Fly Me to the Moon Read Free

and over again that
the plane won’t wait”?
That if I’m late to the gate, I’ll be
immediately replaced
Well, I was beginning to think maybe the same rules applied to life. I mean, maybe Michael wasn’t the most exciting person, or the most creative person, or even the person who made me laugh the most, but he was presentable, dependable, made a good living, and treated me well. And I was beginning to realize that hanging back and waiting for someone more exciting would only result in me, stranded on the middle of the runway, way past departure.
    So by the time we were on final approach, I’d decided I would look surprised and excited when he presented me with the smallblue box and say
“Yes!”
with as much enthusiasm as a not-at-all-surprised person could muster.
    The second the wheels hit the runway I tore into my carry-on bag, turned on my phone, and listened to the sound of Michael’s cell go straight into voice mail. “Urn, hi Michael,” I whispered, never one to partake in
yellular.
“Good news! My flights were canceled and I deviated, so 111 be getting home way earlier. I know you’re probably at the gym or something, but I just wanted to say hi, and I can’t wait for tonight!”
    I tossed the phone in my bag and was concentrating on breathing through my mouth, trying to avoid the awful onion breath emanating from the guy on my left, when the captain came on the PA and said, “Uh, ladies and gentlemen, we seem to be having some difficulty attaching the jetway to the aircraft door. It should be taken care of momentarily. We appreciate your patience.”
    That’s all it took.
    The guy on my right poked me hard in the arm and asked, “What’d he just say?”
    Now, I know that we both heard the
exact same
announcement at the
exact same
volume. So why was it that just because I was in uniform he thought I’d heard something
more’?
“Well, uh, I think he said there was a problem with the jetway,” I told him, smiling politely while watching his face turn from a sallow beige to bright red, like he was seconds away from a heart attack.
    “Goddamn airline!” he screamed, glaring at me as though I was personally responsible for everything from the stingy seat pitch to the stale pretzels.
“Goddamn-piece-of-shit-airline! That’s the last time I’ll ever fly this piece of crap!”
he yelled, scowling, demanding a response.
    I glanced furtively around the cabin in an effort to see if my supervisor or anyone from management was on board, in which case my immediate response would be to calmly defuse the situation while instilling the merits of our exemplary service.
    But not recognizing anyone, I just shrugged and turned on my iPod.
     
    Hurrying outside, I found Clay already in the line for yellow cabs, as I figured he would be. “Hey,” I said, squeezing through a crowd of people all toting identical black bags with identical red ribbons tied around the handle for easy spotting on the baggage claim carousel.
    “What took?” he asked, squinting at his watch.
    “I was in coach, remember?” I rolled my eyes. “So how was first class?”
    Clay was three months older than me, which in this case had been all the seniority required to get him comfortably seated up front while I was crammed in the back between the two surly “squishers” (flight attendant speak for people who’d clearly be more comfortable using a seat belt extension).
    “The service is really going downhill.” He shook his head. “Did you know we won’t serve pretzels with the preflight cocktail anymore? I swear, it’s like the end of the world,” he said, opening the cab door.
    “Two stops, please,” I told the driver. “The first is Seventy-second and Third, and the second . . .” I glanced at Clay, waiting. He’d never been one for a permanent address.
    “Twenty-third and Seventh,” he said, sliding in next to me.
    “Chelsea this week?” I teased.
    “It’s been a month.” He rolled his eyes and popped a breath