Goodnight Sometimes Means Goodbye (Wrong Flight Home, #2)

by Noel J. Hadley

  “What are you talking about, you didn’t stay?” Richie seemed very serious about it.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Leah doesn’t take just anybody to the EMPIRE. Hell, I’ve even tried to get her to go, back when Robbie and I were an item.” I stared at Richie earnestly, eager to know where this piece of insider information was destined to go. “It’s sort of a big deal. The last guy she took to the top of the EMPIRE, they were engaged to be married. I mean, OMG, that’s where he proposed.”

  Penny lost control of her breathing again. I was just glad it was her and not me.

  31

  EVEN SITTING DOWN IN THE SECOND ROW Penny was apparently experiencing some sort of sensory overload. As the houselights dimmed I absorbed Penny’s wide eyes, beaming teeth, and a glow that couldn’t be darkened.

  “You do realize I’m seeing someone,” she whispered into my ear.

  “This isn’t that kind of date, Penny. It’s just a big thank you for all the amazing work that you do kind of date.”

  “Just checking,” she patted my hand on the armrest as the symphony exploded into its thematic prelude. “Can I squeeze your hand if this gets intense?”

  I was glad I could make her happy.

  “Squeeze away.”

  32

  INTERMISSION WAS MORE of a cattle-call for both bathrooms, with two non-discriminatory lines that opened up into the lobby. I had already crossed my legs through the last twenty minutes of BLUE and had to empty the bag with a heightened sense of desperation but somehow managed to stand last in line. Nobody stood behind me either. There were only three urinals in the men’s bathroom, two of which were of adult height. The only porcelain trough available was designed for children and was mounted as one might expect closer to the floor. I slid up next to that one with no complaint. The two other men were whistling Leah’s heart wrenching act one closer Who Am I Now as they held their junk trunks, swiveling their trail of pee like happy jump-ropes into the dish laid out before them. So I whistled along and twirled my own jump-rope until they left and I remained alone, but not for long, as someone else slid up into the third urinal on the far end.

  “You do realize that’s the children’s urinal,” he said.

  I stopped whistling and twirling my pee in circles. There was an awkward silence, more like a pregnant pause, except for the slosh of our pee, and then I said: “Excuse me?”

  “There are three urinals available, and you chose the low rider.”

  My peripheral vision announced that he was clearly taller than six foot in height, maybe several inches over, with a fedora to top it off, and a trench coat covered his bear-like proportions. There was the beard of a mountain-man covering up what might have been acne scars from his youth, which had undoubtedly ended decades earlier, and if I wasn’t mistaken his right hand (the one that was holding his you know what) was prosthetic, but I didn’t dare turn my head to find out.

  I said: “At the risk of boasting, I don’t like to drag.”

  “Funny stuff, funny stuff,” he cocked his head back and made some sort of an attempt at deep-bellied laughter, but managed to give me the creeps instead. “You’re a funny man, aren’t you?”

  “Thanks for noticing. My mother seems to think so.”

  “Hey, I’ve seen you around.” He nudged his chin at me, and I thought there might have been another attempt at a smile. His teeth were yellow and crooked. “You’re that dude I’ve seen in the news.”

  “A lot of people mistake me for Al Roker.”

  “Funny man. No, really, you’re that guy I saw in the news. You’re helping that murderous thief escape and hide out from the mob or something.” I found his misinformation disturbing. “What was his name again….Alex….” He snapped his free finger. “Alex Parker.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” I didn’t like where this conversation was going. “Alex, he um, he was found dead….in Ho Chi Minh. It’s been all over the news.”

  Creepo stared at the wall in front of him for a time and then casually said, without any hint of emotion: “I wonder what it felt like when that bullet went through his brain. Don’t you?”

  I zipped up my pants, but I’d forgotten to tuck my valuables back into the barn, so the zipper collided with God’s gift to men and I seethed air through my teeth until I managed another unzip and re-zip. If Creepo noticed he didn’t say anything, and waited for a response despite my close encounters of the third kind. When it was clear I wasn’t offering one he said: “I guess it’s not very funny then, ain’t it?”

  “No, it’s not. Alex was a good friend of mine.”

  “You know what else isn’t funny?”

  I turned to face him now (taking note of his prosthetic arm) and waited on Creepo to answer his own question.

  “You, hiding Alex from his friends,” he said.

  “I take it you’re one of his friends then.”

  Creepo shrugged. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I started out the door as somebody else entered, whistling Who Am I Now.

  I was almost out the door when Creepo called after: “Let’s hope you don’t.”

  33

  CREEPO IN URINAL NUMBER THREE was quickly put behind me (I hoped he stayed there forever) and I was soon plopped back down into my seat where I belonged moments before the show commenced. In REPUBLICAN BLUE’s final climatic scene, First Lady Isla Elliot delivers her reputation to the mercy of her political adversaries by stepping out of the closet. More specifically, she pronounces herself a born-again blue-blooded Roosevelt-loving Democrat, despite the fact that she's married to President Sam Elliot, the GOP's leading man. There's these angry protestors standing on Pennsylvania Ave, they're demanding a quick and sudden withdraw from a Middle-Eastern war they insist the United States has no business participating in (Modern Day Colonialism is the title of that show-tune), and Isla stands among them, a woman of power, inner-beauty, and strength.

  Somebody recognizes her. He gives up her identity. There are several angry shouts from the crowd. With a growing sense of urgency her Secret Service detail begs and beckons, even orders her not to come, and stand ready to kidnap her away into the fortitude of 1600 Penn Avenue.

  But Leah opens her mouth to sing. What follows is a passionate song of sobriety and surrender to her captors. Do what you will to me, she pleads in one of her lyrics, holding both hands out as one of their captives. The realization slowly begins to stir in the crowd of protestors that she is indeed an advocate for their side of things, and it is the political activist Bodie Allen (the two characters were apparently political enemies and lovers in college) who embraces his old adversary and friend, suddenly engaging her passionate cries for human generosity with a spirited duet. The whole assembly of protestors joins in.

  Isla Elliot surrenders to her passions and convictions, but the somber realization is paralyzing. In the refining fire of her soul, she has betrayed every single one of her friends, family, and colleagues. That much is made clear as she ponders her choices throughout the accumulating story. In turn, they will feed her to the dogs, so to speak, those who once loved her. One woman's heroic triumph or foolish downfall, that is what each ticket-holder must personally decide on at curtains call. Sure, it's pure speculation at best, but whatever the outcome, the outpouring of applauds and tears is made immediately known as the president's wife sails towards her final vocal target and sticks her landing with impeccable victory.

  Stage lights collapse.

  Despite Isla Elliot's controversial choices in the fictional music-driven world of REPUBLICAN BLUE, the real America, this America, was in love with her.

  And so was I.

  34

  CURTAIN CALL, AND I WAS quite certain of it, just like last time, Leah Bishop was staring in my direction.

  “Joshua, she's staring at me.” Penny said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Um, sorry girl,” Richie spoke over my should
er. “I think we all know who she's really looking at. ME.”

  I let the two of them argue it out while I fought back my emotional tears and savored Leah's final moment on stage, curtseying the uproarious recognition of many admirers. The applause seemed endless. And besides, there was absolutely no doubt in my mind.

  Isla Elliot only had eyes for me.

  TAMING A WILD ASS

  1

  A FEELING OF EXTREME EUPHORIA greeted all four of us as we made our way into the back alley of the George Cohan Theater. After all, Leah’s very last performance of REPUBLICAN BLUE had really ended, with a standing ovation that exceeded anyone’s expectations. It was Leah who was sailing along to the sirens song this time, and we were happy to follow along.

  “Girl, you were intoxicating.” Richie held the door open. “Even Shakespeare and Arthur Miller are in heaven applauding with what’s his face.”

  I said: “Noel Coward?”

  “No, the other dead guy.”

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t have said it any better myself.” I snapped two or three pictures of them. Richie always made sure to tilt his head at an angle whenever he anticipated a flash, and once in a while he threw in cat paws or fish-lips.

  “I still can’t believe I’m standing in a back alley with Isla Elliot!” Penny said, and just to make a point of the fact that she was standing in a back alley with you know whom, she took in a deep breath and let some steam out of the boiler with a teakettle squeal.

  Leah laughed as she held a finger to her mouth to shush her, obviously entertained by Penny’s enthusiasm, but her eyes twitched nervously towards the street all the same in the hope that nobody’s unwanted star struck attention was triggered and set into motion. “Not anymore, I’m not. First thing tomorrow, America’s First Lady is Sandra Pixley. And let me tell you, she can sing.”

  “Pixley-Sicksley,” Richie huffed in a ho-hum manner, briefly titling his head and barring two rows of teeth for the flash of my camera. “You were the original, darling, and no one can replace you, ever.”

  “I don’t want to see Sandra Pixley.” I formed a face that spoke of bad digestion when pronouncing her name.

  “I know, really. Laura Bell Bundy or Kelli O’Hara maybe, but what kind of name is Sandra Pixley, anyways?” Richie flipped a frown upside-down for another picture. “Pixley-Sicksley.”

  Leah sighed at her roommate. “How much you wanna bet she pays her rent every month?”

  “There’s that,” he said, and crept steadily away like a cat.

  Penny was the first to round the corner from the alley. Her complexion whitened. She opened her mouth, nudged her chin, and gasped. “Is that him?”

  Sinatra was standing near the box office, hands slung in his pocket, pretending to care about the REPUBLICAN BLUE billboard when he was obviously using his peripheral vision.

  “If by him you mean my number one fan, then yes. How did you know?”

  “Because he looks like he’s trying hard to not be suspicious, if that makes any sense.” Actually, it made perfect sense. Penny seemed to shrink behind me as she said it, and Leah was almost paralyzed as she studied Mister Fedora with amazement, eyes that seemed suddenly dark and Viking-like and a smile that hinted at mischief.

  “Oh my god, the mafia…like John Gotti and the Gambino family?” Richie said. “Is that guy really with the mob?”

  “Your guess is as good as any. I asked him a couple of day ago. Apparently he works for Frank Sinatra.”

  “Sinatra-Pinatra my ass,” Richie quickly huffed.

  “Good rhyme there, Richie. You’ve almost got yourself a limerick.”

  “What was his name again?” Leah pressed her shoulder into my arm.

  I shrugged. “Beats me, I’ve been calling him Sinatra.” And just to prove my point, I spoke up. “Hey Sinatra, I didn’t know you were the theater type! We had an extra ticket. You should have said something!”

  “Hey, get lost!” He called back.

  “We really need to work on your choice of words.”

  “Let’s loose the creep.” I heard Leah speak low enough so that only the three of us could hear.

  “Again?”

  I wanted to tell her about the man with the prosthetic arm during intermission and the way he spoke about Alex and his friends. And I started to, except Penny said: “Let’s do it.”

  And then Sinatra cried: “Hey, screw you!”

  Richie studied Leah’s mischievous grin, and when he deduced by way of reasoning that her threat of trying to toy with a dangerous member of society was genuine he sighed, rather breathlessly.

  “Oh, girl,” he said.

  If America’s former favorite First Lady heard his doubts or my failed attempt at making unspoken concerns known, she had no interest in listening. Leah was the first to run for it. Penny followed at her heels like a true disciple. I looked back at Sinatra. He tensed his shoulders, even flinching once, as if poising to run. And before I knew it my legs sprinted after the girls without my brain giving the okay, with Richie taking up a slice of my peripheral vision. And so we ran into the sweltering heat of a wet summer night. I didn’t look behind me to see if Sinatra had taken the pursuit, but my sensory radar told me that indeed he was, and advised that it was best to keep right on running before he made up his mind to catch us.

  Leah obviously knew these streets better than fresh west coast meat. I thought she might be taking off down 41st Street for Port Authority on 8th Avenue. In fact she was, swerving on foot like a Frogger master through the traffic, only she changed her mind at the last minute, probably because the crowds would slow us down, and maneuvered across 42nd Street, swinging around towards Broadway.

  Upon entering the Seventh and Broadway station Richie was singing FOREVER YOUNG at the top of his lungs, though he sounded terribly out of breath. Penny had latched her hand to his and to complete the couples uniform Leah held mine.

  “DO YOU REALLY WANT TO LIVE FOREVER!” He cried.

  He had a point. Who really does? We rushed down a set of stairs, hurried through a corridor (laughing like four reckless teenagers, and we sweated profusely in the stifling heat), entered a turnstile, and turned a corner. More stairs were revealed.

  “FOREVER YOUNG! I WANT TO BE…”

  The mere suggestion that Sinatra was still on our tail would have been ludicrous by this point, but who really cared? The freedom to run so freely and without purpose fueled us with adrenaline. Another hallway. Puddles. Grungy tile slashed with graffiti. Flickering lights. A subway steamed by, probably overhead.

  “FOR-E-VER! FOR-E-VER!”

  Leah and I turned another corner, laughing hand-in-hand, started down what looked to be another long hall, and tried to avoid someone standing in the center of it. Except that someone appeared to step in front of us, and we collided into him.

  “What the fridge?” That someone didn't say fridge.

  I smelled cigarettes and booze. Hairspray too. Throw in some B.O. from so many days without soap and water and lots and lots of cigarettes to fill the look of his purple hair (shaved on the sides) and trench coat, black as the devil in a reformers circle. Richie and Penny slid to a halt behind us. Then there was suddenly somebody else with him. A big bold “A” with a spray-painted circle around it dominated his black shirt, as in A for ANARCHY.

  “Did these fudge lickers just push you?” ANARCHY said, equally smelling of cigarettes and alcohol.

  Everything else happened so fast. Leah’s face froze. A third person, steel-toed caterpillar boots and tattered jeans, appeared from a side corridor. I saw what may or may not have been a knife in PURPLE HAIR's hand, I couldn’t be sure. But whatever it was that he held, it glimmered in the artificial light of the underground.

  “Hey, you’re that guy I saw in the news,” one of them said, probably CATERPILLAR BOOTS.

  “Where’s Alex,” said another. At least, that’s what I thought I heard, and that it was PURPLE HAIR who had said it. “Hand the little prick over.”

 
“I think you’re mistaken.” I was out of breath. “Alex is dead. He….”

  “Ain’t no sweat off my back,” PURPLE HAIR seemed to grow larger. “Give me everything you got.”

  I stepped in-between Leah and PURPLE and raised both hands into a boxers pose, some sort of natural reflex to purple-headed assholes with too much hairspray and years and years under the instruction of Great-Uncle Milhous.

  “Joshua, don’t,” I heard her say. Her breath was hot and sticky on my neck. “Just give him what he wants.”

  The metal object in his hand moved. I didn’t see where it went, but PURPLE HAIR was intent on thrusting it forward. Penny screamed. Richie might have too. And Leah gasped with whatever breath she had left in her.

  There were clapping footsteps coming down the stairs, around the corner behind us. That someone turned and rushed forward, panting of breath. Sinatra entered my field of vision, produced what may have been a knife of his own, and appropriately turned on PURPLE HAIR first. PURPLE reeled back and clutched his arm.

  “Joshua, are you alright?” Penny said.

  Of course I was all right.

  “Joshua, how bad is it?” Leah.

  What was she talking about?

  Sinatra lurched at ANARCHIST next, making a clean stab to the meaty area of his upper leg. PURPLE HAIR hugged his arm and ANARCHIST yelped like a dog as he sagged half of his weight, limping away with the third member of their party, CATERPILLAR BOOTS, as quickly as they could.

  I said: “What the hell, Sinatra? I had this.”

  “Not from my view, you didn't.” Sinatra tried to catch his breath as he stared at me. “Thank the cross master there aren’t any security cameras. Now make like the uncircumcised and split, maybe find some medical attention while you're at it.”

  “I’m not leaving the scene of a crime, Sinatra.”

  “Joshua, let’s go.” Leah was terrified. All the mischievousness had left her.

  “Joshua, listen to the man,” Penny said. “You’re not looking so good. Are you sure you’re okay?”