by Ernest Olson
CHAPTER 9
Be careful of what you wish for, it might just come true.
I hadn't slept in 24 hours when I boarded my Delta Airlines flight to Austria. It was all part of my grand scheme to regulate my biorhythms. Making biorhythm adjustments seem harder each year and overcoming jet lag an increasingly difficult proposition. So, for this trip I stayed totally and completely awake for 24 hours prior to my departure. I further planned to stay awake the entire flight. With layovers, that would require about 18 more hours of awake-time. Coffee and walking the aisles as well as conversation with fellow travelers was the plan. Then, once off the plane, all I had to do was stay awake for another 12 hours and I would be on schedule. And, of course, keeping in mind my wager with Heath, I was secretly hoping to meet an available woman. Maybe, (I barely dared to think it) I might be so lucky as to join the Mile High Club. The incongruity of that last thought caused me to laugh out loud.
I had requested an aisle seat in the rear of the plane. I'm a superstitious flyer, and ever since someone told me that your chances of surviving an accident were far better if you sat in the rear of the plane, I have taken a seat in the back. As for the aisle seat, I like to get up and move around. Plus in the event of an accident, sitting on the aisle definitely makes egress easier.
The plane appeared nearly full. A few empty seats were sprinkled about the plane, including one next to me. The flow of passengers had slowed to a trickle and I was beginning to think that I would make this flight without a seatmate. The elbow-room would be appreciated. Then I saw her.
She was walking down the aisle like an Asian lioness. Her black mane fell around her naked shoulders like night on a sunset. Her eyes sparkled with confidence and mischief. Her halter-top strained against round breasts and her black Capri pants hugged long golden legs. She came to the last row of seats, looked through me to the vacant seat to my right, and slipped past me. Her legs bumped into mine, and as she slid by I caught the scent of her perfume. Of all the planes in God's blue sky, why did she have to choose this one. Of all the seats into which she could slip, why next to me?
I had climbed mountains with less temerity than I was feeling at that moment, I had faced death in a dozen different ways, but there is something more unsettling about perfection than danger; something that no amount of education, military training, or experience can prepare one for. I realized that the source of my uneasiness was the very thing that was driving me to Europe, my own inability to face getting older. It was clear that I found this woman incredibly attractive, but it was also clear to me that she was completely inaccessible. I can still climb mountains, ride motorcycles, and carve out paths in jungles, but to have a relationship with the lioness next to me was out of the question. She would find me no more attractive than I would. As Woody Allen is reported to have said, "I would never go out with a woman who would go out with someone like me." The presence of this woman had forced me to accept the reality that society had shaped for me, it had left me feeling old and impotent.
She stared straight ahead, leaned back and took a deep breath. She sighed as she kicked off her bulky platform shoes. Her arm brushed mine, and in resignation I lowered my eyes and looked at the floor. She must have sensed my discomfort for she turned to me and said, "They nevah do make these little ahmrests wide 'nuff, do they." Her voice was sultry, sheer music, lavender and honey in a Texas drawl. "But, I am cehtain we kin shyeh..."
"Oh, no problem here, plenty of room."
I turned in my seat and looked directly at her. She was more beautiful than I had originally thought. I wondered what she thought about the face she was looking at. The thought caused me to flash on good ol' Clint, and I started to smile. She smiled right back. "Ahm Lisa Marie Chin," she said extending her hand.
Her fingers were long and slender, and her nails were manicured and the color of her polish reflected the shade of her lips.
"You have a southern accent, I mumbled. I 'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting a southern accent."
"Not many people do. Ahm Chinese, but ah wuz raised in Austin, Texas. Ah even speak Mandarin with an accent."
"Nice to meet you, I'm Chesterfield Belton Olden--skip it, just call me CB," I stammered. I never did like my name, and right then I even liked it less.
I knew how this flight would go. We would chat for awhile. Lisa Marie would eventually tell me about her boyfriend, ask for advice from a more mature perspective, and then go to sleep. I would drink coffee, walk around the plane and generally try to stay awake without disturbing my seatmate's youthful slumber. Yep, that's how it would be. But, that's not how it was.
For the next 45 minutes Lisa slept and I wrote in my diary. For the following three-hours and 30 minutes I slept--so much for the stimulating effects of coffee. When I finally regained some degree of alertness, we were flying somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. I calculated we had passed the "point of no return." Lisa Marie had curled up with a blanket and had covered her eyes with an eyeshade. There would be no conversation with her. I slipped out of my seat and went for a walk. I stretched as I walked to the galley in the midsection of the plane. I'd hang out there for awhile, chat up a flight attendant or fellow traveler, and generally make an effort to stay awake.
I wasn't the only one walking. It seemed there were several of us of like mind. Robert was Austrian and going home. He, like me, was trying to stay awake. Bernard, a retired electrical engineer also had a similar plan. John, on the other hand, was actually too anxious to sleep. He was going to meet a woman he had contacted over the Internet. John was easy to talk too. At 45 years of age he was feeling an urgency to meet the "right woman." He hadn't found her in Las Vegas, where he worked as a pit boss at a casino, and so now he was headed for Russia where he hoped to find true love. "How will you know if she's the one?" I asked.
"I have a 1975 Corvette convertible. When I first saw that car, I knew that it was the car for me. I love that car. I still have it and will have it until it falls apart. It will be that way with her. I will know within the first minute if she's the one."
He sounded like Heath. They are everywhere. I gave John my business card and asked him to send me an email when he got back and let me know how things had gone in Russia. As I turned to the aisle, I wondered if John were being set up. Would he find a beautiful woman or the Russian Mafia? It was an unsettling thought.
I wandered back to my seat and pulled out my sketchpad. I had learned from years of traveling not to pay too much attention to the time. Nevertheless, I found myself gawking at my watch and doing the time difference calculations. We had 5 hours yet to go. It’s ironic that time goes more slowly on a jet airplane traveling in excess of 500 miles an hour than anywhere else in the world. I got up and headed toward the front of the plane. Just as I was about to enter the galley and cross to the opposite aisle, a petite flight attendant grabbed me by the arm, and asked if I could lend a hand with a passenger who needed help going to the restroom.
"Sure, glad to help," I responded.
I walked with her to a seat not too far from my own and introduced myself to Steve Kramer, a barrister from London. Steve had gone to San Francisco for elective surgery. He said, he was feeling dizzy, had a hard time walking, and assumed that it was somehow associated with the surgical procedure. I helped him to the restroom, waited for him to finish and then helped him back to his seat.
As he sunk into his chair, Steve looked at me and said, "Thanks man, I feel like a bloody two-year old having his daddy take him to the loo. Sorry, I had to put you through that, but thank you again. Cheers, mate."
"No problem, if you need anything else, give a shout, I'm about three-rows behind you." I returned to my seat.
The lioness peered up from under her blanket, "Was there somethun wrong with that guy, he seemed to have a hard time walkin'."
"Yeah, he said he was dizzy and had trouble with his balance."
"Gosh, that's
too bad. Is it serious?"
"Beat's me."
Only about 15 minutes had passed before Steve quietly called for me again. Now he was having acute abdominal pains and needed to go to the restroom again. As he tried to stand, he crumbled in my arms, "I don't know what's wrong, my legs don't want to work."
I called for the flight attendant and quietly told her to find a physician. Certainly out of 400 people there would be at least one doctor, probably more. She came back a few minutes later, "I can't find a single medical professional on the whole plane. Do you think it's serious?"
I looked at Steve, he was fumbling to hold on to the book he had been reading. His eyes were wide with fright and his voice quivered. He spoke quietly, "My bloody hands are going numb, what's happening to me?"
"I don't know. Hang on while we get you some help."
I turned away from Steve and spoke quietly to the flight attendant, "Yes, it could be serious. I think you should inform the pilot that he may have a very sick passenger on board."
"Okay, I'll be right back." She turned and headed toward the flight deck.
I turned my attention back to the ailing passenger, "Tell me Steve have you eaten anything unusual, or have you taken any medication, or drunk any alcohol?" I was stretching here, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening.
"Well, I ate dinner at some friends in San Francisco before leaving for the plane."
"What did you have?"
"They made me what they called a British meal. Mutton, Jacket Potatoes, canned beans, salt bread...that sort of thing."
In my youth I had planned on being a physician, went through a pre-med program and even worked in a hospital. It turned out I didn't have the right temperament for medicine, but I got along great with plants, and so I went on to get a Ph.D. in botany. That's how I ended up teaching at a college. My research had focused on naturally occurring biological toxins. Whereas many of my colleagues were working under hefty grants from the U.S. Department of Defense, I worked under a modest grant from Green Peace. My colleagues were creating weapons, I worked on finding antidotes to naturally occurring poisons. One of the natural toxins with which I had some experience was botulism, a nasty little organism often found in improperly processed home canning.
"Were the beans home-canned?"
"Yes, Martha, my friend, was very proud of them."
I was kneeling in the aisle, my hand on his knee. "Is your vision okay?"
"I am having a hard time seeing--everything is doubled." His book fell to the floor. He tried to reach for it, but the paralysis had begun to affect his arms. Tears welled up in his eyes. "What's happening to me?"
I remember my first exposure to botulism. It came in the form of a lecture in an undergraduate microbiology class. It had such a profound impact on me that I stopped eating canned foods. Botulism affects vision, creates gastrointestinal pain, and causes paralysis. Death results when the paralysis extends to the diaphragm and the victim stops breathing. It is a hideous death, and it was happening right in front of me.
The flight attendant had returned and was standing behind me. I stood and turned to her. "I'm not a physician, but I think he is suffering from botulism. He needs immediate medical care--this is very serious." She rushed back to the fight deck. I picked up Steve's book.
"Let's see where you left off...." I sat there in the aisle and began reading aloud from a James Lee Burke novel. Steve's condition steadily worsened. The flight attendant had told me that it would be an hour before we could land at Heathrow. And, so I read and reassured and read again. It was going to be a long hour, a very long hour. The lioness came forward and gently asked if she could help.
"Hold his hand," I quietly replied.
It was strange tableau, a quiet little drama at 30,000 feet. The beautiful Asian Texan held the dying man's hand and stroked his brow, I read to him, while the passengers in the rear of the plane looked on with detached concern.
We were met in Heathrow by paramedics who whisked Steve from off the plane. He was still breathing on his own and although his speech was slurred, he could still communicate. As he was carried out, I stuffed my business card in his jacket, and said, "Let me know how you're doing." He mumbled a promise to contact me. He held on to Lisa's hand until the last possible second. The paramedics expertly moved him into the jetway and he was gone.
The plane was deathly quiet. I realized I was perspiring and my hands started to quiver. I returned to my seat. I took a deep breath, lifted my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes. Life is so fragile, all it takes is a single drop of clostridium botulinum contaminated food and it all comes tumbling down. You can't take anything for granted, and life perhaps the least. Here I had been whining about getting old, a luxury my new friend Steve might not live to enjoy.
I felt a hand on my arm, "Ah you okay?"
I opened my eyes and looked at Lisa Marie Chin, "Ya, I'm okay."
"That was very kind of you to help him."
"It was kind of you to help, he needed the kind of reassurance your touch provided."
I looked at her closely. She really was a beautiful woman, and not just on the outside. She also had a depth to her, a spiritual quality that made her even more attractive than before. Steve's struggle to survive reminded me that life is too short to worry about the consequences of simple acts--such as asking someone out. We get all caught up in social mores, expectations, and contrived fears. All of which, in comparison to being poisoned by botulism, are relatively unimportant. To hell with the cultural and age differences, I wasn't asking to marry her, just spend a little time with her. I liked this woman-- there was something about her that called to me. Maybe we could be friends. In another hour we would land in Vienna and I might never see her again. It was now or never. Don Imus looked years older than me and as I recalled he had a wife roughly 100 years younger than him. What the hell....
"Lisa, I don't mean to sound presumptuous, but do you suppose when we get to Vienna, you might have time for dinner with a new old friend?"
Her response came without hesitation, "Ah was about to ask you the same thing."
I closed my eyes and leaned into my seat. Just before I dozed off, I wondered if I had brought Heath's phone number.
