Fly Me to the Moon (15 page)

“Yesterday I flew back from Scottsdale, via Salt Lake City,” I told him, watching his eyes light up.
Bingo.

“Is that your usual route?” He leaned toward me, his interest obviously piqued.

“Not really. I pretty much go everywhere.” I shrugged, taking another sip.

“Any international?”

“Sometimes.” I smiled, thinking how nice it was that he, the big famous author, was trying to show a little interest in my job.

“But which do you prefer?” he asked, sliding so close I could make out all the clogged pores on his nose and the shiny gold filling in his far left molar.

“I like international, but it’s hard to get,” I said, leaning against the door and wondering where we were headed.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever seen someone do?” he asked, staring at me in anticipation.

Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. People always asked this question. It was right up there with, “What city are we flying over?” As though I could identify it simply by glancing at the landmass from thirty thousand feet. Or, “Are you showing a movie?” which invariably came just after we showed the preview.

The truth was, I’d pretty much seen it all in the last six years, and I had no idea what qualified as the craziest. Could it be the breast-feeding seven-year-old who paused long enough to order an orange juice? The inebriated movie star who mistook the first-class coat closet for the bathroom? The businessman who stood in the aisle, changing into a matching set of flannel pajamas, sleeping cap, booties, and eye mask during an overnight flight to Europe? The guy who rang his call light during the safety demo to ask if he could sample some of that oxygen he just saw on-screen? The philandering husband who snuck into the lav with another passenger, renewing his mile-high club membership while his angry wife screamed obscenities from the other side of the door? Or maybe it was the blind man who announced he was on his way to a Klan meeting?

And it’s not like the passengers held the patent on outrageous
behavior, because some of the flight attendants I’d worked with were just as weird. Like that Dallas-based guy who insisted on sharing photos of his pet cow’s red, swollen udders. The thirty-year veteran who insisted on wearing elbow-length white gloves and adding a list of “specials” to the first-class menu with food she’d brought from home. The animal lover who brought her three pet turtles on all of her trips. The girl in training who wanted the job so bad she photocopied someone else’s hire forms, whiting out the other person’s name and putting hers in its place.

I looked at Harrison, who was patiently waiting for a response, and I knew I wasn’t about to tell him any of those things. I mean, who’s to say I wouldn’t write my own book about it someday? So instead I just smiled and said, “This one time, I saw a man kick off his shoes, and then go into the lav with just his socks on.”

Then the limo came to a stop and the driver slid open the little window and said, “Mr. Mann, we’ve arrived.”

Check responsiveness

Obtain consent

Reposition the person if

   necessary

As we headed for our table I prayed I wouldn’t trip, since it seemed like the entire restaurant was focused on us. And even though I was used to being stared at by planeloads of bored passengers, this kind of scrutiny was all new to me.

“Does it annoy you?” I asked, placing my napkin carefully across my lap and smiling at him.

But Harrison just shrugged. “They won’t bother us,” he said.

I watched as he scanned the wine list, and hoped he was right. I’d been so excited about this night, I couldn’t bear the thought of being ignored again, as I’d spent every free moment during the last week Googling the details of his amazing career. Yet somehow everything I’d learned only seemed to spawn more questions.

So when the wine was finally ordered and the whole twirling, sniffing, sipping scenario was over, I leaned toward him and said, “Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?” I gazed at him eagerly, watching as he sipped his wine and nodded thoughtfully, waiting for a little elaboration that never came.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the most inspired question, but I’m just getting started, and I have plenty more where that came from.

“So tell me,” he said, resting his forearms on the table and leaning toward me. “What made you decide to become a stewardess?”

I knew I couldn’t answer that with a simple nod like he had, so I just shrugged and said, “Um, well, it was purely by accident. I mean, I like to travel, I heard they were hiring, and I thought it would allow me plenty of free time to work on my writing.” There, I’d brought it back to writing, the perfect segue into my next question.

“So tell me about training. What was that like?”

“Are you serious?” I asked, feeling my shoulders droop and my heart sink as I looked into his deep blue eyes.

“Very.” He nodded, reaching for his wine. “I want to know everything.”

By the time we left the restaurant, the sky had cleared, and deciding it was too nice of a night to drive, Harrison dismissed the limo and we made our way down the smaller, cobblestone streets of SoHo while my already compromised heel came dangerously close to snapping off completely.

“So let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re not actually getting paid during boarding, since you’re only paid for actual flight hours. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I said, rolling my eyes, not even trying to hide my annoyance. We’d been having this same boring conversation for nearly three hours now, and I was beginning to think that this celebrated author was just another creepy bore with a stewardess fetish. “Door close to door open,” I repeated, for the third and final time.

“But isn’t boarding the worst part of the flight? All those passengers screaming about their seats and baggage?”

Boarding
was
the worst part of the flight, but I was totally over discussing it. “Harrison? Do you think we could maybe talk about
something else? Like, I don’t know, books, publishers, agents, Pulitzers? Basically anything other than the Atlas Airlines employee handbook?”

But he just looked at me and smiled. “This is home,” he said, motioning to a beautiful four-story building. “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?”

Like all New Yorkers, I had an insatiable curiosity for how other city dwellers lived. Especially those with glamorous careers, who made loads of money and occupied four floors all to themselves. “Sure.” I shrugged. “But just one drink and then I have to go,” I said, not wanting him to get the wrong idea.

“Are you flying tomorrow?” he asked, inserting his key and opening the door.

And even though I was, I shook my head no. I mean, there was no way I would encourage any more airplane talk.

Leading me through his enormous, multistoried home, we entered room after endless room, with Harrison pointing out the ceremonial tribal masks, ancient family photographs, and abstract paintings by artists I’d actually heard of that seemed to fill every square inch of wall space. And as we entered his study, my breath actually caught in my throat as I gazed upon the beautiful, old, scarred wood desk and worn leather chair where he’d crafted all of his novels. I trailed my fingers along the well-oiled, pockmarked wood, thinking how it looked exactly like the picture I’d seen in
Architectural Digest
a few years back. And now I was standing here, touching it. Unbelievable.

“May I use your bathroom?” I asked, still fondling the desk.

“Down the hall, last door on the left. I’ll go pour us a drink. Do you have any preference?” he asked.

Not being big on nightcaps, I just shrugged and said, “Surprise me.”

Harrison Mann’s guest bathroom was a large, cavernous room that reminded me of those found in grand old hotels. Not that I’d
actually stayed in many of those, as most of my hotel experience was limited to the lower-end, Atlas-contracted, chain hotels they provided for layovers. But every now and then, they’d throw us a bone and book us somewhere nice, mostly in Europe where they liked to project a false image.

I washed my hands with almond soap, and dried them on a plush red towel. Then I peeked in the cabinet under the sink, searching for a clue into the private world of this celebrated author. But other than the usual array of expensive hand soaps and extra toilet paper rolls, there really wasn’t much to see. So I sat on the edge of the old claw-foot tub, reapplied my lip gloss, and evaluated the evening so far.

Other than Harrison’s obsessive curiosity about my job I guess it really wasn’t so bad. For all I knew he was writing an airplane scene and just wanted to nail the details. And who was I to mess with his creative process? Besides, wasn’t that a valuable trait in a writer? The ability to really listen and learn about others? And since years of mind-numbing passengers had left me jaded and all too willing to tune people out, it was obvious I could learn a thing or two. And really, wasn’t that the whole point of being here?

I gazed into the Venetian mirror and ran my index finger gently under each eye, feeling thankful that he hadn’t tried to kiss me or hold my hand. I mean, even though it might be cool to say I made out with a Pulitzer prize winner, it’s not like he looked like Michael Chabon.

The second I left the bathroom I was enveloped in darkness. And other than the faint, flickering glow at the end of the hall, all I could see was black. “Harrison?” I called, squinting as my eyes adjusted, nervously groping my way along the wall.

“I’m in here,” he answered, in a faraway voice.

He’s a famous author, not a serial killer. He writes literary fiction, not horror,
I reminded myself as I tried to remember where the front door was located, just in case.

“Um, are you still on the third floor?” I asked, stopping to peek over the banister, thinking about making a run for it.

“I’m at the end of the hall. Just head toward the light.”

Okay, now I was officially creeped out. “Is everything okay”?” I asked, hesitating just outside the doorway, on high alert, ready to bolt.

“Everything’s fine, Hailey. Please, come join me.”

And even though he sounded pleasant enough, I still glanced longingly toward the stairway, assuring myself that with his heavy drinking and mounting birthdays, I could definitely outrun him if I had to.

Then I took a deep breath and stepped into the large candlelit room, where the critically acclaimed, Pulitzer prize—winning,
New York Times
bestselling author was splayed across his bed, snifter of brandy in each hand, completely naked.

“Ready for takeoff?” he asked, rising to hand me my drink.

I stood there in shock, watching all of Harrison’s various body parts
move and sway
as he approached. Then, shaking my head and averting my eyes, I said, “Um, I think I should be going.”

Oh my God, this was so not what I meant when I told him to surprise me,
I thought, racing down the hall.

“Hailey? Are you sick?” he asked, chasing after me.

“Um, yeah,” I mumbled, taking the stairs as fast as I could while still favoring the nearly broken heel on my sandal, noticing he was moving surprisingly fast for someone in such an advanced state of atrophy.

“What happened? Was it the shrimp?” he asked, so close now I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

I grasped the door handle and pulled, feeling a flood of relief as the cold night air hit my damp, panicked face. “Yes,” I nodded, catching my breath and turning to face him. “It’s definitely the shrimp.”

And as I stepped outside, I felt his rough, callused fingers press
firmly into my shoulder. “I’d love to read your novel,” he said. “Feel free to send it anytime.”

Then I ran down the stairs, onto the street, and all the way to the corner, where I hailed myself a cab, feeling totally relieved I wasn’t nearly desperate enough to take him up on that offer.

By the time I made it to my door, all I wanted was a glass of wine, a hot shower, and a memory erase like the one I’d seen in
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
And now that Lisette was healed and back at work, I was really looking forward to having the place to myself.