Up in the Air

“Too bad. We could have met there. I wish I’d known. Hold on for a minute. The waiter’s got my tea.”

The tram that I’ve been waiting for with Julie roars into the loading area, stops. Its doors open and a floodwall of pedestrians surges past us to the escalators.

“Bingham?”

“If I’m going to make it, I have to run,” I say. “My flight’s two terminals over. This is crazy. What’s this last- minute Utah business, anyway?”

“Tennis commitment. I’m sorry. It couldn’t be helped. You say you’ll be back there tonight? Let’s think this through.”

“I don’t want to think. I want to see your face. There, my tram just left. Terrific. Great.” I roll my eyes at Julie, who whispers “What?” and tightens her grip on the bag of fuzzy pet toys she bought for no reason at a stand upstairs. My sister feels ill at ease, I’m learning, if she goes for more than an hour without a purchase. I wish she’d put them away, though—I don’t like stuffed things.

“I have a solution,” says Dwight. “The Salt Lake Marriott. Tomorrow. For a very early lunch. We’ll buckle down and wrestle with this idea of yours and see if we can’t get an outline we’re both proud of.”

“It’s down to an outline now? That’s all you want?”

“The Marriott at ten. Frankly, I find this hugely preferable. They’re practically booting me out of this hotel. This works for both of us?”

It will have to work. Our flight to Phoenix is boarding; we’ll never make it. Julie, whose appetite Airworld has revived, bites off a chunk of caramel-coated soft pretzel and eyes me in a childish sugar daze. What’s next? I wish I could tell her.

“At ten. Agreed?”

“Fine. I’ll see you there. This doesn’t thrill me. If this is how your profession operates . . .”

“I don’t represent a profession; I’ve never claimed that. I’m a bookman, Bingham. Just a bookman. If you find our little fraternity too casual, too fallible, too dog-eared—”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Good. Because this idea of yours is strong.”

“As strong as Horizoneering? Morse’s book?”

“Odd you should ask.”

I listen. Nothing. “Why?”

“Just odd, is all. I’ll tell you a little story at lunch tomorrow. And bring an appetite. Their buffet’s first rate.”

“Where are you—really? La Jolla still? New York? Or do you just pretend to move around? What’s a tennis commitment? That’s a game.”

“Only for those who don’t play it well,” Dwight says.

“I want you to guarantee me you’ll be in Utah.”

“Guarantee you? Now how would I do that?”

eleven

fold certain itineraries in the middle and the halves are mirrors of each other. I’ve taken such trips, a yo-yo on a string, staying in the same places on my way back that I stayed in, the other day, on my way out. At the outermost point of such journeys, before the pivot, there’s a moment of stillness, of poised potential energy. To begin the rewinding all I have to do is pick up my change and wallet from the nightstand, tuck in a shirttail, sign a credit card slip. But what if I don’t? It’s always tempting. Rebellion. What if I step aside and let the string snap back without me? I’ll be free then, won’t I?

The next flight back to Salt Lake leaves in an hour, and there is another two hours after that. Julie wants my decision. She licks a yogurt cone speckled with crystals of red cinnamon candy and leans on the rail of the rising escalator, watching her brother sort through his bad options. I’ve begun to suspect she’s pregnant and not telling me. Her face has that dependent bottomless softness and her appetite for junk seems driven, hormonal. She’s filling out like a moon before my eyes.

“How would you like to see my office?”

“Sure. I thought you’d quit, though.”

“That’s still in process. We’ll rent a car. We’ll drive.”

I need to get out of the airport. All airports. Now.

My Maestro Diamond card cuts through the formalities and ten minutes later we’re buckled up and cruising, watching the Denver skyline climb the windshield and swaying in our seats to Christian rock. Julie has always been up for anything—the source of most of her problems. She rides along. Her beauty arises from her readiness, and Keith, if he’s really the lump she’s made him out to be, will never drink from its source. That’s fine with me. There are parts of her that I’d rather strangers not handle.

I’m a dead man at ISM but they don’t know that yet; the parking attendant thumbs-ups me, lifts the gate. We drive down into a catacomb of Cadillacs and take my empty spot, still stained with coolant from my poorly maintained Toyota. When we get out, a man that I know from the hallways and lobby and who I’ve always assumed is at my level—though how would I know?—stops dead and palely stares. He raises a hand in a lame half wave, then fusses with his tie and turns and goes. There’s the flash of a shoeshine, the echo of hasty steps. I lock the car