Fear Of Flying
Douglas
Adams once wrote that the main ingredient in flying is to hurl yourself at the
ground and miss.
I had always
thought that was a clever thing to say. In its pure simplicity it alleges that
flying might prove to be a bit difficult. For instance, if, say, a million people
were to hurl themselves at the ground, all in unison, odds are really good that
– not nearly,
not virtually,
but – absolutely
all of them would hit it, and hit it hard enough to make them think twice before
trying again. Pain talks, believe me: it’s only common sense.
That’s my
weakness, by the way - common sense. You see, I haven’t any, but to continue
on…
Of course Mr.
Adams’ theory is also a metaphor, meaning that the greater the risk, the
greater the reward, because let’s face it, flying would be really cool, but the
risks attenuated might be considered egregiously dire, although by some, worth
taking. In fact, flying is the most awesomely cool thing that can be imagined,
and therefore the greatest reward that there is, making winning the lottery
pretty boring by comparison. That, combined with my appalling lack of common
sense, goes a long way toward explaining why I had fallen so madly in love with
Jenny.
Jenny Anderson
has that Girl-Next-Door look, if you know what I mean. There wasn’t anything
about her that wasn’t untypically pretty, and I loved her desperately. She, on
the other hand, was way out of reach, and despised the ground I walked on…or pretended
to anyway…
“We should hang
out.” I said it lightly - light as a feather, actually - like I had just had
this brilliantly amazing idea, only modesty kept me from shouting it from the
rooftops, so light and easy was the only way to go. I made it sound like it was
no big deal if she hung out with me or not. I mean, amazing as that idea was, I
made it sound like it was no biggy, one way or the other. I came across as
though amazing ideas were merely commonplace with me. She could buy into this
one if she so chose, but it didn’t really matter; there would soon be other opportunities.
My next amazing idea was bound to be just around the corner.
I thought that
it sounded good, but she didn’t bite. Maybe because this had been the same amazing
idea I’d been having for weeks, and it didn’t seem likely to improve any time
soon.
“Thanks,” she
said, with a distinct lack of interest, “but no thanks,” and after a pause,
found the energy to explain, “I’m washing my hair.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“It’ll need
washing again.” She gestured casually around the street, her untypically pretty
nose wrinkling with disapproval at the passing, exhaust-ridden traffic, then
over to where a city crew were patching potholes in the pavement - the heavy
aroma of hot asphalt clinging to the sweltering air - and finally to the fast-food
establishment we were walking past just then, ripe with the rancid smell of old
cooking grease. Her very posture displayed utter helplessness in the face of a polluted
world. It protested that it wasn’t her fault that her hair required such an
effort. Pity, but there it was.
I had to admit
that it was an eloquent gesture, but then it was one she could afford to make
with comparative ease, I mean, seeing as how I was carrying her books and all.
When not gesturing eloquently, her arms were free to sway casually at her side,
or fold protectively across her breasts, while my own were wrapped around what
seemed like every textbook that had ever been printed, my biceps trembling from
the strain…although I made every effort to appear casually content, in a
disinterested sort of way.
“What about
later?” I asked, determined not to sound determined.
Her arm barely
paused from encompassing the world before a flick of her wrist indicated the freight
I was carrying. “I have to study.”
“We could study
together.”
“I’m a Psych
major,” she pointed out, more bored than ever, “ and you’re…” She left it at that,
like she couldn’t bother trying to remember what my major was, as if it was
beneath her interest or something.
“English Literature.”
“Right.” It was
the same tone she used when she said, ‘Whatever’.
“So what’s the
big deal? You could study Psych, and I could catch up on my Fielding. We could
just hang out.” I resisted the urge to add, ‘C’mon, it’ll be fun’. I didn’t
want to sound like I was desperate or anything.
“I don’t think
that’s a good idea.”
Although I was
careful to remain outwardly impassive, my heart gave a flip that probably
registered on a Richter scale somewhere out on the west coast. Maybe it was
nothing more than another case of my natural avoidance to all things logical but,
at that moment, it struck me that she might be entertaining suspicions about my
intent. If so, then the idea of the two of us
alone, with the possibility of my making advances, had
appeared at the forefront of her thoughts, and therefore been given life. You
know what they say - wherever there’s life there’s hope.
I couldn’t let
the moment pass.
“We could order
take-out.” Take-out wasn’t a date – not an actual date – but it
was close.
Yet, whatever
inner turmoil I was causing, outwardly Jenny was fielding my assault on her
willpower with casual – if not jaded – ease.
“No.”
That’s when I decided,
and took a very deep breath, before slowly letting it out again. My options had
now dwindled to one. The moment had finally arrived, and I was nervous as hell.
But it all came down to whether I could continue with the status quo, or discover
if there was any chance that it could lead to something more. The problem was
that what little I did have with her would be lost forever if I failed, and
that seemed all too likely. Still, if there was a chance of our going further,
both of us would have to see something in me other than what was currently
being displayed. So, girded with thoughts of how God hates a coward, I took the
plunge and opted for Plan B:
“We could go out.”
I had just
metaphorically hurled myself at the ground, even though I could already see how
it lay: hard as flint, and unforgiving as sin. No two ways about it, this was
gonna hurt like hell.
To be sure,
Jenny sighed, long and loud; then her eyes did this dramatic roll, like this
was something that had been expected all along, but was totally unwelcome.
“Look Kevin, I don’t…”
“To Ottavio’s.”
She stopped in
mid-sentence.
Ottavio’s
wasn’t trendy like what the university crowd was used to, but it was posh and
romantic, with a maitre d’, and the whole nine yards. It was also expensive…which
would be why I’d be working double shifts at Giuseppe’s
for the next six months, on the one-in-a-million chance she said yes.
In fact, she didn’t
say anything. My mentioning Ottavio’s had got her
thinking, like she realized that I was offering her the impossible, like the
Taj Mahal or something. I was surprised by her hesitation, but I wouldn’t say I
was delighted – I didn’t dare.
Then she laughed.
I thought that her laughter was untypically pretty, too.
“You’re pulling
my leg! We couldn’t possibly get a table on such short notice!”
I found myself
speaking around this huge lump in my throat, vaguely aware that it must be my
heart.
“Say yes,” I
told her (completely disinterested, you understand), “and it’s as good as
done.”
Jenny wasn’t
just kidding about how difficult it was getting into Ottavio’s;
she was speaking from experience. Untypically pretty girls attracted
untypically rich guys like ants to honey – the type that liked to impress. That
didn’t always work with Jenny, though…or with Ottavio’s
either, for that matter. In addition to being posh, romantic and expensive, it
was also pretty exclusive, requiring reservations being made weeks – if not
months - in advance. To just walk in off of the street and not be turned away
was so unlikely, it seemed like madness even to try.
It was my boss
who first put me onto the idea.
Giuseppe could
be difficult to work for. Sometimes he could be a real pain in the butt. He was
one of your swarthy, sharp-tempered Italians who ran his pizzeria like a
fiefdom. But he had a heart behind that teakwood exterior…and he had an
Italian’s passion for amore.
Just the other
day he’d cornered me in the kitchen, and said, “Listen-a to me, boy,” in a deep
basso-baritone, the thumbs and middle fingers of both hands forming perfect
‘O’s. He held them to the sides of his face and shook them at me, the way he
always did when he…well, the way he always did. “It’s-a seemple! You like-a
this-a girl? Then you must-a feed her!” He
continued, with his face twisting in ecstasy. “Food! She’s-a the heart of-a
life! But wine! Wine she’s-a the soul!”
and brought the lecture to an end by tapping a sagacious finger against my
chest, “A woman, she knows-a theese!”
By omission he
was admitting that Giuseppe’s wasn’t the right fit for what
was required. If I was serious about Jenny, I would have to set my sites
altogether higher, and in our town, that meant Ottavio’s.
Meanwhile, Jenny
continued without speaking, and I could almost feel the wind in my face as the
earth rushed up to greet me. We’d just reached Twenty-fourth and Park; the
apartment she shared with three other girls was another block over, so I slowed
to a crawl, forcing her to follow suit. I had to admit that it didn’t look good,
but one way or another, I wanted an answer before we reached her front door.
Finally, still
mesmerized by something on the sidewalk, she said, “I really do have to study.”
“Sure thing.” I
tried for light and breezy, but the weight on my chest was pulling me down to
my destiny. No surprise there.
“So, even if by
some sort of miracle you did manage to get a table, I wouldn’t be able to stay
very long.”
At first I
didn’t understand. Inside, I was already curling into a protective ball,
bracing for the inevitable collision with the ground. So when her meaning
finally filtered through, I had to do some radical uncoiling. She was actually
considering saying yes! I might not be flying – the earth was still coming up
pretty fast, but it hadn’t reached me yet. This was an updraft under fledgling
wings: not strong enough to keep me aloft, but sufficient so that the words
‘hurtling downward’ no longer applied. For someone who bore too many bruises
from too many encounters with the downside of life, this was a very big deal.
“No one’s asking
you to.”
Then she did
look at me: her untypically pretty eyes were cold, and the ground lurched
dangerously close. “There’s something else we’d better get straight.”
“Okay.”
“This wouldn’t
be a date, understand?”
It took a
super-human effort, but I forced a smile, and lied. “Nothing was further from
my mind.” This was love after all. Everything was fair.
She continued to
study me, like she was seeing me for the first time, or maybe she was searching
for the lie. If so, I had it buried deep beneath the thermals, and never let on.
Then something
curious happened. Whatever she saw in me must have prompted her to try for a
little honesty herself, maybe for no better reason than to give us both a
chance to back out, considering that an evening together was bound to be a
waste of her time and my money. She cared that much, at least, and I felt the
updraft again, and thought that maybe this time it was a little stronger.
She said, “I don’t
like you, Kevin,” but the ground didn’t come any closer.
“I know, I was
hoping to change that.”
“You’re just
so…so…”
“Underfoot?”
She gave me a
glare…that gradually softened into a sad smile. My heart gave a turn when I
realized just how untypically sweet it was.
“Everyday you’re
around me like some sort of lost puppy, pestering away until I end up letting
you carry my books.” Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile, but I didn’t think
that the bitterness was directed at me, “and I always allow it.”
“Because you find
me useful?”
“Because I find
you useable,
Kevin, there’s a difference.”
“Oh.”
“That doesn’t
reflect very well on me, does it?”
Every instinct I
had urged me to say whatever was necessary to sooth her conscience, but then
the cosmos took yet another quirky turn, and I found myself deviating from the
script at the most crucial moment of my life.
I said, “It
doesn’t reflect well on either of us.”
The smile grew
sadder, and she nodded slowly to herself.
“I don’t have
time for a boyfriend. My course load’s pretty heavy.”
“I’m not your
boyfriend,” I told her. In the span of a millisecond, the idea had become
juvenile. “I’m Kevin.”
Suddenly she
laughed, and I could have sworn that there wasn’t anything bitter or angry this
time. I also could have sworn that there was something playfully coquettish in the
way she slapped my shoulder, and I was sure that the ground receded a few
inches.
She took a
breath – paused - then reached a decision.
“Okay, hot shot,
you’re on.” She produced a pen and wrote her number on the back of my hand. “If
you can arrange it, give me a call.” In the brief moment that followed, her
smile became quizzical, like maybe she was wondering if I was a magician –
maybe even hoping I was.
That’s when the
ground fell away altogether.
After she
disappeared inside her apartment, I was left with a sense of all parts of
myself flying off in every conceivable direction. Compared to the miracle that
had just happened, getting into Ottavio’s would be
simple - in fact nothing could be easier.
Giuseppe was
always willing to help when it came to matters of the heart.
“Boy, you get-a
that girl to go out with you, just-a say the word to Giuseppe,” he’d shrugged
with his shoulders hunched up around his ears, “an’ she’s a done-a-deal! After
all,” he’d continued, with his eyes a-twinkle, and a wicked grin lurking deep beneath
the heavy brush of his moustache, “Ottavio, he’s a smart-a boy! He knows-a
better than-a to say no to his papa!”
I turned for
home, soaring high above the clouds…and flipped open my cell.
The End
