“So that’s why he was so quiet,” Pops mused.
I wagged my finger at him. “Oh, you-ou.”
“Why don’t you say you’re a jazz pianist? Most people don’t know the names of famous jazz players,” Nigel said.
“I am a jazz pianist,” Pops said.
“So it will be easy,” Nigel declared. “Now, talk to Holly like she’s an old biddy looking for action on the ship.”
“Really, Nigel, you don’t have to Henry Higgins me,” Pops said.
“Ah, but I do,” Nigel replied. “It has been ages since you’ve moved in such swell circles. Now, how would you talk to a smashing old bird you meet sitting at the bar?”
Pops cleared his throat. “So enough about me, tell me about you, gorgeous.”
“Brilliant,” Nigel said. “Everyone loves to talk about themselves. In fact, when you’re with a woman, just keep repeating, ‘Why, that’s fascinating. Tell me more.’ They’ll love you for that. But don’t call the ladies on this ship ‘gorgeous.’ That would be rude.”
“That’s right,” I said. “This crowd requires a higher level of manners than you’re used to.”
“Holly,” Pops said. “In life, it’s not a question of good manners or bad manners. One must have the same manners for all humans, and dogs for that matter.”
“Fine, then treat everyone the same—like a king,” I said.
He let out a sigh. “I can’t remember the last time I conversed with a bunch of rich geezers.”
“It’s like sex,” Nigel explained. “Once you get started, it comes back to you.”
Pops’ face lit up. “Now you’re talking my language. If I can’t get laid in these new duds, with this fancy haircut, I may as well pack in the ol’ pecker.”
My stomach sank. “Pops, please. Don’t embarrass me on the ship. And whatever you do, don’t mention your ‘pecker’ to passengers. Remember, I’m on a mission. We both need me to get that donation.”
“I know the difference between charm and smarm,” he assured me.
The nail technician started to paint clear polish on Pops’ pinkie.
“What’re you doing?” Pops asked, jerking his hand away.
“You don’t want?” the young Chinese woman asked. Then she covered her mouth and giggled.
“I believe I’m done here,” he said.
Nigel raised his arms and snapped his fingers. “Au contraire, luv. Clarisse, he’s ready to have his nose and ear hair trimmed.”
Turkey and Greece
Come Fly with Me
BY ELEVEN NEW YORK time we had been airborne for two hours. Terminally bored passengers had long since devoured the dinner of brown meat with matching gravy, potatoes au paste, broccoli à la blech, and bruised fruit torte.
I wore my headgear, since the flight was long and I was behind in my hours, having developed a rash on my cheeks and chin from the face straps last week. The TSA Nazis confiscated my anti-fungal spray, claiming the can was too large. Do you know how hard it will be to find orthodontic anti-fungal spray in Europe? I prayed the ship stocked a decent medicated powder.
The lights had been turned down and everyone was snoring away, having ingested powerful sedatives on takeoff. But not me. I stayed awake so I could mentally fly the plane.
I watched the movie for a while, Oceans Fourteen or maybe Eighteen. It was hard to tell because the actors were speaking dubbed German. If there was a way to watch the film in English, I couldn’t figure it out. So I pulled out my book on the history of the British monarchy. I’d grown fascinated with the royals when we were putting together the Tiaras through Time show.
The munchkin behind me whined to his mother, “I want a titty taste; I want a titty taste.”
“That’s not the proper way to ask for the breast, Morgan,” his mom said.
“I want a titty taste…please.”
“That’s better, sweetheart.”
Call me old-fashioned, but it seems to me that if a kid is old enough to ask for it in a full sentence, he’s old enough to drink from a sippy cup.
A ruckus in the front of the cabin interrupted my reading. There was pounding on a wall or door, screaming, and people moving about. Just what a shaky flyer like me fears most—an “incident” at thirty-five thousand feet. I peered around the seat in front of me, but it was dark and I couldn’t see what was happening.
A muscular, compact man a few rows ahead rushed to the action. Hopefully he was an air marshal packing heat. Soon the plane banked to the right until it made a midair U-turn. What the…? Most people were asleep so they didn’t witness the ensuing drama. A steward named Stewart (it said so on his name tag) came down the aisle to make sure everyone’s seat belt was on.
“What’s happening?” I asked. “Is there a problem?”
“There was an ‘incident’ up front,” he said, making quotation marks with his fingers. “But not to worry, the instigators are in custody. Unfortunately, we have to circle back to Kennedy.”
“Huh?” the man in the rumpled suit who had been sleeping next to me mumbled. “What?”
“We have to return,” Stewart said. “I’m sorry.”
The guy hit a button on his watch and the face lit up. “Jesus, we have to fly all the way back, then get the terrorists off the plane, and eight more hours to Frankfurt. What a waste of time.”
“Terrorists,” I said. “You think that’s what this is?”
The man nodded knowingly. “If they think we’re a threat to anyone on the ground, they’ll send fighter jets to take us down.”
Moaning, I was officially about to puke. I slunk into my seat, paralyzed with fear. In the face of danger, I am a worthless slug. I vowed to work on that if I lived.
Dear Lord, I prayed, don’t let this be the end of the story for me. I wondered if the New York Times would run my death notice. Not likely, since I hadn’t done anything noteworthy. My obit would have to go in the paid section,
