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One
{ Entry #1, 1-28-87. [handwritten, mailed same day---*ed. note]
Final descent. Thanks for nothing, God.
Man I can't believe I let you talk me into this. This has been the longest damn plane ride in history. Twelve miserable hours sandwiched around a stupid half-hour layover in Connecticut, where only twenty new people got on and they wouldn't even let us get off the fucking plane and stretch. Typical intelligent human behavior. Boy, do I feel like shit. I can't think of anything that tastes worse than that taste you get in your mouth and throat after you've thrown up a couple times. The screwy thing is, the flight itself has been just as smooth as can be. I know, you'd probably go and call it something nauseating like "ironic", I know. But I mean it, they even got the air in here at just the right temperature for a change. Just shows you what a crappy mood I'm in. Fuckin' shitty Clippers. The one time in my life I get on a plane that doesn't smell like an old folks home or bounce like a bucking bronco and I can't even relax and enjoy it. Fuck.
Really about the only memorable thing to report up here (besides my making a complete fool of myself with this smart, friendly, terrific-looking blonde creature whose only real crime, I guess, was that she wanted to know what kind of car I drove before she would agree to make "the beast with two backs" with me) happened about an hour ago, just as we were cruising over Northern Ireland. I was just looking lazily out the window, looking down, and suddenly I realized the world was gone. At first glance, I couldn't figure it out. Woozy as I was from not sleeping, I thought I was dreaming about white vanilla frosting on a cake; you know, smooth but with those gentle wave-like ripples the frosting knife makes, but on second thought it struck me more like a glacier. I've never actually seen a glacier before, but I could tell that this is what they look like. A cold, endless, beginningless glacier. Maybe that's the difference between looking down at clouds and just looking up at them. Looking down, they weren't wispy or puffy or billowy at all. Just ripply-flat and solid. It was one solid, continuous, impenetrable fucking object, and we were flying close enough over it that you would've thought you could've crawled out on the wing, strapped on a pair of ice skates, jumped off, and man you'd be cutting the cake yourself. Weird. It was weird how cold it made me feel, how cold it makes me feel just writing it down. It makes me feel sorry for every goddam cub scout airline pilot who has to look down at clouds for a living, like looking at a big white cake, like a birthday party where nobody, where no one....must be just about the loneliest feeling in the world....well anyway. I suppose it one of those things that when you see it you know you'll never forget it, even though it probably doesn't mean a god damn thing.
And that's about all I've got to say on the subject. I'm already pretty fucking sick of this deal, and that worries me some. I'm also pretty damned tired right now, and I wouldn't've taken the time to jot down even these few meaningless stray thoughts if I hadn't promised you I'd write down every stupid thing I think of the minute I think of it. That's one thing my old man taught me: "If you don' wanna do somethin', kid, keep yo' mout' shut," he used to tell me, in that annoying southside accent of his, "but if'n you say you gonna do somethin', do it---that way they cain't call you on it later." I guess that's about the only goddam thing he ever taught me, the son of a bitch.
(Don't get me wrong, dude. I might complain a lot, and I know I'm a pain in the butt, but I am grateful. The way things are....well, I guess I need this job. I know it. I just wanted to say it. Once.)
But the thing is, boss man, is I just don't see why I'm the one who has to fly all over the place and go through all this, this, this fuckin' baloney, and pewk my guts out and stuff, when I'm the one being dumped on and cast off and its not even my fault! Get me? Why should I be punished! Why should I be the one flying the hell off to a nuthing place like England! By all rights, it should be Sam on this plane. Not me. She should be the one with the stomach cramps, not me. Ungrateful whore. Man, I wish I could at least stop thinking about her. Think after all those years I'd be worth one phone call, one lousy phone god, where the fuck can she be--------I'd like to think that if I, I mean if I had any well, if I did I swear I'd turn right around and go right back to L.A. the minute this thing lands, I could do a hell of a lot more good there than here, and thing is well I just know she'll eventually come around, that's all, everything'd be okay if I could just find her, yeah, talk to her, yeah, fuck yeah, and I know I could find the bitch, I know I could....that is, if I really wanted to. If I gave a god damn. if if if if if if If//////////////////////////////////////////////
Runway in sight, touching down any second. Silky smooth and about time. My stomach hurts. I bet I've put away about ten bags of these goddam honey-roasted peanuts they give you. The first thing I'm going to do in the airport is take probably the biggest nastiest shit of my life. Sure hope I can hold out till then, because I'm just not going back inside that bathroom I'm sorry. There's puke smell all over the place in there (by the way, exactly how do you smell puke?)//////okay, stop! Change of subject, new paragraph....
Wonder if she's really asleep. I'm looking at her, right at that smooth, perfect face. Right now. The girl I just mentioned a couple pages ago. You should've seen her, man. What a sharp, funky, together chick she was. Reminded me of Sam a little, although just not as much. You know. But I really liked her. And I think she liked me a little too, before I blew it at is. Dumb. Plain truth is that I could easily be in the market for a steady chick, if things don't work out. I mean you'd think by now I'd know that women are always going to be the way they are, that's just the way they are, and that if you want a smart, decent looking one you is gonna hafta play the god damn game. And the depressing thing is she's built just the way I like them. Great tits. Even now, sitting here in this cramped seat with my underwear all bunched up around my ass, with my damn knee practically frozen solid, even as I write this sentence I find myself wishing I'd at least talked to her a little more, been more patient, hell, I should've at least given the girl a chance. It was my foul, I admit it. But too late. She's asleep. And I'm sure not gonna wake up a goddam female just because....well, just because. She sure is pretty. Boy, I wish I could remember her name. She told me but I forgot. If I remembered it I'd tell you. But I don't. I apologize for that.
But the fact remains she did ask me about my car. Right at the fucking moment of truth. God, why did I ever agree to do this....I'm telling you, you pathetic bunch of sports junkies, this whole thing is beginning to look like nothing but brain damage. I'd better go find a stewardess now, give her this in an envelope along with a couple bucks for postage. And I mean right now, before I change my mind. ---end}
p.s. I was thinking, you really probably shouldn't print
this part at all. It's got nothing to
do with the game, for one thing. I just can't think
of anything to say yet---and I only wrote it
down because I promised you I would. Okay?
Thanks, man.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
*note to editor: This next part has got to be the beginning--I INSIST!
First things first. I apologize.
Okay folks, chapter one paragraph one. But before we friggin' even get started here (pardon my French), I really do want to say how truly embarrassed I am for having to tell this stupid thing in the first-person. I'm truly sorry. I've always thought it was a perfectly lousy way to tell a story, even for so-called "true-to-life" stuff like this, and nobody wants to listen to some jerk he doesn't even know cry about his own troubles, I realize all've this believe me, but it wasn't my decision. My new employer, wily, cold-blooded "professional" that he is, has determined that if I want this tale told for money I must tell the tale myself. And he knows that I need him (for the moment, anyway) a hell of a lot more than he needs me. Which means we're stuck. I'll do my best.
I only hope he has the good grace to leave this, and anything else I say about him for that matter, on the page....
I guess I might as well begin with the plane ride. No reason. It's just that this thing is so goddam complicated and confusing and who knows how far back it really goes, but you got to start somewhere, and just how does a guy go about deciding what is and isn't important anyway?---so, for purposes of providing a workable sequence of events, the flight over seems like as good a place as any to get this thing off the ground. First of all, I hate plane rides. Always have. I've never been able to understand why so many people you talk to say they like to fly so much, as if there was some precious idiotic social trophy that went along with willingly practicing---much less cheerfully submitting to---such moronic self abuse. Think about it. They coop you up in a long stuffy tube flying friggin' 40,000 feet above the ground at 700 frickin' miles an hour with a couple hundred sweaty, smelly, starry-eyed grinning morons, who it seems to me the only reason they ever get on a plane at all is so they can immediately pound down about a dozen drinks and at least fifty little bags of those "complimentary" honey-roasted peanuts, and of course spend the whole rest of the flight farting it all out and squirming in their farty seats and sneaking their hands down their pants to adjust their shorts (I suppose), and by all means crawling up and down the aisles to and from the bathrooms, and you're stuck with these wide-eyed touristy human sheep, like it or not, until some other jerk, who probably joined the airlines because he likes being called "captain" or "sir" or "skipper" and who actually gets paid to walk around with a big cheesy hand-shaking smile on his face in his nifty little dark blue Cub Scout uniform, decides it's "safe" to come down. Talk about being at someone's mercy! Hey, if anyone out there actually gets off on that kind of masochistic behavior, I feel sorry for you. And I defy any of you to look me in the eye and tell me you've ever had a flight that wasn't bumpy, ever been on an airplane that wasn't stuffy, just one stupid flying cabin that was cabin-pressurized with actual human beings in mind. I tell you, when I get back home I swear I'm not getting on another friggin' plane of my own free will until I'm at least forty. Man, as far as I'm concerned anybody who actually enjoys locking himself up inside one of these portable death traps for twelve goddam hours is probably secretly some kind've twisted, raging psycodick. Personally I would've paddled over in a canoe if it didn't take so bloody/////////okay okay, I guess I'm already starting to go a little overboard here. Sorry. (The rough spots will be edited out, right?) I've sort've been told to just jot down whatever comes to mind, no matter how raggedyass it is! But I think you catch my drift. Just getting near an airplane makes me a little jumpy. And I wasn't in exactly the best of moods to begin with, which naturally you'll come to understand better as I go along.
(Not to beat this airplane thing to death, but I just wanted to say that this was just about the hottest, bumpiest, stuffiest, sweatiest, most godawful airplane cabin I can ever remember being cooped up in. Trust me. I could hardly breathe up there. I swear, my stupid stomach was doing jumping jacks the whole way. But I don't think that makes me a pussy or anything. I mean I don't want you all to start picturing me barfing up all over myself. In fact, to this day, I don't believe I've ever actually thrown up on a plane in my life. Never. It's just that I think I'll always associate this particular plane ride with a certain kind of sour stomach ache. I wasn't myself at all. Frankly, the whole thing's kind've embarrassing.)
Anyway, so what do you suppose happens?
Well, just as this tub was beginning to pull itself free of that purplish-brown mud pack of "air" which sits the whole summer every summer on my illustrious home town, while I'm looking around at the other passengers in "business class", trying desperately to imagine these strange homely people to be more interesting than their blank smiling faces said they were, while all the while laboring to get halfway comfortable in my seat, half the time telling myself "everything's gonna be okay" and the other half of me wishing the damn Cub Scout would just have a nervous breakdown and decide to park it in the goddam ocean and do me a god damn favor (and save me all this friggin' paperwork if nothing else), I suddenly glance two seats to my right where wouldn't you know there's this girl. I know, I know. There's always a girl. But don't think for a minute that this was just an ordinary girl. Not hardly, dudes. I assure you, this was the type of female that really paralyzes a guy, right from stare one, changes the taste in his mouth, sweats up the skin of his hands, makes him wish they were already married or---even better---already living together, so that that very night he could perhaps, I mean hopefully, that is if the world ever worked the way it was frickin' supposed to, he could run his suddenly electrified fingertips over every curve of that creamy////////well, you get the idea. That type. Or in other words, sports fans, USDA choice.
But I want to make sure you get me. You know, the "big picture". Well, let's just say that on the day I reluctantly climbed inside that winged torture chamber---July 28th, 1987---things could hardly've been worse. First of all, I'm only 27 friggin' years old and they're telling me I'm washed up. Excess baggage. Through. I'm talking forced retirement in the prime of life, man, I mean for godsake! And even my once-loyal local press says I'm damaged goods and can't cut it anymore. Of course you expect that from sportswriters. They say that about every jock coming off knee surgery, even a minor "scope job" like mine. My mom says to just not worry about what other people say, not to worry about things I can't control. And I know she's right. But the problem is that people read that crap, word gets around, and pretty soon every other team in the league adopts a "hands off" policy on you like you got some funny disease or something, just because every executive in the league is suspicious of every other crooked GM in the league, and because no one is in a very big hurry anyway to take a chance and swallow the final two years on a guaranteed contract for a gimp. I can't get my own coach to even talk to me, much less work me out, my so-called teammates are avoiding me like I'm their ex-wife's lawyer, I've been ditched by practically all've my so-called friends, and now I'm being practically forced to leave the country by some New York shyster I've known less than a year, to whom I made the mistake of virtually signing my life away for a few bucks just so you can have a good laugh or two at my expense. Needless to say I had a lot on my mind, right?
Alright then. So here I am mulling over circumstances that I now realize, in retrospect, could quite easily've convinced a shakier dude to swallow a .45 automatic, or practice swan diving off a freeway overpass, or at least convince him to set up permanent housekeeping at his local Padded Wall Inn, while at the same time getting ready to embark upon this "odyssey" of as yet indeterminate length [six months---*ed. note] that I have a hunch just might change the way I look at things forever, and just because I happen to be sitting three feet away from some sleek panther of a woman whose tight, flabless curves happen to be stronger than my hormonal power to resist them all that other stuff doesn't matter because the whole goddam world has suddenly stopped rotating on its goddam axis! And I know every guy reading this right now knows exactly what I'm talking about. That's what women do to us poor slobs. They make us behave like idiots, that's what. When you're put together like that, ladies, we've got no bloody control over it and you know it. And it's pretty goddam unfair, if you ask me....Anyway, all those so-called life-and-death circumstances I was supposedly so concerned about disappeared. All I knew was that I had to get the guy between us to change seats with me, no matter how. So I immediately started sizing up the guy. He was just some fat jerk businessman who insisted on keeping his vest buttoned up tight around the rise and fall of his fat annoying gut. You know. One of those crazed, orally fixated types that starts drinking and wolfing down little bags of peanuts practically before the bloomin' plane even takes off. Gross. I figured he didn't deserve to sit next to a primo chick like that anyway. (And I guess I should mention that the guy was black, which, as you'll soon come to understand, only made it worse.) Anyway, I figured if reason didn't do the trick, money would:
"Pardon me, sir, but would you mind changing seats? I know it's an imposition, but I'm six-five and the aisle's just no good for me."
So this fat black guy squinches up his bulldog flabby face like I'm on drugs or something. (I'm not, by the way.)
"I t'ought you tall guys liked bein' on da aisle," he said. I recognized his stupid Chicago accent immediately.
"Just a myth, my friend. Probably cooked up by a secret society of insecure short people. Fact is, if I stay here, these silly stews are likely to trample my poor left foot right into oblivion. How 'bout it, holmes---I'll be more than happy to pay you for your trouble," I said with great sincerity, holding out a fifty dollar bill. The key was talking fast enough so he couldn't think.
"No-no, put'cher money away, pal. I'll be happy'da trade wit'cha."
"You sure?"
"Makes no dif'rence ta me, one way'r da other."
(So he bought it. He was actually kind've a nice guy, though, even if a little dense. Funny thing is I normally like having the aisle seat. In case you have to get up and take a piss or something.)
"Thanks bud. I'll buy you a drink when the cart comes around."
"Done."
The girl didn't see us make the trade, either because she was too stupid to notice or because she was busy stuffing something into the overhead compartment even though everybody was still supposed to have their seat belt on, to be fair I'm not sure which. But I do remember she was on her tip-toes, reaching up as high as she could, and so the short, skintight leather skirt she was wearing rode right up those few marvelous inches, naturally, as she strained to get up a little higher. I loved it. Her back was to me, giving me a wonderful opportunity to assess the "splendid musculature" of her legs and ass, long a favorite leisure pastime of mine. I can still picture it: legs that could theoretically, you might say, have been shaped by Michelangelo's chisel, just as easily as they were probably shaped by countless hours at some trendy westside health club. But it was that caboose I really loved. Two perfect potatoes. And I was sure that those potatoes would be the most magnificent spuds in the world if I could just get my friggin' hands on them.
When she sat back down her fresh-scrubbed glance caught me full in the face; bright, blonde, tan, daft, and grinning like a clown gone mad.
Now I didn't say anything right away. No way. That would have been, you know, tactically ill-advised. But I admit I wanted her. Yeah, I truly did. There was no kidding myself and so there's no reason to kid you.
Finally I came up with a decent opening move:
"Ever wonder how it gets up?"
She looked me up and down. Just like a guy would size up a girl. It was pretty funny.
"I beg your pardon?" she said clumsily.
"This incredible flying machine. Ever wonder how it gets off the ground?"
Predictably, not a word. She smiled a smile of pure relief, rolled her eyes, seemed to sneak in a couple of deep breaths to steady herself, and then said, predictably and coolly and evenly, "No, not really. I'll leave that to the engineers." I could tell she was interested, though.
"I'm truly disappointed. I would've thought a smart-looking girl like you would be dying to know."
"Well do you know?...how it gets off I mean."
"Just so happens I do," I said, patting my huge right hand soothingly on her smooth left forearm. Naturally she started squirming in her seat right away. As some've you guys already know, it's essential to bring the sense of touch into the equation early on: "It's called airfoil," I said. "It'd take me about a hundred years to explain it, but let's just say it has something to do with the way air flows over the wing and under the wing to create a vacumn above the wing. Advanced aerodynamic theory, very high tech. My old man was an ace fighter pilot in Korea. Shot down a couple dozen enemy planes in defense of his country. Taught me everything I know." (Man, the things a guy will feed a chick when he's horny!)
"Oh come on!...really? Like a vacumn cleaner?"
"I swear," swore I, holding up three fingers of my right hand in the official Boy Scouts salute. vacumn cleaner....Jesus....
It was at about this point that we actually introduced ourselves.
With the ice completely broken I proceeded to regale her with all sorts of fascinating stuff, including a detailed account of my fabulous college hoops career, as well as a more abbreviated account of my somewhat less fabulous and "ill-fated" career in the Pros that I started to tell you about, because women tend to love that sort of thing. It was sure better than talking about her boring job, that of a computer systems analyst or systems data consultant or something. The point is that we seemed to hit it off, words flowed freely, we each made a couple of sly references to how cute each thought the other was, you know. I mean I figured there was a genuine case of biology between us! You know? So I told her everything. The whole thrilling story of my life. I even showed her this neat old black-and-white snapshot of my mother that I keep in my wallet. (She showed me a picture of her cocker spaniel.) At least she was likeable, showed a lot of unnecessary concern about my knee, that sort of thing. She was pretty clever in one way, though. She had this upscale news magazine in her lap that I just know she was pretending to read, called U.S. News and World Report. Give me a break! Ever hear of a chick that given the choice could resist some "modern woman" rag along the lines of Cosmopolitan or Vogue or McCall's? Sure enough, each of those very publications was sticking out of the magazine pouch on the back of the seat in front of her. But in keeping with her own routine all she wanted to talk about was "world affairs", hardly the type of affairs either of us had in mind, believe me. She even tried to throw me off the track every so often, with provocative, worldly one-liners such as "Isn't Ollie great?" or "Isn't that slime-bucket Hart awful?", and I just wanted to grab that beautiful blonde mop and slap her twice and say "you got it backwards, honey", but all I did was smile like an idiot and nod my head. And then she starts asking questions about me, which I hate. All sorts of questions, especially about how I hurt the knee, and even though it's honestly no big deal I let her gush a little bit just to make her feel good. It's a proven fact that most women, even the hot-looking ones, like to mother a guy. Which is fine, I guess. Up to a point....
And so on and on she went, chatting urbanely away on both world affairs and her own magnificent life, telling me all about all the fabulous places she'd travelled to, I mean she was so damned excited about the very act of travelling you wouldn't believe it, South America, the Orient, the Caribbean, Europe this, England that, et cetera et cetera blah blah blah blah blah, and when I couldn't take it any more, when I finally got sick to death of the obligatory smalltalk we males must endure just to make it look good, I just went for it:
"So have you decided yet?"
"Decided?"
"Yeah. If you wanna do it. Tonight. With me."
"....do it?"
"Come on. Don't play stupid."
"I beg---"
"You want I should entertain you first? Maybe make a rhyme? Okay, try this---birds do it, bees do it, guys with bum knees do it.... satisfied?"
"I don't---"
"Look, darlin'. I'm more than willing to be the first one to say I'm interested, and I surely do suspect that yer interested, and I've never been one to waste time on verbal foreplay so why don't we just cut to the chase. Make some plans for when this thing finally touches down. We'll split a cab. Get a room in London, west end. Skip dinner. Sound reasonable?"
"You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you!" she said finally, and with a wicked sort of grin. And I suppose I am. In addition to being six-foot-five (I'm sorry, but this must be stated flatly for the sake of the story) I'm extremely good-looking myself. Quick summary: We're talking muscular dead-fit body, year round tan, Italian movie star face even though I'm only half Italian, heavy-lidded brown eyes, and a head of short, curly, "comic book" hair; meaning that type of black hair in comic books so black that it looks like there's a little blue in it. The whole package. I suppose I'm blessed with the kind of looks that make women whisper things to their friends when they see me at a nearby table in a restaurant, or at the other end of a bar. And I don't say these things to be boastful. I really don't. I could've been born ugly or disfigured or with a face chocked full of zits or pockmarks, but the fact is I wasn't. It doesn't make me a great guy or anything, or a bad guy for saying so, it's just the way it is. Truthfully it's a little embarrassing even mentioning it....
But I'll tell you this. I wasn't any better looking for a guy than she was for a chick. She was something. Y'know what, she sort of reminded me of this one cheerleader-type chick I first went out with when we were at UCLA, who I suppose I'll be forced to tell you about later. Same gymnast's body, same medium-to-large tits just big enough to jiggle under a sweater when she moved her shoulders a certain way. Same legs and ass. My same involuntary reaction to all of it, just like every other poor slob who has ever been born with a penis dangling between his legs. God damn, she was scrumptious....
"Not really," I answered humbly. "Just honest. What about you, you a big fan of honesty? Honestly? Let's be honest, now."
Like a lot of fine-looking women do she just sat there and smiled and didn't say anything. Turns out she was kind of shy about the whole sex thing. The usual. When she finally got up enough nerve to actually fight back she couldn't even look me in the eye right away.
"What about....safety?" she said quietly.
"What, you mean birth control?" I said louder.
"No!" she whispered, "I mean safe sex....I mean what about, you know....AIDS!"
That was the killer. It didn't matter that it was the middle of a crowded stuffy airplane, I just had to burst out laughing. Y'know, that's the thing I hate most about fine-looking women. They're just like us biologically, basically the same urges and instincts and everything, how do you think we wound up with these five billion stupid people, right?, but they just don't play the game honest. I mean this sweet young thing practically admitted she couldn't wait to bag my bod as much as I couldn't wait to bag hers, that's the way it should be goddammit, but just like practically every other two-bit female I've ever known she didn't have the guts to follow through right from the opening gun. Always the stupid gamesmanship first. And then comes the inevitable shifting of gears, the making of excuses, the changing of mind. Cowards. Flakes and cowards. That's all they are. At least the ones that are, anyway. Anyway, that's why I laughed.
"Ssh! People are looking!"
"Oh! People are looking! At us? Wow! Excuse me, princess! Who knew anybody'd be looking!" Man, I was laughing all the way through it.
"Ssh....please....there's no need to be obnoxious."
"Look, if yer not interested all you gotta do is say so. No need to put up a smoke screen and call me names just because you don't happen to be a spontaneous person," I said. Now I was beginning to get pissed off.
"Oh no, it's not that, really," she said. You wouldn't have believed the way she was whispering. You would've thought we were plotting to overthrow the free world, not deciding whether or not to get laid: "I am interested, and I am spontaneous. But I think it's just as important to be responsible, don't you? I mean, don't you ever read anything? It's an epidemic! We have to be careful! And now they're saying that when a person....well, sleeps with somebody....well you just don't know who you're getting nowadays---or what!"
I guess I should take a minute to say a thing or two about this so-called "epidemic"; especially for those of you who might be reading this thing five or fifty years from now. This of course was the year the whole damn country was losing its collective mind over the AIDS scare, the most popular panic in years, and I never could figure it out. A few thousand sexual deviants and needle jockeys shrivel up from this thing, and the way people fretted over it you would've thought it was the second coming of the Bubonic Plague. I guess it must've been because it's mainly a sexually transmitted disease that AIDS got so many people so worked up. That part makes sense, sure. And when that fruity movie star and that swishy piano player and those "honorable" Congressmen kicked off it didn't help matters any. But hell, the way I understand it, for a healthy red-blooded heterosexual to get AIDS from another heterosexual, he (or she) would have to get naked and horizontal practically every hour on the hour with a different partner for about six months straight! And I'm not sure, but I think there would have to be open sores or cuts involved, too. I'm no expert or anything. But there's easier ways to die, right? Look at all the poor saps who get cancer, and heart disease. Millions of people die every day. I tell you, there's plenty in this world for a guy to worry about without making it worse. A regular guy's in more danger crossing the street or driving a car, or riding in a goddam airplane for that matter. And as far as a chick is concerned it doesn't really matter if she's gay, straight, bi, or an inflatable plastic doll, she's pretty much in the clear....right?
Now before you all go and mentally jump all over me, let me just say that I'm not insensitive about the poor unlucky souls that actually catch AIDS. I'm not. Obviously it's a rotten deal, if you've got it. But the subject had no business polluting this particular conversation between me and this outrageous girl, I'm sorry. The odds are just too astronomical. And that's the only point I'm trying to make bout AIDS, okay? My mom says that's my problem, that I always insist on saying exactly what's on my mind (no matter what), and maybe she's friggin' spot-on in her analysis of me (she usually is), but that's just the way I am. I can't help it the times when honesty isn't popular.
Anyway, for those of you who weren't born yet, or in case you were spending the decade on Mars or something, I wanted to let you know what it was like living in America in 1987. It was crazy.
But at this stage of the game there was no point in me telling the girl how stupid I thought she was. At least not yet:
"Honey, let me ask you something. Do you come from a good family?"
"Why, yes---"
"Me too," I half lied. "And do you, sexually at least, consider yourself a responsible, discriminating adult?"
"Well, sure I do, but---"
"Same here," I exaggerated. "Now then, pay attention. Are those silky smooth, milky white, and seemingly uninfected loins of yours fairly dripping, in fact, with the dreaded killer-virus AIDS?"
"My what? No! I mean no, of course not!" She was whispering again.
"Ditto! How 'bout that for coincidence! And to think I was worried there for a minute! Whew. So, now that we've established what great people we both are, why don't we just cut the bull_ _ _ _ and do something about this obvious attraction we have for one another---sound reasonable?"
She was pretty confused but I could tell she could tell I was serious, so she did the predictable female thing and just didn't say anything. She just looked at me. So I said, "Well?", and she, looking very stressed out by now, finally blurted out, "Well, maybe when we're both back in L.A., maybe then. We could go out! We could get to know each other, and---"
"Look, Petunia, let me tell you something," I think I began. By this time I probably felt like calling her every filthy name in the book. But I didn't. I guess I have Mom to thank for that too. That fine old lady did a friggin' great job of raising me, man---by herself---always teaching me what was and was not cool, always bailing my ass out of trouble, and all the while working about 60 hours a week at one grunt job after another just so we'd get by. (Small wonder when I got my Pro signing bonus the first thing I did was put a chunk of cash down on a rad little condo for her, in South Pasadena.) She drilled it into me from the start not to swear, said that God wouldn't like it and all that jive, she's the reason I don't ever use the "f" word. Or the "s" word or the "p" word or any of the "c" words, for that matter. So I guess you could say she's the reason I didn't tell that stupid cover-girl phony what I really thought of her act....
But all that having been said, I guess you can tell I was still about to sort've lose my temper. It's like I was trying to tell you earlier---it's amazing how a fine-looking woman can get under a guy's skin, even when he has far more important things on his mind:
"I don't plan on coming back here in the near future, understand? The reason I'm on this stupid flying sausage is that I hafta get out of here! I hafta do a job over there! I'm not some jerk tourist taking his goddam two weeks of vacation, for godsake! So it's now or never, sweetmeat. Don't waste my time. When this pig touches down you'll either never see me again or I guarantee you'll have one of the greatest nights of your magnificent, globetrotting life. It's that simple. So which is it?"
At first, not a word. She just looked at me. But when all that pathetic phony silence became too embarrassing she had to say something. This is how I remember it:
"You sure don't make it easy for a girl."
"That's my line, isn't it?"
"It's not that I....don't like you....but your attitude....I guess I'm trying to make allowances for your....current situation."
"Don't do me any goddam favors," I said. (Obviously she hadn't gotten the word that I don't take that kind've crap from women anymore.)
"The problem," she went on, "is that aside from how important your mother is to you I hardly know anything about you---your true personality, your background and values, and, well, everything. Maybe if I knew more about you I'd be more....well, uh, I don't know.... comfortable, hm? Like just what is it you do, nowadays...."
"Do?"
"For a living. Since your injury I mean. What do you do, what does your father do, what kind of car do you drive....that sort of thing."
That did it. Now maybe you can see just how lousy my luck was running right about then. All I can say is it's a hell of a crummy world where you can't get a decent babe to roll over unless you drive a decent car (My car happens to be a radically primo Porsche 930 Turbo with a five-speaker stereo system, but I sure as hell wasn't going to tell her that.). Man. I remember how my mind started wandering. All I could think about is everything I'd just been going through, back home, and now this, this....But hey, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. This thing isn't about women. It's about what happens, or can happen, to the "beloved professional athlete" in this great goddam country of ours. Let's just say that getting away from L.A.'s gold digging, leather skirted, outrageously juicy females who friggin' disappear off the face of the earth was a welcome fringe benefit of my journey. But this thing isn't about women.
note to editor: is this last part too wordy?
Anyway, for about thirty seconds I just sat there and looked at her. What kind of car do you drive....good grief. I knew right then and there I was fighting a losing battle. The problem was that I couldn't very well ask the fat black guy to give me back my seat.
"Listen up, young woman. I've suddenly become very tired," I said, slouching down in my seat, closing my eyes. I pocketed my hands. And I made my face look as bored and disinterested as possible: "I'm gonna try and get some sleep. As a matter of fact, I plan to sleep away as much of this stupid flight as I can, so I'd appreciate it very much if you'd make like a good little mouse and be as quiet as possible. Okay?"
"What?"
Naturally I didn't open my eyes.
"I said I'd appreciate it if you'd kindly keep it zipped shut while I'm trying to sleep. I can assure you I will not feel like talking the entire trip, and so, in the name of common courtesy to a fellow passenger, I respectfully request that you do not attempt to engage me in any trivial conversations simply to alleviate your boredom. We live in exciting times. If you're bored, read your magazines."
"Are you---"
"If you have a question for a passing stewardess, such as, say, where to go for your bags once we reach Heathrow, that I will understand. But as to any other potentially annoying disturbances, I only hope you will resist the temptation to speak and thus respect my wishes. That's not too much to ask, is it?" (That's sort've a mouthful, and it's been awhile, you can imagine how hard it is to remember all the details, so naturally I'm paraphrasing.)
"You've got to be kidding!"
"Shh! Please. You don't wanna get off to a bad start."
I bet she was priceless. Her expression I mean. For a minute it felt like she might smack me or something, but I didn't peek. Women.
"And to think I was actually becoming....curious about you!" she finally said. Sure. Sure you were. You would have thought she could've come up with a better comeback than that. "Nice meeting you, too---and thanks for everything," I think I said.
That was that. Boy I wish I could've seen her face, because I could feel it steaming right through my eyelids. She didn't say "boo" the rest of the trip. Women. No matter where you go, you can't get away from the unholy by-god fact of them. And me, I had to sit there in total silence next to this curvy blonde babe for twelve friggin' hours. What a waste. I mean she was one hot ticket, believe me. And for me to intentionally deep-six an eventual guaranteed piece of ass, especially an ass like that, well, it only goes to show what kind of a mood I was in. Thinking back, it might've been a good idea if I could've controlled my temper. Okay, okay---I know it would've been a good idea. At least then I'd have her phone number. Thinking about it now, it's still kind've a confused blur. I guess you can tell she got to me a little bit. Nothing I can do about it now, though. Win a few, lose a few. But hey, there's always the chance I'll bump into her around town; that is, when I finally make it back home....
So that's the story of how I managed not to get laid on the flight over. But what was I supposed to do? When a guy is under pressure he doesn't always make the right decision. It's like in a ballgame---sometimes you choke. But at the time all I was doing was reacting honestly to my emotions, just as honestly as I am attempting to re-create them for you now, after the fact. And remember, she was the one who actually screwed up. She was the one who started asking about cars. I mean it's not like it was my fault or anything.
Hell, you people got to remember that it's been weeks since I was on that bucket. I mean who can remember anything exactly?
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