enjoy the mild air blowing in my face and through my hair.
Itâs been unseasonably warm and sunny for late April this past week. Everyoneâs enjoying the break from our usual cold and dull white skies this time of year, but no one is taking it seriously. It could snow tomorrow. Iâve been to cookouts in June where Iâve worn shorts and a parka.
Picking up fares at the new Harrisburg airport is a piece of cake. Itâs only a few years old, clean, modern, and never crowded. Itâs true that there arenât many flights to places people want to go. Itâs more of a have-to airport: I have to go to Detroit on business; I have to go to Cincinnati to visit my sister; I have to go to Birmingham for a college buddyâs wedding.
Iâve never flown in or out of it. Iâve only been on a plane once in my life and that was when I lived in D.C. and briefly screwed around with a senator. He flew me to a tropical island once in the private jet of some corporate bigwig who Iâm willing to bet contributed mightily to his campaign fund.
I was more interested in the pilot and spent most of the long weekend with him while the senator was tied up with conference calls to Washington, assuring various people that he was going to do things he wasnât going to do, and private calls to his wife, assuring her he was someplace he wasnât.
He wasnât a bad guy, though. I wouldnât say he was morally corrupt, just morally inept. Lying was simply a part of his nature, like under-tipping.
I donât regret my time with him. He was generous to me and showed me the Caribbean. In return, I taught him how to check his car for cut brake lines for that inevitable day when his wife was going to try and kill him.
I pull up to the curb at arrivals. I know exactly who Iâm looking for even though Iâve never met the man.
Kozlowskiâs cell phone number on my caller ID had a Manhattan area code, so itâs doubtful heâll express any dismay over the amount of money Iâm going to charge him for this trip. He wants to hire a cab rather than rent a car, which would probably end up being cheaper in the long run and more convenient for him.
Iâve gathered from all this that heâs a lifelong, non-driving New Yorker who has money but earned it by working for it because the way he speaks isnât natural Snob-ese but something he learned. So I look for a man standing by himself dressed in black and looking casually uncomfortable.
I spot him immediately.
Iâd put him in his mid-thirties. Short dark hair parted on the side. Eyes the color of weak tea. His individual features would be considered the ideal shape and size by most people. As a matter of fact, there might be laminated Polaroid snapshots of his nose, lips, eyebrows, ears, and chin in a plastic surgeonâs catalog of parts somewhere. The combination of all of them makes for a face no one can criticize or remember, the kind of face a police sketch artist could capture perfectly yet no one would ever be able to identify.
Heâs wearing glossy black leather loafers, black wrinkle-free pants with sharp pleats down the front of the legs, a braided black leather belt, and a black silk T-shirt. His black suit jacket is hooked to his finger and thrown over his shoulder. The shirt alone probably costs more than my monthly car payment.
I try to make small talk with him during the drive but he wonât bite. He spends the two hours perusing papers from his briefcase and talking on his cell. Itâs obvious from several of the conversations that heâs a lawyer who deals predominantly with contracts.
Nothing I do gets a rise out of him. He doesnât comment on any of the music I play: Sonny Rollins followed by AC/DC followed by the Broadway score from
My Fair Lady.
He doesnât mind the windows open. He doesnât object to my periodic, animated cursing of left-laners, the self-centered, oblivious
Itâs been unseasonably warm and sunny for late April this past week. Everyoneâs enjoying the break from our usual cold and dull white skies this time of year, but no one is taking it seriously. It could snow tomorrow. Iâve been to cookouts in June where Iâve worn shorts and a parka.
Picking up fares at the new Harrisburg airport is a piece of cake. Itâs only a few years old, clean, modern, and never crowded. Itâs true that there arenât many flights to places people want to go. Itâs more of a have-to airport: I have to go to Detroit on business; I have to go to Cincinnati to visit my sister; I have to go to Birmingham for a college buddyâs wedding.
Iâve never flown in or out of it. Iâve only been on a plane once in my life and that was when I lived in D.C. and briefly screwed around with a senator. He flew me to a tropical island once in the private jet of some corporate bigwig who Iâm willing to bet contributed mightily to his campaign fund.
I was more interested in the pilot and spent most of the long weekend with him while the senator was tied up with conference calls to Washington, assuring various people that he was going to do things he wasnât going to do, and private calls to his wife, assuring her he was someplace he wasnât.
He wasnât a bad guy, though. I wouldnât say he was morally corrupt, just morally inept. Lying was simply a part of his nature, like under-tipping.
I donât regret my time with him. He was generous to me and showed me the Caribbean. In return, I taught him how to check his car for cut brake lines for that inevitable day when his wife was going to try and kill him.
I pull up to the curb at arrivals. I know exactly who Iâm looking for even though Iâve never met the man.
Kozlowskiâs cell phone number on my caller ID had a Manhattan area code, so itâs doubtful heâll express any dismay over the amount of money Iâm going to charge him for this trip. He wants to hire a cab rather than rent a car, which would probably end up being cheaper in the long run and more convenient for him.
Iâve gathered from all this that heâs a lifelong, non-driving New Yorker who has money but earned it by working for it because the way he speaks isnât natural Snob-ese but something he learned. So I look for a man standing by himself dressed in black and looking casually uncomfortable.
I spot him immediately.
Iâd put him in his mid-thirties. Short dark hair parted on the side. Eyes the color of weak tea. His individual features would be considered the ideal shape and size by most people. As a matter of fact, there might be laminated Polaroid snapshots of his nose, lips, eyebrows, ears, and chin in a plastic surgeonâs catalog of parts somewhere. The combination of all of them makes for a face no one can criticize or remember, the kind of face a police sketch artist could capture perfectly yet no one would ever be able to identify.
Heâs wearing glossy black leather loafers, black wrinkle-free pants with sharp pleats down the front of the legs, a braided black leather belt, and a black silk T-shirt. His black suit jacket is hooked to his finger and thrown over his shoulder. The shirt alone probably costs more than my monthly car payment.
I try to make small talk with him during the drive but he wonât bite. He spends the two hours perusing papers from his briefcase and talking on his cell. Itâs obvious from several of the conversations that heâs a lawyer who deals predominantly with contracts.
Nothing I do gets a rise out of him. He doesnât comment on any of the music I play: Sonny Rollins followed by AC/DC followed by the Broadway score from
My Fair Lady.
He doesnât mind the windows open. He doesnât object to my periodic, animated cursing of left-laners, the self-centered, oblivious
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