Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  “Sounds amazing,” I reply with a bit of sarcasm, recalling my thoughts from a few moments ago. I know this man is just being nice. Hell, it’s the crack of dawn. Not to mention, I have no legitimate reason to dislike the airline. He’s probably just trying to make small talk to keep from falling asleep at the wheel. Regardless, I’m not in the mood to chat. To make it clear that I am not in the mood to continue our discussion I take out my toiletry bag of travel size containers and start applying my makeup.

  Once my face is presentable I throw the bag containing my makeup into my purse and sneak one more look at my family picture as the driver pulls up to the curb. I collect my belongings, thank the driver, and quickly make my way to check in.

  “I’m sorry ma’am but your ticket information is not valid,” says the woman behind the counter, very mater-of-fact.

  I look over my itinerary with the flight details and the ticket. Everything looks good to me. I look at her puzzled and hand her the information.

  “Cassandra, my assistant, gave me this confirmation before I left the office yesterday. Can you double-check or give me any other information?” I plead.

  I must look flustered. I feel flustered.

  “Let me take a look,” she says, rapidly typing on her keyboard. “Oh, here it is. A cancelation was called in last night. The notes from the ticket agent say that a Ms. Cassandra Evans canceled due to changing flights to another airline. Your account was credited $389.00, which is the cost of your original ticket minus the cancelation fee,” she states.

  “Does it say what airline?” I ask, hoping for a few more details so I can figure out my next move.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, it doesn’t,” she says watching me, as disappointment and confusion no doubt register on my face. “I’d be happy to help you schedule another flight if your original was canceled by mistake, but unfortunately this flight is now full.” Her overly patient smile and slightly narrowed eyes indicate she is done with this interaction and wants to move on to the next customer.

  Looking at my plane ticket I rack my brain for an explanation. This is so unlike Cassandra to make changes to my plans without asking me or at the very least telling me. I lift my head up and look at the ticket agent, thank her for her help and step out of line into the now bustling lobby area of the airport. I find an open bench near the doors and fish my phone out of my purse to call Cassandra. To my surprise, and relief, she answers on the first ring.

  “Breanne, I am so sorry. You must already be at the airport,” she starts in without a hello. “I meant to call you before your car came this morning but I must have overslept.”

  I take a deep breath and sigh. “Oversleeping I can relate to,” I say remembering my own close call this morning. “But forgetting to tell me you changed my flight to another airline when I have an early trip and not sending me the information is unacceptable, Cassandra. You know how important this meeting is.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Cassandra says, followed by a long pause and I think I hear a sniffle. Is she seriously crying? Ugh!

  “Look, Cassandra, mistakes happen. What matters is how you respond to them,” I say as if I’m giving her a life lesson. “Tell me the flight details now while I walk to the ticket counter and then email me my electronic ticket and new itinerary. I need you to do this quickly so that I don’t miss this flight?” I say this with as much patience as I can muster.

  “Ok. I will send you the confirmation but you don’t have an electronic ticket. It cost a little more to keep you in first class and I had to call in a favor but I was able to get you the last seat on Innovation Airways!” she squeals, clearly pleased with herself. “I was told that you simply need to go to the counter, give them the confirmation number and your ID. Then they will ask you to put your thumb on some sort of scanning device and you’ll be all set. This seat only became available last night and it’s the same row and seat number as your original flight so it should be easy to remember. I’m not completely sure how it works. You probably won’t have time to go online and select your preferences but I’m sure the flight back will be amazing!”

  “Ok. Just send the confirmation info over and I’ll call you back if there are any issues,” I reply, somewhat disbelieving that this will be as simple a process as she explained.

  “I’ll be available if you need me,” Cassandra promises and I end the call.

  Tired, I close my eyes and for a moment I imagine that she told me the meetings were canceled but due to the inconvenience, I should call it a day and go home. Shaking my head I open my eyes effectively dismissing my daydream. I gather my things and head towards the counter for Innovation Airways. I’m surprised to notice that in the last 30 minutes while I was trying to get my plans straightened out the airport lobby isn’t just bustling, it’s overflowing. Where are all these people going?

  There must be half a dozen TV crews from local stations near the counter I am approaching. The reporters all seem to be focused on one area but I can’t make out what that focus is through the large crowd that surrounds them. This must all be for the new airways first flight, I think, assuming it’s a pilot or some airline executive talking about how their new technology is making traveling easier and more enjoyable. I try to push my personal annoyance aside and avoid the media and onlookers to make my way to the counter.

  “Good morning Miss,” says a peppy, wide eyed ticket agent whose smiling from ear to ear. For some reason her use of the word “Miss” rather than “Ma’am” slightly lifts my mood.

  “My name is Brittany and I’m excited to be the first to welcome you to Innovation Airways on this monumental occasion! Can I please have your confirmation number and ID so that we can get you comfortably settled for your flight as soon as possible?”

  Everything about her presence, from her shiny black hair and perfect makeup, to her warm demeanor and posture, suggests she is either an actress or that she has been training and grooming herself for this day for months. I automatically smile back in response to her contagious enthusiasm and wonder if she is truly this happy or if caffeine and Vaseline on her teeth are the real culprits. Either way, I decide her cheery disposition will help get me on the plane quickly.

  I hand her my ID and tell her my confirmation number. Within a few seconds she confirms my information, scans my thumbprint and takes the suitcase I’m checking. And she smiles the entire time!

  “I have uploaded your thumbprint to your profile which you can access via our secure website at anytime, anywhere in the world, as long as you have an internet connection. By reviewing your flight details I see your arrangements were made last night. Since your flight leaves in 30 minutes and you still need to go through security, you may not have time to update your preferences prior to take off. However, because of our technology we have taken your demographic information from your ID and identified preferences you would likely choose yourself based on your age, geography, etc. as a starting point,” she says. “Once the plane has reached maximum elevation you will be able to access our system from the smart pad on the back of the chair in front of you and make preference changes in real time,” she explains with enthusiasm. “And because you are a first class passenger you will be allowed to board the aircraft before others. I hope you enjoy your journey to San Francisco International Airport and thank you for choosing to fly Innovation Airways. If you don’t have any questions you may head to security and then to Gate B 19.”

  Impressed by both the speech she’s just given without even taking a breath, and the technology the airway has to offer, I find myself momentarily excited about this trip. I politely thank her and make my way to security. Glancing at my watch I realize I only have eight minutes before they close the door to the plane when I hear my name over the PA system.

  “Passenger Breanne Sullivan please report to gate B19 immediately,” a booming voice calls.

  I wave down a TSA officer and show them my license. “That’s me they are calling over the PA. I can’t miss this fligh
t,” I tell him frantically.

  He looks from me to my ID, then back to me before ushering me to the front of the line. I throw my carry-on and my purse on the conveyer belt and step through the full-body scanning machine. Thanking the agent as I finish, I grab my stuff and run the long hallway to the gate, not even bothering to put on my shoes.

  “I’m here. I’m passenger Breanne Sullivan!” I yell as I make my way towards the ticket agent trying to catch my breath. “Please let me on. I have four minutes left before you shut the door,” I plead. I know that if I miss this flight the chance of me getting on another are slim to none, and the same goes for keeping my new job.

  “You made it just in time Ms. Sullivan. Just press your thumb here for confirmation and you can be on your way,” she assures me. I do as she says and impatiently watch the small icon on the screen turn blue in acceptance.

  “I hope you enjoy your flight with Innovation Airways,” the woman says, smiling while she gestures me towards the plane entrance.

  “Me too!” I exclaim and make a dash down the jet way.

  Chapter Two

  Bad Press

  Drew

  With arms raised above my head and eyes sealed tightly shut, I slowly arch my back and let out an exaggerated yawn while I stretch out my body. I tilt my head to the right to confirm my plan has worked…again. April, at least I think that is her name, rolls over to face me wearing nothing but a smile that extends from ear to ear. Her long, wavy blonde hair hangs perfectly over her breasts. I try to remember what they felt like last night but I was more drunk than usual. Judging by looks alone I’m positive they’re store bought.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Drew,” she says, while crawling across the bed towards me.

  “Did you sleep well?” I ask, though I don’t really care.

  “I did. I am very well rested,” she replies, suggestively raising her eyebrows and licking her lips.

  On occasion I have been tempted into a double-header. Today, however, is not one of those days.

  “I’m glad,” I respond, flashing my dimples. “I wish I could tire you out again but I’ve got an endorsement obligation and I can’t be late.” I stroke her hair and try to keep her at arm’s length. “Should I order you some breakfast while you shower?”

  She closes the gap between us and presses her body against mine. Her face is less than an inch from mine. I don’t know why I’m ever surprised by how women act. But when she licks my face from chin to ear I gasp. She mistakes my repulsion for arousal and forcefully grabs my Louisville Slugger. My mother raised me right, but this is one of those mornings when being a gentleman won’t work.

  “April, right?” I question.

  Actually, I hope I get it wrong so she knows this isn’t going anywhere. Putting my hands on her shoulders and politely pushing her back onto her knees, I create enough space between us to get out of the bed.

  “Last night was fun. But like I said, I need to get going. If you aren’t going to shower then I can call my car service and get you a ride home.”

  “Oooohh! Do I get a goody bag?” she squeals, literally jumping up and down while naked and clapping her hands. Holy fuck, is this chick for real? If I wasn’t hung over I might be mildly entertained. But my head is pounding and I’m getting more annoyed by the minute.

  “Last I checked this wasn’t a four-year-olds birthday party. So…no. There’s no goody bag.”

  “Well one of my girlfriends got one before from,” she starts pouting, but I don’t let her finish.

  “Clearly, I’m not him,” I cut her off. I know exactly who she’s talking about but no, I’m not him. Nor, would I ever do that. This woman had three orgasms last night, courtesy of yours truly. I think I’ve already been generous enough.

  She pouts her overly enhanced lips at me and sighs dramatically. Rolling out of the bed she grabs her clothes and purse off the floor and saunters naked to the bathroom. I slide sweats on over my boxer-briefs and toss on a t-shirt. Quickly, I gather up the rest of her things and put them strategically on the couch in the living room….the one next to the door.

  I think I was hasty in my decision to bring her here last night and I want to get this over. Thank God I had enough sense not to bring her home. A few minutes later I hear the bathroom door open. That’s odd, she barely took three minutes.

  April is dressed in her clothes from last night and has apparently decided to go without showering. Like an animal stalking its prey she makes her way towards me. Linking her arms behind me neck she whispers in my ear, “I’ll skip the shower. I want to smell you on me all day.”

  I do my best to keep my face expressionless. Who the hell says shit like that? But I know full well that dozens of women have said some version of this line to me before. And each time my internal reaction is the same – appalled.

  After an uncomfortably long five minutes I’m finally alone. Relieved, I lean against the door and stare into the spacious suite that has become my second home. The Mandarin is a luxury hotel in the Back Bay area of Boston. I stay in the same type of suite every weekend, but never the same room…at least not two weekends in a row. With Asian-inspired modern décor, the rooms have large living rooms with fireplaces, a spacious bedroom with a king size bed and a spa-like bathroom. It’s only a couple of blocks away from my own place but I learned long ago that it’s not wise to have the women I meet know where I live.

  Undressing on the way to the bathroom, I toss my clothes at the foot of the bed and head for the shower. Immediately upon entering the bathroom I’m hit by a wall of her perfume, not just lingering but a thick concentration polluting the air. Ugh. Coughing, I choke on the scent and decide to leave the bathroom door open as I shower. This crap is getting kind of old, I think to myself as I turn the faucet on and watch the steam begin to rise.

  Stepping into the shower I reflect on my many conquests and circumstances leading up to them while the hot water drenches my body. I’ve never given it much thought but upon reflection it becomes remarkably clear that every weekend is the same. Whether we’re home or away, during the weekends I always go out with a few guys on the team. Our group of five or six never hits up the same bars in Boston, although Remy’s and the bar at the W Hotel are personal favorites of mine. The staff at both places know us well and they treat us like any other patrons.

  Wherever we go, we typically watch a game as we sit at the bar and toss a few back, but inevitably a few women will approach us. It’s difficult to take full responsibility for how things transpire, as it’s crystal clear that the women we meet purposely seek us out. And, it’s too easy not to take the bait. That said, we all go there with the same intention - to meet a woman and bring her home, or back to the suite in my case.

  I close my eyes and let the water rinse away the shampoo and visualize the different faces of women that have been in my line-up over the past couple of years. My weekends have become so incredibly routine that the sequence of events could be compiled into a flipbook, with changing faces flashing by on each page, but the rest of the scene exactly the same.

  Washing my face, the flipbook analogy plays in my mind, sounding like a toy propeller as each page wizzes by. The story starts in the bar with me talking to a woman. After casual conversation I call my car service to drive us to the hotel. Once in the hotel, we take the elevator and make our way up to my suite. Most women try to cop a feel in the elevator, but that’s really not my thing. She sits on the couch while I pour a drink and turn on the fireplace. We continue to make small talk and like reading from a script I tell her just enough superficial details about me to make her feel a connection.

  Eventually, the conversation leads to the topic of relationships and I confess that I’ve been hurt in the past and watch her slowly let down her guard. Most women take pity on me as if I’m someone they need to save, but I assure them I’m fine. I’m just not ready for any type of relationship. I travel too much and it’s not fair to ask someone to commit to me when
I’m hardly around. It’s astounding, but each and every woman responds the same. They all attempt to comfort me with words and affection, which ultimately leads directly to the gold-walled bedroom with a king-sized bed.