Airport Interrogation No man can truly love a woman. All they see when they look at a woman are breasts, a vagina, and a good time. If they ever say the word “love” to a woman, it’s bullshit. Men are untrustworthy, uncommitted, and disloyal. As long as a woman’s putting out to their satisfaction, they’ll stick around. When it stops, "Hasta la vista." I know. I’ve seen it happen more than once. My father, after charming my mother into having sex with him, married her because of her pregnancy with me. For years, my mother thought he loved her, until (when I was about eight) my father ran off with a blond floozy he had knocked up more than once before. After the divorce, my mother went through a countless number of men, all lying and abusing my mother until she fell into a deep depression and killed herself. My sister followed my mother’s example, jumping any man she saw fit to jump – single, married, young, old. It didn’t matter. Her mother did it, why couldn’t she? And then of course there was the only boy I’ve gone out with in my life. He was suave, stylish and I thought I was falling in love with him. Until that day I opened up to him about my parents. He tried to make me feel better by unlocking my chastity. After I moved away to college I swore to myself that I wouldn’t fall into the trap my mother fell into. Finding a man, I knew, was like finding a needle in that goddamn haystack, and I just didn’t want to deal with it. That was until I met Jack. I was waiting in the airport lounge for my plane to arrive, and he was sitting about three rows down from me. I began admiring his features as I peered at him over the edge of my newspaper like a sixth grader that doesn’t want the boy to know she’s looking. I was completely comfortable with just looking at him and admiring his features – shoeblack hair, a strong jaw, and thin black eyebrows. Everything else about him screamed, “Lawyer.” He was wearing a nice gray suit, he continuously scratched things on a yellow legal pad, and he tapped fervently on his laptop with his other (free) hand. He appeared to me a true believer in work: a man that works hard for what he’s got and what he’s striving for, and will stop at nothing until he acquires it. Which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on what it is he wants. He raised his hand and rubbed his eyes. It was mid-morning, but I wasn’t sure if he was tired or stressed – or both. I suddenly heard a phone ring and he was quick to answer, as if he were expecting the call at that very minute – mind you, that very second. I couldn’t make out what he was saying because of all of the soft background noise of the airport – the dozens of other conversations going on, the voices over the loudspeakers announcing boarding rituals and arrivals – but I continued to watch him. He rubbed his eyes more than once during his conversation, and I knew right away that his fatigue was caused more by stress than by sleep. He soon moved his hand to the back of his neck and gave it a massage. As he did this, he looked straight at me with his soft brown eyes. I quickly raised the paper to cover myself up in embarrassment. After a few minutes of nervous shakes, I decided to see if he was still looking at me, or if he had passed me off as just another lonely woman at an airport, which I was. I crinkled the paper up on the side, just a smidge, so as to peer around the edge, and to my surprise, he was no longer there. He had left. But where did he go? I lowered the paper completely but I couldn’t see him through the thick tapestry of men and women roaming the grounds. I felt a bit degraded but also perfectly fine, passing him off as just another guy. But then I saw him, striding toward me, and I raised the paper again, pretending I hadn’t noticed him. I could feel his presence as he sat down in the seat across from mine, but I kept my nose in my paper, hoping… for what exactly? Confusion sunk in as I heard him speak for the first time. “Man. I hate it when these damn planes are late.” I had to give it to him, his opening line was original, but then again, I’ve never been in that situation before, and for all I knew, that line could have be his everyday opener, seeking young woman in airports around the globe. I didn’t respond, and I heard him ask, “Can I see the business section?” I quickly found the business section in the stacks of paper in the seat next to me, and handed it to him, without a word, without a glance. He took it from me with a “Thank you” and I could hear him set it on the chair next to him. I knew right away it was just another line to get me to pay attention to him. “Excuse me, miss,” I heard him say as he pressed his finger on the top of my paper and pushed it down, revealing my eyes. I saw him smile, and ask, “Can I ask you a question?” I stared at him, unable to comprehend what to do. I’ve seen my sister get picked up like this before: in restaurants, in clubs, in the mall. But I’m nothing like my sister in appearance, or attitude, and I began to wonder what exactly he saw in me. “Don’t you hate it when these damn planes are late?” He used his opener again. Showing me his persistence, no doubt. And he swore, both times as I recall, leading me to two conclusions: he was comfortable with himself, as if he has done this a lot, and that he probably felt that I was “safe”, like a friendly, well, loner. So, to keep from disappointing him, I answered, “What I hate most is when guys try to pick me up because the damn planes are late.” He let out a small burst of laughter, ending quickly. I wasn’t sure if he did this because he found my response humorous, or if he could see right through my response, realizing that it was in fact a lie. I’ve never been approached like this, especially not in an airport. "My name’s Jack,” he said holding out his hand for mine. I smiled. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to give him my name, but it seemed the nice thing to do, so I took his hand and said, “Susan.” He had a soft handshake, making me wonder if he was easing up for my sake, or if he was unsure of himself (the unlikely choice). “Well, tell me, Susan. Why you headed to New York?” “Why do you want to know?” I asked quickly, laying the paper down. I felt ready to interrogate him by allowing him to ask questions. I knew I could figure out what he was after by what he said or asked, and most likely I’d be able to find his flaws. “I was just wondering if you lived there. Possibly have family there. Maybe a boyfriend?” The last was a question and I felt he was testing me. But, he also seemed interested. In me, I couldn’t quite tell yet, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt as I looked into his eyes and saw what seemed to be an honest integrity, which helped to enhance his open posture. “None of the above. I’m heading there for a job interview.” “Really?” He seemed to say this with excitement, although none was apparent in his face. “What do you do?” “I’m a historian.” “A historian? Wow. The first time I try and pick up a woman and she’s got her mind stuck in the past.” First time? I didn’t believe that. First time in an airport, maybe, but first time, no way. And he smiled as he said this, which gave the impression of slight mockery or an attempt at humor. If it was the latter, I didn’t get it. “And what’s wrong with that?” I asked. “Oh, nothing. It’s just I think the future is what brings us fortune, not the past. I just think the past is done, let’s move on, so-to-speak.” I knew right away my first impression of him as a lawyer was wrong. A lawyer is always looking to the past for loopholes in cases, so I decided to find out what he did that would warrant his current thinking. “So, what is it that you do?” “I’m a stockbroker.” Bingo. His attire, his stress, and his sight for the future were all explained. “Have you ever lost money?” I asked, curious for what type of reaction he’d give. He looked at me with an uneasy grin, shifted in his seat and answered, “It’s the nature of the business.” I could tell he probably had lost money and was uneasy talking about it. He most likely loved money, and so didn’t like the subject of losing it. I couldn’t think of anything to ask him after that, and we sat in silence for what was most likely two or three very uneasy minutes. He finally asked, “So, what’s this job interview? Is there some sort of museum in New York you got your eyes on?” “In fact, yes, but I’m heading there to interview to be a history professor at a small junior college.” The answer came quick, without thought. He nodded his head, looking as if he was considering his next sentence carefully. “A fine career choice. Going to shape the young minds of future past thinking history buffs. Sounds interesting.” Interesting as in stupid, or interesting as in intriguing? I couldn’t quite tell by the tone of his voice but I again gave him the benefit of the doubt. “I wouldn’t be able to do that,” he said. “Do what?” “Teach kids. Don’t get me wrong, I love ‘em, especially the little ones, but I wouldn’t be able to stand up there and try and teach someone something. It’s a phobia, I guess.” “You mean there’s nothing you’d possibly feel comfortable teaching?” He thought a moment. “Well, maybe economics.” I smiled, realizing I was bringing him back to the subject of his job, and the discomfort it brought him before, so I decided to change the subject with one of the questions he had asked me just a few minutes earlier. “So, what brings you to California?” “My parents. It’s their thirtieth wedding anniversary next Monday and I wanted to do something special for them.” “That’s so sweet. Thirty years?” I couldn’t believe it. His parents were the models of what I had always dreamed of. And, it scored points on his behalf. Growing up in a home with a loving couple would no doubt rub off on the child. Then again, he could have been lying, telling me all of this to dig the hole to my heart a little deeper. But, I shrugged it off, happy to believe that there may still be some people out there who could care for each other for that long. “I wish my parents were like that,” I mumbled, completely unaware that I had said it out loud. “Why? What happened to your parents?” I looked at him, a little uncomfortable. I wasn’t ready to open up to another man about my parents, and I didn’t want him to see my vulnerability. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He nodded. “Okay. That’s all right. I’m sorry for asking.” I looked at him. He seemed gravely serious and I could tell he didn’t want to pry. He knew I wasn’t ready and this gave him a few more points. Suddenly, a woman’s voice came over the loud speaker. “Flight 486 to New York is now boarding at gate ten. I repeat. Flight 486 to New York is now boarding at gate ten.” “Well, that’s my flight,” I said, completely oblivious to the fact that he knew that already. It was, after all, his flight too. “Yep. Maybe I’ll see you on board.” “Yeah. Maybe.” This answer came out of courtesy. I began to feel a sense of trepidation as he picked up his things and headed for gate 486. He sure was in a hurry, which made me feel maybe he truly wasn’t interested. I began to review our interview in my mind, trying to determine his sincerity, but with every repeat of events, my confusion held steady. I then made up my mind that if he did come to see me on the plane, he just might be the needle, interested in me as a woman. If not, I would shove him into my mind’s file cabinet as just another breast-hunting, vagina-sniffing hound. * * * He never came to track me down on the flight. And I wasn’t going to search him out. If he wasn’t willing to find me, he wasn’t worth it. I figured he was probably living it up with some big-breasted rich-bitch who was always in heat, finding beauty more impressive. My sister got a lot of guys like that, and I figured he’d found someone who’d give him a good time. This thought hurt me a little because I was hoping I’d finally found the man to prove me wrong, but hey, that’s the way of the world. As I waited for my luggage to slide across the steel belt, I saw him again. He strode up to my side but I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t about to start another conversation with him. “Sorry I didn’t come see you on the plane,” he said. “I’ve never been that good a flier. I have to take sleeping pills just to make it past lift-off. I was out like a light the minute we strolled out on the runway.” “So why’d you say you’d see me on the plane?” The question was cold. I wanted him to leave. We stood there in silence as we waited for our bags. Finally, he saw his and he bent over and picked them up. He then grabbed a piece of paper from his pocket and the gold-lined pen I saw him using earlier, and he began writing something down. I wasn’t paying much attention until he slipped the pen into his pocket and walked back up to me. “I’m late for an appointment with one of my clients, but I really would like to get to know you better, Susan. Here’s my number. Give me a call when you’re settled.” I looked at the piece of paper in disbelief. I didn’t know if I should take it, but then again, he did remember my name. “Please,” he said with a sad sparkle in his eyes. I figured by taking the number I’d be able to get rid of him, so I snatched it from him, holding it like a crumpled piece of trash in the palm of my hand. “Maybe.” “Okay.” He smiled again and left me alone. I found myself turning to watch him, hoping maybe he’d turn to get one last glimpse of me before leaving, and he did. I quickly turned away, and once again I could feel his sheepish smile, the one that told me he knew I was blushing.
Copyright © 2002 Bryan Caron |