Have you ever been picked up on a plane? Well, I hadn’t, actually.
Thanksgiving Eve, I was on my way North on what we’re always warned is one of the lousiest travel days of the year. But after a suspiciously traffic free journey to La Guardia airport, and an overly jolly ticket agent with a twirly moustache at the empty U.S. Airways counter who greeted me with, “Did you get you some pie?” (“Free pie! Apple, pumpkin or both!”), it occurred to me that matters were proceeding entirely too well.
Allrighty, then, I thought, absentmindedly wandering through the deserted security point to eat both my pies at the hushed gate area. Much too easy. Pleasant even. I mentally prepared myself for the certain fiery but karmically balanced crash landing later on.
The plane was a teeny tiny De Havilland 8, about 38 seats. There were the propellers that cause many a traveller’s heart to sink. And here, at the very back of the plane – where I was sitting – there was one long seat, which, like the lone flight attendant’s irritated head count, made me feel like I was on a school bus. Still, the place next to me was the only empty one on the whole flight - and for that I am always grateful.
Somewhere over Massachusetts a good looking young guy one seat up and across called the flight attendant over and murmured something to her to which I am sure I heard her respond, “Oh, see someone you like? Okay.” The rather large party sitting next to him then heaved herself out of her seat while he clambered past her. I realized he was coming to sit next to me. There was some excuse about leg room that I took little notice of followed by a few minutes of inexplicably awkward silence. Then he commented, (using the ploy chatty Cathy types like to use on planes) on the book I was reading. But he seemed intelligent (read: good looking) enough and also quite weird, so I allowed us to fall into conversation.
He was an Air Force cadet, traveling home from Colorado for the holiday, and in shockingly short order he made it known it was not the seat he was after but me. How importunate, how impertinent, I thought, matronishly. Is this the sort of thing they teach the youngsters at the academy these days? I pondered the Tailhook scandal.
There were odd non sequiturs in his conversation that reminded me of my own conversational weirdness at times. Out of the blue, he had asked how tall I was. Optimistic sorts might say he going to murder me and needed to know how big to make the grave. I didn’t ask. He also corrected me on a couple of things. Perversely enough, I happen to like being corrected. It rarely happens (for a variety of reasons…fear, usually) but there is novelty in the illusion that someone has something to teach one, however trifling, isn’t there?
Not five minutes later and I was feeling a little befuddled. It seems when I wasn’t paying attention we had taken a flying leap through the Looking Glass and here I was in the most surreally matter-of-fact…negotiation (there is no other word for it) concerning if/where/when I would consent to kiss him. (How did I get here?) He even seemed puzzled at my refusal, “Why not?” he said.
And how old did you say you were….? I tried to counter, giving him a hard, disapproving stare. He did not blink.
We disembarked at the tiny airport and walked across the tarmac and into the terminal together. I laughed a bit too derisively, asking him why ever he didn’t just say he was “shipping out to Iraq tomorrow” – surely a much more effective (and classic) line. “Because it’s not true”, he said simply.
The terminal was quite empty by now – we must have been meandering and the rest of the passengers had hurried past us and gone their way. I could almost hear him calculating the distance, the time left to the exit, as it loomed about 20 metres and about 28 seconds ahead. I thought, “I wonder what someone in a movie would do?” The bathroom was on my left, so, feeling I should be saying something flinty and hardboiled like, You got balls kid for just askin’!, I said rather primly, “Look, I’m going into the ladies room. If you’re still here when I come out then I’ll think about it.”
When I came out he was still there, looking quite solemn, sitting ramrod straight on an orange plastic seat. He looked like a lost dog who didn’t yet realize it.
Copyright Britical 2007. All rights reserved.