Pinter doesn’t close the door completely, exposing me to sounds I’d rather not hear from one of his reputation, whose courses I’ve audited. The toilet-roll holder rattles as it unspools. Despite his famous abhorrence of waste and excess, Pinter has a lavish way with tissue. I wait for a flush, a running faucet. Nothing. When he reappears I shake his hand, whose absolute dryness confirms that it’s unwashed. I understand from studying his books that there isn’t a custom, tradition, or rule of hygiene that Pinter hasn’t dismissed or tinkered with.
He sits on the end of my bed, not facing me. He’s a small man, balding, but hairy in his crevices. His ears and nostrils are densely webbed, and there’s fur in the cleft of his jutting, pitted chin. His mouth is a long, lipless crescent, like a drawing.
“I don’t see an ashtray. Is this room non-smoking?”
“Don’t worry. The alarms aren’t sensitive.”
“There’s an alarm? It’s not worth it then.”
“I’ll join you.”
Pinter produces a Baggie of loose tobacco and rolls two lumpy cigarettes. “Why do they have to ruin everything? The California dream was freedom once. Now we’re ruled by nags and health fanatics. You’re familiar with my definition of health?”
“I am.”
“Mediocrity raised to an ideal. Health is why we get sick. Health-consciousness.”
But he won’t eat in restaurants because they warp the proteins.
Pinter is not a social smoker. He puffs like an Indian, reverent, eyes shut. His free hand opens and closes on his knee like a gasping fish. He flicks his ash on his corduroys and rubs it in with a newborn’s soft pink thumb.
“I’m celebrating this afternoon,” he says. “I signed a substantial contract yesterday.”
Discouraging news—I’d thought he was retired. I’d counted on his poor financial condition to help sell my proposal.
“It’s supposed to be confidential, but secrets bore me. An airline out of Phoenix hired me.”
“Not Desert Air?”
“You’ve heard of them?”
I nod. “They compete with the airline I fly.”
Pinter coughs. A volume of smoke rolls out and keeps on coming, as if his whole body is filled with it. “Good company?”
“You tell me.”
“They have a problem,” he says. “They built their business on price and price alone, which is effective but risky. I’ve written on this. A woman of easy virtue will soon grow popular, but she’ll fail when it comes to attracting a loyal mate. Long term, it’s better to be good than cheap. Wanton discounting is a downward spiral, so I’ve urged them to reinterpret their identity. Hauling warm bodies from point A to point B inspires no one. It’s a form of trucking. Promoting human togetherness, however, ignites the vital flame in all involved, the worker as well as the customer. Agreed?”
“A marketing angle.”
“Much deeper. A first principle. It starts with seating. Like should sit with like. Parents of small children with other parents. Young singles with young singles. No more jumbling. We learn who the passengers are through detailed surveys and task a computer with mixing them appropriately, the way a good hostess would seat a dinner party.”
“Manipulation like that can breed resentment.”
“People won’t know we’re doing it,” says Pinter. “All they’ll know is that they feel more comfortable. Friendlier, closer. We’ve run some live experiments.”
My toes curl in my boots. I feel invaded, as if I’ve just opened the curtains in my living room and discovered a neighbor with binoculars. Thank heaven I haven’t flown Desert Air this month, though if they’re doing this, Morse’s Great West will follow. I have to admit that, lately, I’ve felt watched.
“You’d be amazed how well it worked,” says Pinter. “We ran a satisfaction survey afterwards and couldn’t have been more pleased with the responses.”
“What else are you suggesting that they do?”
“Closed-circuit televisions in the gates connected to video cameras in the cabins. To shorten those anxious minutes when people deplane. You’re waiting for someone, perhaps you’re holding flowers, but it seems to take ages before you see his face. You worry he missed his flight. You don’t know what to think. This way you see him the moment he’s in range.”
He looks to me for a reaction, and I blink. His ideas are pure foolishness, born of arrogance. The man hardly flies, yet he’s dashing off prescriptions for a growing regional carrier. This is hubris. This is too much fame. I’m of a mind to pocket my proposal and tailor it for one of Pinter’s critics—for Arthur Cargill, maybe, of the Keane Group, the father of Duplicative Skills Reporting.
“Help me,” says Pinter. “You’re skeptical. Speak up.”
“With all due respect, sir—”
“Don’t kowtow. It’s beneath you. I made a few inquiries after your call and discovered you’re very well thought of. An up-and-comer. I agreed to share a meal with you because I expected a peer-to-peer exchange.”
I don’t dare ask him who spoke so highly of me. Someone at MythTech? I’ve heard he’s close to them. There’s a story that he attended the Child’s wedding, an exclusive affair in Sun Valley, Idaho, and presented the newlyweds with a silver cheese knife given to him by a Saudi prince in appreciation for his work untangling supply lines in the Gulf War.
