CONVERSATIONS WITH A STRANGER: THE SUIT

           “I hate flying.”

“You do have the option of getting off the plane.”

   He gave me that look most people give when they hear unexpected honesty.  He was in his forties.  I bet if I asked him he would say he was in his thirties.  He smelled of expensive cologne mixed with a non-compatible body chemistry.  His eyes were a dull almost blue.  His eyebrows looked recently waxed – something I could never put myself through.  He had the beginnings of a receding hairline, light brown hair that had a bit too much product in it, and he had attempted to comb it in that carefree look boy bands wear in music videos.  His hands were perfectly manicured.  He wore an Armani suit, black with a painfully white shirt and a silk tie with black, blue and white diagonal stripes.  His shoes were shiny.  He probably had them done at the airport.  I imagined him sitting in the tall chair assuming an air of aristocracy, never once looking down at the human being shining his shoes for a living, making believe he understood what he read in The Wall Street Journal.  This man was a walking affront to my senses.

            “Of course not.  It would take forever to get to Hartford in a Limo.”

            “Of course.”

   We were in first class.  He paid for his seat, I was given an upgrade.  We were flying from Chicago to Hartford and the plane was completely booked.  After we got settled in our seats the pilot announced that we were third in line for take off.  Five minutes later he announced that due to sudden bad weather we were delayed for about thirty minutes.

             “Double crap!”

   I could see that this man’s dominion of the English language equaled his skill with hair gel.

             “Can you believe this?  Now we’re going to be late getting into Hartford!”

   His deductive reasoning was also impressive.  I couldn’t help but smile as I sat in witness of possibly the only person ever to fly out of Chicago in the winter expecting there to be no delays.

             “I guess we’re stuck here for a while.”

            “I guess.”

            “I can’t believe it’s snowing.”

            “And it’s only December.”

  He busied himself by cursing nature for having the audacity to interfere with his plans, and probably his shoe shine.  Out of obvious frustration he concluded that meaningless chit chat was probably the way to go.  Shifting his almost blue eyes in annoyance from the window to me and back he began asking questions.

             “So where are you headed?”

            “Hartford.”

   His waxed eyebrows attempted to meet in the middle to form a confused expression, but a recent visit from the Botox fairy made it an impossible feat.

             “Well, yes. Hartford, but, I mean, will you be staying in Hartford?”

            “No.”

            “I have a big meeting, insurance business.”

            “Hartford is the insurance capitol of the world.”

            “It sure is!”

   He seemed pleased that his destination was the capitol of something in the world.  I wondered weather or not he knew Hartford was in the state of Connecticut.

   The flight attendant offered us a drink.  I chose ginger ale and he chose Champagne.  Later I thought that alcohol would make this trip much more pleasant, but decided against it.  Alcohol makes me more of a wise ass and this guy, as offensive as he was to me, didn’t know he was being offensive.  I couldn’t punish his ignorance until we got off the ground and he had no where to go.

   He took a good look at me for the first time in the forty minutes we had been sitting next to each other.  I was wearing a black long sleeve shirt that had “WTF?” in pink across the front, a pair of jeans and my black Harley boots, inside of which I wore pink sox with the word “Groovy” around the ankle.  My straightened brown hair was almost down to the middle of my back.  I wore large silver hoop earrings that for some reason always make the alarms go off in the security scanner.  (Me thinks a scam twas afoot at ye olde market.)  I had pink lip gloss that made me look as if I had just eaten an Italian icy.  I was sure his critical look wasn’t intentional, but I could tell he would have been happier with a tall blonde.  It pleased me to disappoint him by not conforming to his Barbie standards.

   The pilot announced his apologies for the delay and said he was sure we’d be on our way soon.  The flight attendant freshened up our drinks and tried to keep a smile on her face when the suit with a person in it next to me complemented the way her uniform fit to the curves of her body.  My skin attempted to crawl away from me, but managed to control itself.  The flight attendant’s skin had a more difficult time with the task.

   He chugged his Champagne like a college student at a frat party.  It occurred to me that although he was trying to display a worldly demeanor, he was actually afraid of flying.  I decided to use this information for entertainment purposes.

         “Do you think the door to the cockpit can withstand gun shots?”

   “What gunshots?”

   “Terrorist gunshots.”

   “Terrorists?!”

   The Botox effect seemed to break and I thought I heard a “ping” come from his forehead.

        "What terrorists?”

   He looked around the plane, then at me and laughed nervously.  He got his manliness back in check and began to study the door as if he were an engineer.

         “I’m sure it’s structurally sound.”

   “I don’t know.  Is that a crack?”

   “Where?!”

   “My mistake.  Just a shadow.”

   He asked for another drink, this time a Scotch and soda.  This he sipped slowly, much to the relief of the flight attendant. If he kept this up he would be cut off before we left the ground.

        “I heard that a flock of geese got into an engine and took down a 747.”

   He swallowed the Scotch in one big gulp and then tried to focus on the reflection of the lights off of his shoes.  Thinking that my work was done, I took out one of my books and started to read.  Fifteen minutes later we were finally headed down the runway.  It took quite an effort for The Suit to maintain his composure, but the alcohol had given him just the right amount of courage to make it through lift off and later ask out the flight attendant.

   He had lost his nervousness.  I could see the silly look on his face people get when they are well on their way to getting hammered.  After a while he started to get bored.  I offered him one of my books, but when he saw that the title contained a word he could neither pronounce nor identify, he gave it back to me.  Soon the finger tapping began and I realized that my suspicion that everything you do comes back to bite you in the ass was correct.  Nevertheless, it satisfied me to know that his drinking would come back to bite him in the ass tomorrow.

   I could see him mentally searching for a topic of conversation.  After quite the struggle and some really interesting attempts at facial expressions he finally turned to me and spoke.

          “If you were alone on a deserted island and could have only one thing to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

           “What kind of Island?”

           “You know, surrounded by water.”

           “Did you get geography lessons from Dan Quayle or George W.?”

           “Huh?”

         “Well there are all kinds of islands.  The British Isles, Easter Island, Canary Islands, the Azores, Long Island, Treasure Island, the Island of Dr. Morreau, the island Pipi Longstocking’s father got lost in…..”

           “A tropical island!”

           “Caribbean, Polynesian…”

           “Caribbean!”

           “U.S. territory, British, French, Cuba, Hispaniola…”

           “What does it matter?  An undiscovered island in the Caribbean.”

           “There are no undiscovered islands in the Caribbean.”

           “O.K.  Let’s make believe there’s one undiscovered island in the Caribbean and you’re stuck on it.”

          “Is it in the Bermuda Triangle?”

          "What’s the difference?!”

          “That would explain why it’s undiscovered.”

        “Fine.  You’re stranded on an undiscovered island in the somewhere in the  Bermuda Triangle.” 

           “How did I get there?”

           “What?”

         “How did I happen to become stranded?  Was I on a fated three hour tour?  A plaaaaane craaaaaash?”

          “A cruise a cruise!”

          “What type of cruise?”

          “A Titanic type of cruise.”

           “I would never board a ship named “Titanic””

           “Not the Titanic, something like it.”

           “Would I be the only survivor?”

           “Yes.”

           “What happened to everyone else?”

           “They died.”

           “How?”

           “Look, just answer the question!”

           “Oooookay.  Well, let’s see.  What was the question again?”

           “Miss, can I get another drink please?”

   She served him a drink which was more soda than Scotch, but by this point he didn’t notice.  He took a swig and turned towards me, determined to get an answer.

           “Let’s try this again.  Okay.  If you were the only survivor of a cruise not named the Titanic, stranded on an undiscovered island somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle, and there was only one thing you could eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

            “Do I get a microwave oven?”

            “Sure, why not.”

            “Then there’s electricity on the island.”

            “I guess.”

          “Huh… an undiscovered island rich in tourism resources.  So if there’s electricity and a microwave oven, is there a hotel?”

            “How could there be a hotel on a deserted island?”

            “Where else would you put the microwave oven?”

            “Fine.  Some one put a hotel there, but they’re all gone now.”

            “Where did they go?”

            “I don’t know!  They’re just gone!”

            “Bananas.”

            “What?”

            “My answer is bananas.”

            “Out of all the food in the world you choose bananas?”

            “If it's good enough for Ray Comfort, it's good enough for me, even if he has no clue where modern bananas come from.”

            “Then what do you need the microwave oven for?”

            “I don’t.”

   He finished off the remainder of his soda and Scotch.  Then he took off his jacket and rolled up his immaculately ironed shirt sleeves.

            “Why bananas?  Why not something like Lobster Thermadore?”

”It wouldn’t matter what I chose.”

“Of course it matters.”

“After week of the same food I’d hate it anyway.”

“Wouldn’t you want something more satisfying?”

“What’s more satisfying than a food that can keep you alive and entertained at the same time?”

“I don’t get it.”

“Kirk Cameron got it.”

“I would have chosen something else.”

“It’s your loss, Diddy.”

   I thought I saw a slight crack form on his forehead.  It reminded me of that scene in the movie “Superman” when the Hoover Dam begins to crack after an earthquake and young Jimmy Olsen stares at it in fascinated disbelief, then falls hundreds of feet to his death, only to be plucked out of the air by Superman just in the nick of time.  Unfortunately for The Suit, Superman isn’t here.

   This guy was a glutton for punishment.  After about ten minutes he started talking to me again.

             “Have you ever seen that guy on T.V. who asks actors that list of weird questions at the end of the interview?”

            “Yes I have.”

            “Do you know his name?”

            “Yes I do.”

            “Um, well what is it?”

            “What’s what?”

            “His name!”

            “James Lipton.”

            “That’s it!”

            “I’m glad you agree.”

  For a moment he took an interest in his manicured hands.  He whipped out a nail file with the disturbing grace of the newly discovered appendix in the male evolution, the Metrosexual (the definition of which is another subject worthy of a doctoral thesis).  When he finished perfecting the nail of the index finger on his left hand he turned to ask me yet another philosophical question.  I don’t think he knew how to spell “philosophical”.

            “If you went to heaven and God met you at the pearly gates, what would you want to hear him say to you?”

            “I thought it was St. Peter who met you at the pearly gates.”

            “That’s not what James Lipton asks.”

            “Maybe James Lipton should ask Mel Gibson.”

            “But that’s how he asks the question on the show!”

            “How does James Lipton know it’s God and not St. Peter?”

            “I don’t know!  That’s just what he says!”

            “Did St. Peter take a vacation?”

            “I, I don’t know!  Maybe he takes a vacation once in a while.”

            “So James Lipton is wrong.”

            “I don’t know!  That’s just how he asks the question!”

            “Maybe St. Peter asks Mel Gibson permission to take a vacation, then he sends a fax of his schedule to the Pope, who then sends it to James Lipton.”

   He picked up the napkin off of his tray and wiped his strained forehead.  I could almost see the muscles of his face fighting to maintain their integrity, as if the Botox was some kind of force field being attacked by a barrage of photon torpedoes.  With the shields at maximum, the pressure is just too much for the engines to handle.  This guy is really fun to watch!

            “Sorry about that PMS thing.”

            “What?”

            “That’s what I’d want God to say to me.”

            “PMS thing?”

            “Yes.”

            “That’s it?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well, that’s, uh, interesting.”

            “Unless He’s willing to explain talking donkeys and public stoning to me.”

He stared at me in silence for a moment with a blank look on his face.  He couldn’t seem to respond.  Or maybe his face stopped working.  Apparently he was expecting me to ask him the same question and when I failed to meet his expectations he spoke with a slight hint of pain in his voice.  Or his face broke.

             “Don’t you want to know what I would want to hear God say?”

   I had to think about this.  Here is a person who doesn’t seem to do well with the truth, so I lied, which for me was a highly unusual display of compassion for The Suit.  If his answer involved any girl from Baywatch I was going to get a drink myself.

             “Of course.  Tell me.  What would you want to hear God say to you when He met you at the pearly gates?”

            “I’d want him to say, “Welcome, my son.  There’s a seat waiting for you in the finest restaurant in heaven.””

            “What’s the name of the restaurant?  The Restaurant at the Edge of the Universe?  No, that would be too ironic.”

            “Um, I don’t know.  Why would that be ironic?”

            “Never mind.  How do you know it’s the finest restaurant?”

            “Cause God said so!”

            “So God’s a food critic and St. Peter’s sub at the gates?”

“No, I dunno!”

            “When does God have time to go to restaurants?  You’d think He had more important things to do, like smiting and that whole wrath of Himself thing with hurricanes and tsunamis and Rush Limbaugh.  I think God’s a Republican. ”

            “Well I’m sure He doesn’t, but, what?”

            “Maybe St. Peter is the food critic and that’s his second job cause God doesn’t pay him enough to be able to take a vacation.”

            “He could be, but, wait.  I’m confused.”

            “Naw, if anyone in heaven would be a food critic it would be Uriel.  I read somewhere that he’s getting a show on Bravo.  That boy's as slippery as a cat fart.”

            “Who?”

            “You know, for some one who has dinner regularly with God you sure don’t know much about his home boys.”

            “My drink’s getting low.”

            “I bet that doesn’t happen in God’s restaurant.”

   Two drinks later we were nearing Hartford.  The Suit seemed so happy I could have sworn I saw tears of joy in his eyes.  Or maybe his face really did break.  It could also be that he was totally hammered.  When we finally deplaned, he turned to me and hugged me and thanked me for the pleasant conversation.  Then the nice men from security kindly escorted him to his luggage and a cab.