I made it to my gate on time; there was no sign of Lauren.
I breathed a sigh of relief
and then I directed a brief request
to the universe asking that it seat a tired
antisocial traveler in the seat next to me. I boarded and found my seat quickly.
I threw my bag
in the overhead bin, sat down, and began my preflight ritual:
super fuzzy socks
on, ear buds in, Damien Rice on the iPod, travel
pillow around the neck. I was ready.
The window seat remained empty
as the last few passengers came on board.
I had a ridiculous grin on my face, prematurely thanking
the universe for leaving the seat empty until I glanced
up and saw this guy headed toward
me. I have to admit,
he was gorgeous, but as soon
as I saw the guitar
case, my stomach
turned sour.
Oh no, please world,
do not let this egoist,
wannabe, probably smelly
musician sit next to me.
As he approached he blurted out a breathy
shout. “Hey!” Pausing,
he looked right into my eyes—my soul—and
said, “Do you want the window seat? It’s all yours if you
do.”
“Huh? Uh, no thanks.”
What the hell is this guy doing?
“I’m a terrible flier,”
he said, hesitating. “Please, I need to be in the aisle, I’m sorry, do you mind? I’m Will, by the way…”
Moving to the window
seat, I mumbled,
“Yeah, fine, you can sit there. I’m Mia.” I stuck my hand up in a motionless wave, intentionally avoiding
a handshake.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love music; I live for it. I’m classically trained on the piano
and I can hold my own on almost any instrument. Naturally, growing up in Ann Arbor, every kid played the freakin’ cello,
but I had a knack
for music in general, much of which I
owed to my father. During
the summers in New York, he exposed
me to world music, rock and roll, blues,
jazz, you name it, then I would go home and work on
Rachmaninoff’s Opus 23 all winter
long. Playing the piano the way I was taught, combined with the loose methods my father encouraged during those summers,
always created this blend of discipline and revolution in my style.
I tried to embrace the blend,
but sometimes it felt like a conflict.
I believe my mother
was drawn to my father’s
love of music,
his free spirit
and beatnik ways, although
she would never
admit that. She refers to what she had with him as one wild week for a very naïve nineteen-year-old. It was the summer of 1982 and she had been in Cape Cod on a family vacation
when she and a couple
of friends decided
to take a day trip to New York.
One day turned
into five, and my mother
returned to Cape Cod knocked
up. My father owned it from the beginning, but my grandparents wouldn’t allow their teenage daughter
to move to New York, unmarried and pregnant. As I got older I wondered why my father
hadn’t followed my mother to Ann Arbor.
I knew he wanted to take responsibility for me and I knew he cared
for mother, but I don’t think he was ever a one-woman kind of man. His lifestyle was so far removed from anything that resembled domesticity.
After I was born we lived with my grandparents while my mother
attended the University
of Michigan, eventually acquiring a law degree. That’s where she met David, and they’ve been inseparable ever since, even practicing law at the same firm. I think my
stepdad provided my mother with the sense of stability that my father couldn’t… or wouldn’t. I admired David for that. He treated
me like his own and even though sometimes I disagreed with him, especially as a teenager, I always felt loved by him.
In the beginning my father would come visit
me for long weekends here and there until I was old enough to travel to New York for the summers. He and David had an enormous amount of respect
for each other, even though they couldn’t
have been more different. What they had in common was an unconditional love for my mother and me.
After my father became aware
of the fact that I called David
“Dad,” he simply
said, “He is your dad, luv, just like me, but to keep it straight
why don’t you call me Pops?” And so I did.
My mother’s group of androgynous, pseudointellectual friends would have referred to me as the ultimate
indiscretion if it weren’t for the fact that I was gifted musically, Valedictorian at my high school,
and now an Ivy League graduate. Choosing
a business major
over the arts at Brown was a surprise to everyone, but I yearned
for a more organic experience when it came to music. I didn’t want to spend one more minute trudging through
a Bach piece while being hypnotized by the metronome. I wanted a degree I could use and I wanted music to be my hobby.
I’m still wondering
how I’m going to use that degree…
I had shut the window screen,
my eyes and brain off to the world, when I was jolted by the weight
of my own bag being tossed onto the seat next to me. My eyes darted open and up to Will, who was forcefully rearranging everything in the overhead
bin.
“Sorry, baby, I’ve got to make room for her,” he said, grabbing
his guitar and hoisting it up.
I rolled my eyes at the thought of him personifying his guitar. He grabbed my bag,
shoved it in the bin, and collapsed
into his seat.
I shot him a slightly
annoyed look. “Why didn’t
you request an aisle seat?” I asked.
“Well, you see, sweetheart, I like to be right behind the emergency exit. I’ll hop over
this seat, jump out the door, and be down that super slide in a split second,” he said
with an arrogant smile.
“Then why not request
the exit aisle?”
“I am not the person for that job, trust me.”
“Damn, chivalry is dead.
It doesn’t matter
anyway; our lives
are in the hands of these
hopefully sober pilots and this nine-hundred-thousand-pound hunk of metal, so…”
“Can we stop talking about
this? I don’t
think you understand.” He pulled a rosary
out of his pocket and proceeded to put it around his neck.
“Something tells
me you have no idea what that’s
for,” I said, giggling. “Are you
Catholic?” He was desperately trying to peel a tiny price tag label off one of the beads. “Oh my god, you bought that in the airport gift store, huh?”
Putting his finger to his mouth,
he said, “Shhh!
Woman, please!” He looked
around as if he would be found out. “Of course I’m Catholic.”
A light chuckle escaped
my mouth. “Well,
God would know, so wearing
that around your neck instead
of chanting your Hail Marys is probably
pissing the big guy off, and
that’s not good for any of us.”
He let out a nervous laugh
and then whispered, “Hey, little firecracker, you like taunting me, don’t
you?” Waiting for my response, he looked directly
into my eyes and
smiled cutely.
I suddenly felt bashful
and shook my head nervously. “Sorry.”
Still smiling, he squinted
slightly and then winked before
looking away and pulling a stack of pamphlets out of the seat-back pocket.
While he reviewed the safety information flier, we began taxiing toward the runway. I noticed
a few things in that moment. One, Will was universally attractive; even though he dressed
a little edgier and had slightly imperfect
teeth, he could have easily been a print model.
He stood a tad over six feet,
was thin with muscular arms,
maybe from years of playing
guitar. He had brown, disheveled hair and dark eyes, a chiseled
jaw, high cheekbones, and great
lips. As he read he mouthed the words, the way a child
reads silently.
Two, he didn’t smell bad at all—as a matter fact, he smelled
heavenly. A mixture of body wash, sandalwood, and just a hint of cigarette smoke,
which would normally repulse me, but for some reason
it suited him. He wore black pinstriped slacks that hung on
his thin hips,
a silver-studded belt with a wallet chain,
and a red T-shirt that said
“Booyah!” above a silk-screened picture
of Hilary and Bill Clinton
playing Ping-Pong. I didn’t
get it.
Three, he was genuinely scared to fly and it was apparent
that he would be white- knuckling it the entire
way. I made the decision
to try to calm his nerves
by being friendly and chatting him up.
The pilot came on and announced
we were cleared for takeoff.
“Jesus Christ! Did he
sound drunk to you?” Will blurted.
“Not at all. Relax,
buddy, everything will be fine and you should probably
tone down the Jesus Christs,
at least while you’re still
wearing that thing.”
I pointed to the rosary around his neck. He looked down at the beads like they were about to perform a circus act.
Nervously he said, “Hey, hey can you open that screen?
I need to see us get off the
ground.” I obliged
as he peered over me and out the window.
“You’re funny, Will. You want to sit in the aisle seat, yet here you are, leaning over me to look out the window.”
Ignoring my comment, he took a deep breath
in through his nose, tilted
his head to the side, and with a half smile whispered, “You smell good, like rain.”
I was totally caught off guard by his proximity; a delicious chill ran through
me.
“What kind of guitar
do you have?” I asked abruptly,
attempting to change
the subject.
“Um… an electric guitar?”
The answer was like a question.
“No, I know that. What kind?”
“Oh, it’s a Fender.”
He squinted his eyes and smiled. He seemed somewhat
charmed and probably
grateful that we were talking
about guitars while the plane was
barreling full speed down the runway. He gripped the armrest, still not totally
at ease.
“Is it a Telecaster, Stratocaster…?”
“As a matter of fact it’s a blond Tele. I also have a Gibson acoustic
and a vintage Harmony at home.”
“I love the old Harmony guitars.
On my fifth birthday my father gave me his H78.
It was the first guitar
he bought with his own money. He ordered it from a Sears catalog in 1970.”
His eyes shot open with surprise. “That’s awesome. Your father must be a cool guy.”
“He just passed away a month
ago.”
“Shit… I’m so sorry,”
he said with genuine sympathy.
“It’s okay, but I’d rather not talk about it right
now. Let’s talk about guitars,” I said,
realizing it would
be for both our benefits.
When we hit cruising
altitude, he relaxed
a little and began describing the magical pickups on the Harmony and the modifications he’d made to the Telecaster. He clearly knew what he was talking about
and I found his enthusiasm sweet.
We continued into an easy conversation about our favorite
musicians. We agreed on everything from Led Zeppelin to Bette Midler.
We talked about Miles Davis, Joni Mitchell,
Debussy, the Naizi Brothers, and Edith Piaf. It was the most intense and diverse musical conversation I’d ever had. We talked
nonstop for the entire length
of the flight.
I told him about my musical background and also how I was going to live in my
father’s apartment with my yellow
lab, Jackson, and run his café, maybe teach piano lessons on the side. He told me how he was working as a bartender
in a swanky boutique hotel lounge in SoHo. He said at the moment he was living
in a literal storage closet
in
Chinatown until he could
afford an apartment. He was playing
guitar in a band that he wasn’t too excited about.
Between practice and his job and the few gigs they played
a month, he was never home.
I thought about my spare bedroom
for a second and then pushed the idea out of
mind when I reminded myself
that Will was a complete
stranger. Even though
I found his neuroses more endearing
than scary, I figured inviting
a struggling musician
to live with me was not the best idea.
As the plane started
to descend, Will gripped the armrest. “Mia, we’re going down. I need to know everything about you right now! How old are you, what’s your last name, what street do you live on? If we make it out of this, I think we should
jam together, you know, musically
or whatever.”
He was being adorable. My body tingled
with warmth from his gaze.
I shifted nervously before
answering, “My last name is Kelly, I’ll be at my father’s
café most days—Kell’s on Avenue A. Come and have a coffee with me sometime
and we’ll talk music. Oh, and I’m twenty-five.”
When we were safely
on the ground, he smiled sweetly and said in a low voice,
“We both have double first names. I’m Will Ryan, twenty-nine. I live at 22 Mott Street in the
storage closet. I work at the Montosh.
I’m O negative, you know,
the universal one and I play in a band called The Ivans. Oh, and I love coffee.
It was nice to meet you,
Mia.”
“It was nice to meet you too.”
“We made it,” he said, pointing
out the window
as we taxied to the gate. “You know they say people
who have stared
death in the face are bonded for life?”
I laughed. “Your antics are cute, Will.”
“I was going for irresistible,” he said with a brazen
smirk. He handed
me my bag and let me go in front of him. His warm breath
on my neck caused me to shiver
and stumble in the aisle. He chuckled. “You’re
cute.” When another
passenger jetted out of
his seat, bumping me, Will blurted out, “Hey! Watch
it, buddy!” I turned around
to his sexy smile.
His lips flattened, he narrowed his eyes and then whispered, “See, baby, chivalry isn’t dead.”
When I stepped out into the crisp March,
New York air, I sensed
him walking behind me, but I didn’t turn around. I walked straight
up to the first available cab, hopped in, shut the door,
and shouted, “Manhattan!” As we pulled
away from the curb, I glanced
over at Will. He was blowing a lungful of smoke into the air with curiosity in his eyes like
he was listening to God. His gaze met mine and with a larger-than-life wave, he mouthed the words,
“Goodbye, Mia.” I thought
I caught “Sweet
Thing” just as he left my
view.
Series: Lost and Found #2
