Gone to See a Man About a Horse

I posted a picture on Facebook. It was the view from my window seat that was just above the wing of my Southwest flight. The caption above it simply said, ‘…well.’ That was all I wrote.

I was going back to California again, for the forth time that year. It was late June and it was hot sitting there in the plane waiting for the sheep to board. I sat there blankly staring at everyone’s faces while they tried to stuff their much oversized carry on bags in the above cabins. I liked to travel, especially in airports. I liked to see who I would meet, and what I could get for free. But, as I sat there, I my mind began to wander, and I questioned why I was on that plane. I knew something didn’t feel right. I wrestled with the idea of cancelling the flight the night before and the morning of, but I didn’t. I started to wonder what I was doing and why, when, my daze was interrupted by a text. I looked down at my phone, and it was from my mother. She had broken my trance.

Mom:      Where r u going??

Me:         …California

Me:          I ’m going to see a man about a horse.

Mom:      Horseshit

Me:         Lol exactly.

Me:          I think he has more than one jockey.

Mom:      Lol

Mom:      Who is this btw??

Me:         The Architect

Mom:       Hee haw..lol

My attention to texting shifted when an older man chose to sit in the aisle seat next to me. It wasn’t long after he sat that we were preparing for take off. I bundled up my black shawl, and I used it as a make shift pillow. I pushed it against the window and l leaned my head against it and I drifted away to earlier that morning…

… “Alright kids, I’ve got a plane to catch…” I said to my class, “…are you guys going to be okay?” I was leaving work early to catch my flight, and my students were in the lab frantically trying to complete the assignment that I gave them. They all shook their heads to silently say yes. “Okay then, I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down. Slide your assignment’s under my office door. I’ll see you guys on Wednesday.” I said to them as I grabbed my things, walked out of the computer lab, and started the half mile walk to my apartment in the dead heat of the New Mexico summer.

I was exhausted from not sleeping the night before. The heat didn’t help. It was hovering around 100 Fahrenheit, and I wasn’t built for that. I walked through one of the dirt trails made by the maintenance guy’s golf cart thingys, through the long asphalt parking lot, across the street, towards the greenhouse and the back entrance. There was a black gate there that was permanently locked, but I was small enough to squeeze through a gap in it. It wasn’t an official trail, but I convinced the grounds keepers from campus to cut down the brush some years ago, once I discovered the gap. They did. I was spoiled.

On the last stretch to my apartment on the frontage road, I looked down at my phone. I sent a text to my neighbor.

Me:                         Come over and help me pack.

Gus’s Boyfriend:      Okay, no problem

Me:                         Just come in, the door will be open.

I had weird flying rituals. One: I could never pack without an audience. Two: I was a nervous flyer, and I always drank a glass of wine before I went to the airport. I had a phobia, not of crashing, but of missing my flight. The wine helped to calm me.

Before he came over I quickly changed from my work clothes into something that was a little more, exciting. I always dressed up when I traveled because it helped me to get things done. I put on a pair of skinny Levi’s jeans and rolled them up. Then I stared into my closet. I didn’t do laundry before the trip, so all of my good clean clothes were packed. And, through the rest of the shirts hanging in my color coordinated closest, a lavender top stood out to me. I hesitated because the last time I wore it was in December when I was meeting a then boyfriends mom for the first time. While at his house, sitting in her living room with the entire family, I could feel her starting at me. She didn’t say anything to me, but then suddenly, she just got up and walked out of the living room leaving us just sitting there, awkwardly. I never saw any of them again after that visit, and nor had I wore that shirt since. That was a fun day. Since then, I had deemed it the back luck shirt. But on the day of my flight, it would be worn out of default. It was the only presentable shirt left hanging there, and it would see the day of light once more.

After I got dressed to my satisfaction, I could hear the door open to my apartment. It was Gus’s Boyfriend. “I’m in the bedroom!” I yelled. “Come tell me if I’m forgetting anything,” I instructed him as he walked into my bedroom and watched me frantically pack while drinking a glass of wine at 10:00 in the morning. Don’t judge. Flying and getting to the airport were stressful ordeals for me. Once I, we, were satisfied with my packing job, I zipped up my suitcase and set it next to the door. “Oh crap. Where’s my airport wine cup? I need my airport wine cup,” I told my neighbor frantically. My wine cup was a plastic cup from the horse track that I had held onto for over five years, it had some weird sentimental value. I reached into another cabinet, pulled out a box of wine and filled my cup half way. “Okay, let’s go.” I said as I grabbed my backpack and wheeled my suitcase out of my apartment door. He took the spare key and locked the door behind us. We packed his car and I pushed him to drive as fast as he could through the interstate traffic while I sipped my wine. We got to the airport in less than 20 minutes, and then the adventure began.

When we got to the airport, I opted to avoid the outdoor check in, and I went inside. Inside I walked through the maze that corralled the line up, and I stood behind two men and a young teenager. The man at the front of the line was carrying a green rifle case with padlocks. The others, just behind him, were and old white man with his Asian grandson. Behind me, stood Hispanic women. We all stood there, impatiently. There was only one check in lady working and there were three people who occupied her time, for at least 20 minutes.

“This is just like Walmart…” I complained to the older man, “…one big line and only one cashier.” He laughed, and I got a reaction from the ladies behind us. “Yeah, really!” one of them said in her Spanish accent and laughed. I stood there, and I listened and observed my surroundings. One might call it being nosy, while I call it being observant. My degree in criminology taught me to always be aware. I heard one of the women behind me say Vegas. Saying the word Vegas was like saying Squirrel for me. “Vegas?” I asked, as I turned around to the ladies. “Who’s going to Vegas? “I am,” said the lady two people behind me, meekly. “Lucky” I said back. I then turned my attention back to the men in front of me. The guy holding the gun case started to complain again, “All of the check in people are busy over there boarding the A-list people, and there isn’t anyone to check us in. There isn’t even anyone in their line now.” “Well…” I told him, “…just go over there and pretend like you didn’t know that it was the A-list group. They’ll check you in.” “That’s a good idea!” he said back. He picked up his gun case and went over. Sure enough, they started to check him in. Why is it that people are so afraid to take chances? I thought. What was the worst that could happen? If she told him no, then he could just come back and stand in line again.

Now, it was only the old guy with his grandson standing in front of me. “You’re up buttercup, front of the line,” I told him. “Buttercup?” he asked while laughing. “Did you just call me buttercup?” I did call him buttercup. That’s what I did. I mean, someone had to lighten the mood. We were all pissed off about the wait. While standing there behind him, almost next to him, I noticed that he had taken out his wallet. He was holding it open, and I saw that he had a military ID. “So, you’re former military?” I asked. He seemed surprised, “Yeah. I’m going to show this card, things usually go faster when I do,” he said. “Oh, I know…I used be in that life, I lived near Fort Campbell,” I told him. Somehow that seemed to make him more comfortable with me. “You know, if you go outside, I think it would be way faster to check you in. I don’t think there’s a line out there,” I advised. He looked out of the doors, but he didn’t budge. I was trying to get myself to the front of the line, but it didn’t work. And then his phone rang. Judging from the conversation, I could tell that it was his wife. “There is a young lady here who just called me buttercup!” he told her…the rest of the conversation I tuned out. I was busy starting at those three people still standing at the counter.

And then, finally, the three people at the check in desk were done. We could overhear them asking the check in lady, “So, where do we go?” The old, now grumpy man in front of me snickered quietly, “It’s over there, to the left. It’s not rocket science!” I laughed. And as the three blind mice who took up so much time at the check in desk walked away, the check in lady flagged the old man and his grandson over to the counter.

The check in lady, was a much older lady who should have probably retired 10 years ago. She had frizzy, short red hair, and she wore her Southwest uniform with pride. It was neatly pressed and buttoned all the way to the top. Her posture at the counter however, indicated that she was tired and probably didn’t want to be there anymore. The old guy and his grandson walked over to her. There was a brief interaction and then they turned around. I could hear her direct them to go to the check in that was outside. As he walked past me I couldn’t help myself and rubbed it in his face, “See...I told ya!” I laughed. “You can only get away with saying that because you called me buttercup!” He complained as he walked outside with his grandson in tow. And then, it was my turn to try to check in.

After I was checked in and made it past security, I was walking through the terminal, and I saw the same old guy with his grandson. That time though, he was standing with two other kids and what I assumed was his wife. “Hey, it’s you again!” I said as I was about to pass by. “Honey, this is my new girlfriend! She’s the one who called me buttercup,” he said while laughing. I paused for a few seconds. I needed to say something, but what? I thought. I touched the older lady’s arm and said, “Oh he’s not telling the truth. I’m not his new girlfriend, but I bet you’re used to that.” It’s a good thing that she had a sense of humor. She said back to me laughing, “Oh I’m used to it.” And I walked towards to my gate, A 11.

As I walked over, I looked for the bar that I always sat in before every flight. It was just ahead of me on the left side of the terminal. I looked down at my phone while I walked hasitly. It was already 11:45 AM, and my flight was due to depart at 12:15PM. I thought about stopping in for a minute, but reluctantly time kept me walking straight past it. While I was walking past it though, curiosity got the best of me, and I looked in to see which bartender was working that day. I had flown so much in the past two years that my bartender knew me by name, but I, however, could never remember her’s. She wasn’t working. Instead, there was a young ethnic looking guy working and only two other young guys sitting at the bar. It wasn’t very appealing to me, so I kept walking towards my gate.

When I approached my gate, I noticed that the plane had just arrived and people were just beginning to getting off of the plane. So, I walked back to the bar. Quickly. I put my backpack on the barstool next to one of the guys sitting there. The bartender came over and asked, “What can I get you ma’am?” Usually I gave people a hard time for calling me ma’am, but I didn’t have any time to banter too much. “I’d like to have an $11.00 glass of your finest cabernet please,” I said light heartedly and I laughed. Airport wine sucked and it was over priced just like everything else. I continued, “And, if you could pour me a good one that would be great. I get a little nervous on the planes” I confessed. The problem was, that I wasn’t nervous about the plane that day. Once he handed me a glass of wine that was almost flush with the top of the wine glass, I took my first gulp and I stood there contemplating what I was doing. Was I flying to check out the city that I thought I might move to? Was I flying to check out the man that was in my life for the past six months? Was I flying for both? Was I wasting my time with one or even both? I entertained all of those questions in that moment.

In the meantime, I tried to distract myself from my internal panic attack. I looked to the man on my left and he looked at me, “So, I’ll ask you the usual question, where are you going?” He went off on the typical blurb. It was something about a visiting new grandson in Oregon. Or may be it was Washington state. I wasn’t really paying attention. I gulped down the horrible glass of wine, and I walked over to my gate just in time to find my boarding position. By then, I was slightly more relaxed but not completely. An old habit of mine was to make sarcastic comments to help calm me down when I was nervous, and so I did. I made comments to the people behind me and in front of me, making them laugh at the little details in our surroundings. They were too trivial, and soon, I had lost their attention, so I looked around and I took in my surroundings. 

To my left, sitting on the blue connected chairs that only airports had was a young guy on the phone complaining about how boring New Mexico was, and how he couldn’t wait to get back to LA. He was my next target. I guessed that he was at least 23. I didn’t care, really. He was the only person in that airport that seemed to at least have a pulse, and he was cute. Then, the announcement came, “Now boarding group A 31 through A 60 for flight 2432 to Phoenix, Arizona.” Just before I was about to walk into the air bridge leading to the plane, the young cute guy hung up his phone and looked up. I looked at him and said “I agree. It’s boring here compared to LA.” He was surprised to have a stranger talk to him. “Yeah this place is boring. There isn’t anything to do,” he replied. I talked to him because I had hoped that he would sit next to me on the plane. I always profiled who I wanted to sit next to me on the plane. I learned early on in my traveling, and usually I was pretty good at it. I once had a flight to Korea where I was stuck listening to some guy sitting next to me telling me how I was making a huge mistake by going there. It was a long 12 hours. 

Anyway, I left the cute guy with that one comment, and I walked away. I thought it would be enough to entice him to find me on the plane. It didn’t work. He walked down the aisle towards the back of the plane and as much as I tried to stick my neck up for him to notice me, he didn’t…

And so, there I was. I had my window seat, but there wasn’t any cute boy sitting next to me, just the old guy in the aisle seat. At least my shawl being on the middle seat had managed to deter both the cute boy and any other passenger from sitting between us.

The flight was rather uneventful, for the most part. After we reached 10,000 feet, and the captain announced that there would be drink service, I decided to stop leaning my head against the window and sat up. I had an expired drink voucher in my ‘wallet’ that I was going to try to use. My ‘wallet’ was a collection of my most important cards, that being, my Gold Tier MLIFE card from the Mirage, my debit card, my MLIFE credit card, a packet of Target grease blotting sheets, and of course my expired drink voucher. I wasn’t sure if it would work, so I had to think of a back up plan to get a drink. I looked over to the aisle seat at the old guy, and I did my best job to profile him.

He had tucked a Science magazine into the pouch of the seat in front of him. He was well into his sixties, and he looked stern. He wore glasses and had some gray stubble beginning to break through from the morning’s shave. Before I sat down earlier, I had warned him, “I’m going to have to get up to pee once we get up there, so I’m just letting you know that you’ll have to get up.” “That’s okay,” he said kindly in an accent that I suspected was English. When I heard him speak, I knew I already had an in. His Science magazine helped as well. It prepped me for the type of conversation that I needed to be able to carry with him.

After I came back from the bathroom, I sat down for a minute and then I began to talk to him,“So, Science magazine huh?” He took the bait. I let him speak for a minute about the most recent discovery in anthropology about human evolution, and then I cut him off, “Let me guess. I’m sure many people get this wrong, but your accent, English?” I was right. He told me some city in England that I didn’t recognize. I didn’t recognize it because I couldn’t hear what he said over the noise that the plane was making as it continued to elevate. I asked him where he got his PhD. He was surprised that I knew. I told him, “Who else would be reading a Science magazine except for a doctor?” I carried on the conversation based on the knowledge that I had from teaching an anthropology class once. By the time the flight attendant was about to reach our row, he had his wallet open with a bunch of drink voucher, and he looked over to me and asked, “Would you like a beverage? I have all of these drink vouchers.” “Wow. You must travel a lot,” I said as I reached over to take the voucher he was offering, “Oh, that’s so kind of you,” I finished. It was almost too easy. Just like that I had a plastic cup of wine.

I wasn’t so successful at the Phoenix airport though. I walked up to my usual bar there. I had and have usual bars all over the place, and again, I looked around for a victim. It was slim pickings. I climbed onto a barstool next to some 40 year old, and I asked him what he was eating. I knew what it was, but he didn’t look very interesting and that was all I could come up with, and I was too lazy to try to think about what else to say. He was eating guacamole and tortilla chips.

While I waited, he told me how he had owned businesses in New Mexico before. I wasn’t the least bit interested, but I listened intently. I even offered witty jokes and comments to his story, but I couldn’t get a glass out of him, nor did he offer to pay my tab. When he was done talking, and I was done pretending to listen, I told him a story about how I had met Morgan Freeman at that very bar one time. My story still didn’t work. I walked out of there to my gate $50.00 poorer than I was when went in there. I was too tired to care though.

It was time to fly again. And this time I had missed my boarding group because I was busying trying to finish my second glass of wine. I cut in front of the B boarding group line and flashed my A boarding group pass, and the attendant waved me through. As I walked onto the plane I scanned for a window seat. The only one left was the back row. I hated not having a window seat, and I hated sitting in the back row, but I had no choice. I took it. The next thing that happened was straight out of the movies. The guy who was on the phone complaining about how boring New Mexico was on my plane again. That time, he walked to the back of the plane and sat right next to me. “Hey you!” I said happily. “I tried to get you to sit next to me on the plane earlier, but I couldn’t get your attention” I had confessed to him. He was receptive to my confession.

I had planned on sleeping on the plane, but I knew it wasn’t going to happen, again. We were flying to Burbank, California. We began to talk, and he told me that he worked for Direct TV and flew all over the country installing satellite dishes and whatnot. He told me that he was dual athlete and excelled at both baseball and football. He told me that he held a 3.9 GPA at the university that he attended in California, but that he was making really good money doing what he did. He told me that he drove a Mercedes and that he worked for his uncle. He said that he would finish school later. I knew more about him in 5 minutes than I wanted to. “How old are you?” I asked. Of course he made me guess. “23?” was my best bet. He started to laugh, “Dude, I’m 19!” Apparently the man sitting next to him in the aisle seat had had enough. “Look I know you’re having fun, but could you stop being so loud!” the man griped. The look on the 19 year old’s face was priceless. I felt a smidge bad for him, but I was glad that the man had gotten him to tone it down.

Even though I was flying to go see the Architect, and I would see him in less than three hours, I wanted the attention, but I wanted him to stop talking, “Hey do you want to watch a movie?” I asked him. “Yeah okay, cool!” He said excitedly. Once we reached 10,000 feet, I pulled out my laptop, plugged in my ear buds, and offered him one. “I know this might be a little weird, but I promise that I don’t have Koodies,” I told him. He didn’t hesitate and he put an ear bud in his right ear. We started to watch The Hangover II.

I sat there with him, and ironically, it was the closest that I felt to someone in a while. It was a different type of attention. It was both genuine and innocent. “Have you seen this movie?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Have you seen the first Hangover movie?” I asked. “No,” he said again. Just then I realized that he must really be 19. Who hadn’t seen the Hangover movies? For me, they were almost my bible. I just left it and kept watching with him as I leaned in onto him. We didn’t get to finish the movie.

The flight attendant came onto the PA system just after the captain. She did the usual announcement, which included telling everyone to put their electronic devices away. I took out my ear bud and my new 19 year old friend did the same and passed over the other ear bud. I closed my laptop, raveled my ear buds, and reached underneath of the seat in front of me to grab my backpack. While I was putting my laptop away he asked, “Do you have Facebook?” We added one another in a fake attempt to be new friends, or at least I thought it was a fake attempt.

Burbank was his last stop, but not mine. When the plane landed, all but five of us deboarded. I felt so close to him, that I wanted to kiss him goodbye, but I didn’t. I just hugged him before he left. I got up and found a better seat that was closer to the front after everyone had left. I wanted a seat that reclined, and I wanted to sleep on that last leg of the flight, I was so tired. I didn’t bother to think about who was going to sit next to me that time. I bundled up my shawl, held it next to the window, leaned on it, I closed my eyes, and I finally had the rest I wanted. I woke up to the wheels of the plane touching the ground.

When we landed, I was just like everyone else, I reached for my phone and turned it on. All of us looked down at our phones and tuned out our surroundings while we waited for the plane to dock. Looking down at a blank screen, I wondered how I would get into Old Town. I had sent a text to the Architect earlier if he could pick me up.

Me:      Can you get me? Or…Uber? (I’m okay either way).

I never wanted to seem needy, that was why I said I was okay either way. I always hated needy people.

Architect Work:      I think I can but not sure yet tough days around here.

Me:      I can arrange another way…and I can just meet you at your place or at the Irish               pub. I know you’re busy.

He couldn’t come to pick me up in the end, and I was okay with that. I was up for the challenge. How was I going to get to old town? I asked myself. I looked over to the left of me at the older man who was sitting two seats over. I knew that it was his last flight, and I knew that he had his own car parked at the airport. I had investigated earlier, just in case I ended up stuck at the airport. That thought had quickly left my head though. I’d already taken my chances getting a ride to the airport from a complete stranger in Las Vegas on my last trip.

I opened my Uber app and went to account settings to check how many credit cards I had on the account. I liked to collect Uber accounts, it allowed for spreading out the free rides. There were three credit cards listed. One was mine, but I decided to use it as a last resort. So, then I sent out a text.

Me:      I don’t have a ride from the airport…may I use your Uber?

Mistress:      Let me check which cc It’s connected to

Mistress:      Do you have the login info

And, the next text that came in held a username and password for his Uber account. Not long after that, I was driving in a Prius towards Old town with my driver, Abdul.

I was only five hours into the trip by the time I landed, and I had befriended an old man and his grandson standing in line, a doctor from England, who I got a free drink from, some 19 year old from Los Angeles, who gave me some much needed attention. Oh, and I had found a free Uber ride from the airport. It seemed that the luck of the infamous lavender shirt was changing, at least for the moment.