by Valerie Clay
“No, this is just a quick, overnight trip,” I explained, moving closer to the counter and reducing my voice to a confidential level. “A friend of ours is having a little emergency. Sort of a last minute thing. You know how that goes.” I flashed a winning smile. The agent furrowed her eyebrows, said nothing, but continued to process our paperwork.
When she handed us our boarding passes she warned, “You’d better hurry; they’ve already begun boarding.” We thanked her and dashed off in the direction of the gate. As we approached the security area, my heart sank. An extensive, winding line of passengers, awkwardly removing shoes and jackets in preparation for the metal detectors, stood between us and the gate, and we were rapidly running out of time. We had no other option but to get in line and wait. On the wall to the right of the metal detectors, a large digital clock displayed the time of eleven forty-five. In fifteen minutes the plane would be backing away from the terminal.
After a lengthy delay we finally made it through with minutes to spare, and sprinted down the busy concourse towards the gate. “Who knew it would take so long to get through security,” I shouted as we ran side by side.
“We could have made it through a lot quicker if you hadn’t argued with that officer about your hat. You just wouldn’t give up, would you? Even when he opened his jacket and started patting his gun.”
“I can’t believe they made me take it off. How embarrassing. I didn’t even fix my hair this morning because it was going to be stuffed under this stupid hat. Jackets and shoes are bad enough. You watch, one of these days, some crazy terrorist woman will try to smuggle a bomb in her bra, and then we’ll be forced to go through lingerie inspections.”
We rounded a corner narrowly missing a cart, lights flashing, carrying a young man with crutches and several bags. “Sorry!” We shouted in unison as we separated and raced around it.
“At least your tie didn’t set off any alarms,” Julie yelled. That would have been a fun one to explain.”
I was sweating like a racehorse when we finally reached the gate, but it was too late. The area was deserted—all passengers had boarded. The final departure announcement echoed over the loudspeakers.
Panting, I turned to Julie. “Oh no—we missed them. All that rushing for nothing. I guess that’s it then.”
“Not necessarily,” Julie said, craning her neck and looking down the jetway as the gate agent walked over to close the door. “We could go to Vegas.”
“Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? I can’t just run off to Vegas? Look at me. I look like a 1960’s FBI agent, and I have hat hair. I don’t have any makeup with me, or moisturizer.”
Julie shot me an annoyed look. “For crying out loud, you big baby, grow a pair. This is for Laini. Suck it up. I put the tickets on my card and you can pay me back slowly.”
“But we have nothing to wear. What’ll we sleep in? I need my robe and slippers. I can’t travel without my robe and slippers.”
“You really are a pain in the ass sometimes, Vic. We can buy a few things when we get there. We’ll just follow Mark, see who he’s meeting, then come back tomorrow. Think of it as an adventure. Think of it as the vacation you wanted to take.” Julie put her hands on her camo covered hips and continued, “You need to loosen up, chickee; you need to be more spontaneous. Life is not always the neat little buttoned-down world you live in. Sometimes it gets kind of messy, but that’s what makes it interesting. Now are you going to go home and spend another night alone on your couch in front of the television, or are you going to live a little?”
I shrugged. “Well, since you put it that way, I do have the week off. What’s the worst that could happen? We would stay the night, eat four or five times. Now how bad can that be? I guess it wouldn’t hurt to be a little adventurous.”
“That’s the spirit, girlfriend!” She grinned and gave me a high-five.
From the small podium near the door, the gate agent called out a warning to us, “I’m getting ready to close the door, ladies. If you’re going to Las Vegas, you need to board this plane now.”
“Viva Las Vegas,” I said as I handed off my boarding pass and hurriedly followed Julie across the threshold. The loud clank of the metal door slamming shut behind us as we trundled down the jetway had a strange air of finality to it, as if we had just passed the point of no return. A cold chill ran down my spine, but I shook it off and kept going.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I’m an idealist. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on my way.” —Carl Sandburg, Pulitzer Prize-winning American poet
*******
Heads bowed low, eyes darting in all directions under the opaque protection of our sunglasses, we skulked onto the plane, found our seats, C and D in row two, and quickly sat down. In the jetway, we’d decided that I’d get the window seat on the way to Vegas, and Julie would have it on the return flight.
“I didn’t see him. Did you?” Julie asked in a whisper.
“No. Maybe I should risk a walk to the back of the plane and pretend I’m looking for a magazine.”
“Are you kidding?” Julie snorted. “You can’t walk back there in that outfit. You stand out like a sore thumb.”
“Oh yeah? You should talk, camo girl.”
She stared at me pensively for a moment. “You’re right. Let’s ask the stewardess to check for us.”
Lauren, a willowy, honey-blonde flight attendant was slowly meandering through first class, greeting passengers and taking drink orders. From the looks of her deep golden tan, I guessed she was probably based in LA. Her shiny, long hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and large, gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears. Her beautifully manicured nails were painted a hot coral with a touch of shimmer, and several expensive-looking rings adorned her tanned fingers. I regarded my pathetic, raggedy nails then curled them under so they were no longer visible. What was wrong with me? I needed a pedicure and a manicure. Note to self: You never know when you might be on an emergency reconnaissance trip to Vegas. You should always be prepared.
Lauren finally reached our row. “May I offer you ladies something to drink this afternoon?” She spoke to us, but smiled coquettishly at the person seated directly behind us. I craned my neck to sneak a peek through the slight gap between the seats.
“Oh my gosh, Julie!” I whispered and elbowed her in the arm. “Prepare for a shock—you’re not going to believe who’s sitting right behind us.”
“Who?” Her tone was skeptical as she tilted her head and eyed me.
“I think it’s Andy Garcia.”
“Andy Garcia? I seriously doubt that, Vic.” She turned back toward the flight attendant.
“I’m sorry—did you ladies want to order something to drink?” Lauren asked a second time.
“Yes, coffee, black for me please,” Julie responded.
“And I would love a Mimosa, thank you so much,” I said, smiling cheerily. I could feel Julie’s eyes boring into me.
I looked at her. “What? This is my vacation. Remember? You said to think of it as the vacation I wanted to take.”
Julie shrugged and turned back to Lauren. “I was wondering if we could ask a favor of you. The seatbelt sign is on, or I’d check myself. One of our associates should be sitting in seat 25-C. He’s a good looking guy in his early forties with sandy-colored hair. We didn’t see him in the terminal, and wanted to make sure he made the flight okay. He might be with a woman. Would you mind checking for us?”
“I wouldn’t mind at all. I need to run to the back anyway. Be right back,” the flight attendant responded as she disappeared into the coach cabin.
“I’m telling you, Julie, it’s Andy Garcia,” I insisted once Lauren was out of earshot. Julie shook her head, then subtly inched up in her seat and took a quick gander over the top. Instantly she slammed back down, her eyes wide with shock.
“Holy shit!” she cried. “It’s Andy freaking Garcia.”
“I believe that’s what I said.”
“You d
on’t understand, Victoria, he’s my biggest fan.”
“You mean you’re his biggest fan.”
“That’s what I said. Andy Garcia is sitting right behind me. And he looks GOOD. Do you know how many times I’ve fantasized about him? How many times I imagined I was with him instead of . . . never mind. And look at me. I look like I’m ready to deploy.” She put her head in her hands and gave out a low moan of despair.
The sound of my ringing cell phone interrupted Colonel Julie’s angst. The ringtone was David Rose’s, “The Stripper,” which is the song I tagged to Amanda’s incoming calls. In the not too distant past, an ex-boyfriend of Amanda’s, for Valentine’s Day, gave her a three-month membership to a strippercise class; sort of a cardio striptease with a pole. Being the refined, elegant lady that she is, she was mortified. Needless to say, that was the last Valentine’s Day they spent together. On a positive note, it’s an endless source of amusement for me, so nothing is all bad. In retaliation, her ringtone for me is “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” Some people have no sense of humor.
I withdrew the phone from my purse and flipped it open.
“Vic,” Amanda rushed in before I could speak, “I just got your message. Where are you?”
“Get ready for some unbelievable news, Amanda. Mark is not going camping. He’s on a flight to Vegas.”
“Las Vegas, Nevada? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I wish. Jules and I decided to follow him. We’re on Alaska Flight 606 getting ready to take off in a few minutes.”
“What!? You’re on a flight to Vegas? Are you both crazy?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I said as I looked over at Julie. She was carefully applying some lip gloss that she’d pulled out of a small zippered pocket on the side of her pants. It was probably crammed in there next to a compass and a first aid kit.
“Oh no,” Amanda said firmly. ‘You guys aren’t going to Las Vegas without me. I’m leaving for the airport right now.”
“Okay.” I knew better than to argue with Amanda when she used that tone. “Call us when you arrive.” I flipped my phone shut and turned to Julie. “Amanda’s coming too.”
Lauren, the stunning flight attendant, returned and interrupted our conversation. “Good news, your friend is on board,” she said, then headed up to the galley to prepare for takeoff.
“Thank you so much,” Julie and I called out to her in unison. We exchanged satisfied smiles. This detective thing was growing on me.
The plane slowly pushed back from the gate, and we moved into line, taxiing to the runway. As we lumbered along across the tarmac, I gazed out of the window, surveying the airport environs. On the ground below, a short distance away, we rolled past a small, dark lump. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was a duck and it was obviously dead.
“Julie,” I said feeling a twinge of apprehension, “I just saw a dead duck. That’s not a good sign.”
“Don’t be so negative, Vic, for crying out loud.”
Maybe I was being a little negative, but I believe in signs and omens. Late one night last year, I was lost in downtown Seattle, looking for Rainier Avenue. Stopped at an intersection with no street signs, and feeling panicky, I watched a Rainier beer truck cross my path. Instantly I knew it had to be a sign. I turned onto the street following the truck and, bingo, it turned out to be Rainier Avenue. Even a beer truck can be a guiding instrument of the universe. You shouldn’t discount beer trucks. When they say God works in mysterious ways, they aren’t kidding.
The loudspeaker crackled, and the captain, in his calm, authoritative voice, announced that we were first in line for takeoff. This is my most favorite part of a flight. The plane begins to move—slowly at first, then faster and faster. As the pilot throttles up, the force of the acceleration pushes you back in your seat and you go roaring down the runway. You feel a couple of thumps, then the ground begins to disappear below you, and soon all the houses look like Monopoly game pieces. I wanted to squeal with delight, but Julie would have smacked me, so I squealed inwardly to myself.
So there we were, Julie in her head-to-toe camo, and me in my Blues Brothers suit, hurtling through the stratosphere at five-hundred miles-per-hour towards Las Vegas, where the days are sunny and eighty-eight degrees, and the nights are cool and clear with star-splashed skies. There are worse things.
CHAPTER NINE
“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”—Douglas Adams, English author
*******
After we reached altitude and leveled off, Lauren brought us our drinks. Julie blew on her steaming coffee then asked me, “So how’s your mysterious neighbor?”
“Still smokin’ hot,” I replied wistfully. I took a sip of my Mimosa and sighed. It was just right—not too orange juicy, not too champagney. First class is the only way to go. You get free drinks and the ride is really much smoother than in coach.
“Have you learned anything more about him?”
“A little: he has excellent aftershave, killer pecs, and is highly skilled at picking locks.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “What? How do you know that?”
“Which part?”
“The lock-picking part, of course,” she replied with exasperation.
“I, uh, had a little problem with my front door yesterday, so he helped me out.” I felt it best not to divulge the trapped upside-down incident. No need to make her think I’m even more of a lamer than she already did.
Setting down my Mimosa, I craftily changed the subject. “So, how’s Jerry, Jerry Bo-Berry?”
“Jerry and I broke up,” she said flatly. She took a careful sip of her coffee, made a face, then put the cup down on her tray table.
I was stunned. “What? You broke up? When?”
Julie shrugged. “About two weeks ago, I guess.”
“Two whole weeks? Why didn’t you tell me? I feel like a terrible friend. You’re going through a break-up and I haven’t been there for you. What on earth happened? I thought you two were having a great time together.”
She looked at me with doleful eyes. “Sorry, I just didn’t feel like talking about it. Jerry’s a wonderful man, and yes, I was having a nice time with him, but . . .” she trailed off.
“But what?” I pressed. “Did he do something to hurt you?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that . . .” She trailed off again, pulled a magazine out of the seat pocket in front of her, and started flipping through the pages.
I waited a moment, then waved my hands. “Hello. Earth to Julie.”
Her posture sagged as she closed the magazine and turned to me. “Frankly, it’s painfully obvious that he’s still in love with his ex-wife, and I can’t live in the shadow of another woman. I’m nobody’s sloppy seconds, if you know what I mean.”
“Certainly not. Not a hot number like you.”
She gave me a mirthless smile and said, “So this is the best thing, really. Case closed.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, then crumpled it into a little ball and stuffed it into her coffee cup. End of discussion. Julie was never one to brood, and obviously was done talking about it.
After waiting a few minutes, I said hesitantly, “There’s a guy I work with who’s really nice and he’s single and—”
“Don’t even think about it, Victoria Morgan. I’m not ready to jump back into the dating world just yet. Maybe never. I think I’ve given up on men.”
I patted her on the shoulder. “His name is Raj, so when you’re ready, just let me know.”
“Is that R O G, like short for Roger, or R A J, like someone from India?” she asked.
“No, Uzbekistan I think. He doesn’t speak very much English, which would be perfect for you.”
“You are such a smartass.”
Lauren came by again and handed Julie a tiny food tray containing a miniature sandwich measuring only slightly larger than the accompanying mustard packet, a Barbie doll
size bag of pretzels, and a plastic knife. Then she turned to me and said, “I’m so sorry, but that was the last meal we had. You two ladies purchased your tickets after our galleys were already loaded.”
“What? You don’t have any food?” I asked, choking on my Mimosa.
“We have a cookie.”
Beggars can’t be choosers, so I accepted the cookie and took tiny bites to make it last. Julie offered me half of her sandwich, but I declined. It wasn’t much bigger than my cookie anyway. Lauren felt so bad, she came back later and gave me a handful of liquor miniatures, which I stowed away in my purse for strictly medicinal purposes.
Two hours later, after an uneventful flight, the plane landed smoothly at McCarran Airport. When we rolled to a stop at the gate, Julie and I remained in our seats, waiting for Mark to go ahead of us. Andy Garcia walked past without so much as a glance in our direction, and we gave out a collective sigh as we watched him walk away. So close, and yet so far.
As the rest of the passengers slowly deplaned with bags and squirming children in tow, we kept our heads down, pretending to be studying an airport map in the in-flight magazine. Out of the corner of her eye, Julie spotted Mark as he slowly came up even with our row. She nudged my arm and we held our breath waiting for him to pass. When he accidentally rammed his duffel bag into the seat in front of us, we both jolted. He said a quick, “Sorry,” and turned back to face us.
Julie responded, “No problem, sir,” in a sing-songy East Indian accent, keeping her head down, and waved him off.
I frowned. “Julie, you just answered him in an Indian accent. Do we have any US soldiers from India?”
“You got me all mixed up with your talk about that guy from Uzbekistan,” she groused. “Maybe he thought I was gay.”
“Gay women don’t sound like they’re from India,” I argued.
Julie ignored me and, after several more people filed by, turned and said, “Okay, let’s move out.”
“Aye, Aye, Captain.”
She stopped and looked at me. “That’s Navy—not Army.”
