More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) Read Free Page A

jetliner, which veritably swells with people, many of whom have engorged mid-sections themselves. If you squint, blurring your vision, you can sort of imagine an oversized chocolate tin from a big box store—the kind they put out at Christmas—where every compartment is filled with something mysterious you really don’t want to take a chance on.
    I look up, figuring there will be no place to tuck the Tumi anywhere near my seat, so I’d better start looking. And, of course, it’s immediately apparent that all the overhead storage bins are jammed. Kabuki masks, boxes of sake, and duty-free Scotch join the luggage and pieces of clothing, crowding the bins for as far as I can see and pretty much guaranteeing there won’t be a spot for my one little carry-on with the perfectly measured three-ounce containers in their quart-sized zip-lock plastic bag. Crap, crap, crap!
    For all the trouble I went through to call her, Madelyn might have at least pretended to believe me. Calling had made me so late, I can’t even find a place for my bag. I hate that! Why is it everything about air travel is a challenge? The temperature is always either too hot or too cold, and there are always so many people . Where are they going, and why are they on my plane?
    If you’re getting the sense that I’m angry, you’re right. I’m an angry white woman. Get over it, you say? Granted, things could be a lot harder than they are, and perhaps I shouldn’t complain. But things could be a lot easier, too.
    Our would-be first female president, Hillary, would agree with me on this. People could be way nicer, smarter, more considerate, and the world would be a better place as a result. But everyone behaves as if they didn’t have to share the planet or the not-so-friendly skies with other human beings—not to mention animals, birds, and bugs—including women like me, Nancy Pelosi, and Lady Gaga; not that they fly coach, but you know what I mean—who want all the stuff men have.
    I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, imagining I’m back in Los Angeles, clasping a pole in K-Love’s intermediate dance class, circling to the sounds of J. Cole’s “Power Trip” and loving life. And I remind myself, as I always do in times of stress, I must learn to practice gratitude; I breathe deeply while repeating my mantra in my head: Inhale: Yes, yes, yes, yes; exhale: Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
    I’m moving again, and spot a flight attendant handing out headsets a few rows away on the other side of the plane. So I limp over, smiling cheerily, hoping she can help. Her hair is cut in a bob, and she wears a nametag that says, “Kitty.” Seriously, “Hello, I’m Kitty.” She can’t be serious.
    “Hello, Kitty,” I say, smiling as genuinely as Reese Witherspoon pulled over for a moving violation. “I wonder if you might help me.”
    She beams back a not-altogether-genuine smile herself, but of course she’s not had the benefit of working with actors as I do, being able to mirror behavior on a daily basis. “Oh-hi-oh, wuh I can do for you?” she asks in heavily accented English.
    “Kitty, could I ask you, isn’t the rule of the skies that a passenger gets one carry-on? Because there are people on this flight who must have more than one. Otherwise, all the overhead bins wouldn’t be so full, ya know?” I give her an “aw shucks” kind of shrug, hoping she’ll agree and do something about this gross miscarriage of justice.
    Kitty’s expression doesn’t change.
    “See, I only have this one carry-on,” I continue, speaking a little slower and acting it out with hand gestures in case her English comprehension isn’t up to speed.
    I realize it irritates non-English speakers when Americans do this, but I really believe it can help them understand better; so I forge ahead.
    “And as you can see—” I point to my eyes—“there’s no place to put it.” I point to the overhead bin and shrug.
    “Do you think we could find