jonathan.
“Well then I guess it’s a good deal all around,” I said,
raising my glass of newly poured red, ending the discussion and permitting
Jonathan an honorable retreat into the new wine in front of him.
Through the gap in the thick gold tapestry drapes, I could see
the glimmer of dawn turning the sky from black to gray. A glance at the
glowing red numbers on the alarm clock confirmed my fear that another restless
night had gotten the best of me. I tried to remember back to when mornings
made me happy, when they were a chance at another day. I couldn’t, in the same
way I couldn’t recall the last time I had slept fully through the night.
Mornings had become an end rather than a beginning, a long series of realizations
that yet another opportunity to find at least a brief serenity had been lost.
My throat was choked with dryness and my lips felt swollen with
dehydration. Salty Thai food and pinot noir was yet another discovered
poisonous combination. I shifted around looking for cool spots on the bed and
silently kicking the excess pillows onto the floor. After twenty minutes of the
same, I slid out from under the sheet that covered me and away from Kendra’s
fragile body. I walked across the room to the armoire in which the minibar was
concealed and in the dim light of the morning rifled through the undersized
bottles searching for water. Unsuccessful, I grabbed a cranberry juice
instead, gulping down the cold tart liquid before returning to the side of the
bed. I looked down at the young girl, suspecting that she had padded her age by
a year, and thought about what Jonathan had said about having known better. I
should have, but lately that seemed very often the case. My list of moral
infractions was growing so long there was a certain futility to it. What was
another nineteen-year-old, another truth stretched, another impediment
eliminated? It was all on the margin at this point anyway.
I was so tired and wanted to lay down again, yet I knew that
sleep would evade me. It would be another two hours before the hotel
restaurant would be open and another three before the commencement of my first
meeting. I headed into the bathroom to get myself cleaned up, putting off the
shave so as to avoid withstanding the scrutiny of my stare in the mirror. The
hot water of the shower offered little clarity as I struggled to free the tiny
bar of hotel soap from the cellophane wrapper and ultimately gave up when it
slipped from my grasp and out onto the tile floor. Wet and unshaven, I put on
a thick white terry cloth robe bearing the hotel crest, headed into the salon
area of my hotel suite and sat down on one of two large parlor chairs that
faced each other and were separated by a small round ebony table on which a bud
vase holding a single white orchid had been placed.
For an hour I sat there, questioning my life and trying to
imagine present-day conversations with the people of my past, people who had
mattered. I pictured them sitting across from me as they might look today,
slightly older but still vibrant. I wondered what words might pass between us
and if they would notice all that I hoped to hide in the shadows of the
morning. I tried to justify the expenditure of my existence into the brink of
moral bankruptcy, rationalizing to a face that wasn’t there. The sleeping
child in my bed was merely a symptom, and in the immortal words of Ricky
Ricardo, I “had some splaining to do.”
As the new day’s light filled the room, the edges of the flower
became more defined and its beauty and purity more apparent. Between the
flower and I it was understood that the chairs I would share would continue to
be absent familiar smiles, only strangers momentarily engaged for each business
meeting, each destination and each step into the darkness of my self-designed
isolation.
AA Flight # 232
Chicago (ORD) to Newark (EWR)
I remember religion as being Tuesday afternoons in Saint
Mary’s, sitting in Catechism at tiny maple chair-desks from a previous decade,
writing the names of my favorite rock and roll bands on the cover of my
notebook or twisting paperclips into miniature wire sculptures. Anything to
pass the time while receiving the religious instruction that would prepare me
for the second and third stages of admittance into Catholicism - Communion and
then Confirmation. It was also a sort of pre-junior high school mixer,
combining the children of three neighboring public elementary schools.
Together, we would stare aimlessly at the repressed arts and crafts of unknown Catholic
school kids that hung on our borrowed classroom walls and occasionally
commiserating about the authoritarian nuns who barked orders like “walk-ons”
for a Nurse Ratched audition. Whether it was a history lesson or rulebook
recital, I had no idea, and my ignorance had no apparent consequence. In
Catechism like traffic school there is no homework, no papers, no tests and no
grades. Just show up and somehow you are a better Catholic for doing so.
Occasionally, a bible story would catch my attention. In
particular I liked the one about Mary Magdalene - perhaps the foretelling of a
future struggle for my own redemption, but more likely an early indication of a
developing fascination with promiscuous women. In either case, it was a
learning opportunity surely hampered by riveting subject matter, world-class
instruction, my budding romantic inclinations towards the mysterious girls from
the other grade schools, and the periodic need to demonstrate my capacity to
fend off their more territorial male counterparts.
The Catechism program was run by the nuns, a stout little gang
of women over fifty, who seemed to have a stranglehold on most of the action at
Saint Mary’s. The nuns were in turn run by the Head Sister Dolorous who, as
legend has it, was actually offered the “Ratched” role but passed. Dolorous
was by far the meanest of all the sisters, feared even by the priest, whose sum
total authentic human interactions was a series of overworked one-liners during
Sunday mass.
“Some of you may think it’s hotter than hell in here, but it
isn’t,” was always a summertime favorite.
Beyond that, the priests were merely words from a reading or
voices behind a confessional screen.
Tuesdays passed as did the years. During the seventh grade,
with Confirmation only a week away, I could see the light at the end of the
boredom to which I had been condemned. But the years of passing notes and
fighting caught up with me. A minor altercation with a longtime elementary
school adversary turned out to be the proverbial straw. I was summoned to the
last of my long walks down the dimly lit corridor to the office of Head Sister
Dolorous. Dolorous had a reputation of being from the “old school”; a term
that I had originally thought made sense because she was in fact old and likely
went to school many years prior. Not the case. She properly paddled my rear
end with a yardstick only to then expel me upon completion, generously taking
the time to explain, as she retuned her weapon of choice to an umbrella stand,
that she had hoped a sufficient reprimand would yield adequate remorse. It
was my humble opinion that she simply wanted to get in “last licks.”
The news didn’t go over well with my father, who immediately
established that I deserved more than a few swats from an old lady with an
oversized ruler. Always the intermediary, my mother (equipped with verbal
confirmation of my regret and, I suspect, a few doctored Polaroids) negotiated
my way back into class two days before Confirmation. In my best and only suit,
I walked the center aisle with my Catechism classmates into our bible-given
right to forgiveness for the bargain rate of a full confession and ten Our
Fathers. It was official. I was a Catholic.
