Little Flight Lies

Little White Wedding

2009-08-23T15:18:00.000-07:00

Evan and I have been dating for a while now, and like any woman in a long-term relationship, I occasionally lose myself to fantasies of white gowns, fondant flowers, and my perfectly painted lips as they form the words "Fuck," "you," and "asshole," usually in that order.

My dream wedding never actually makes it to the nuptials. In my head, I'm too busy throwing shoes, vases, unwrapped toasters (and the occasional flower girl, should she wander within grasp) at my two-timing tuxedo-wearing face-having fiance as he cowers beneath a burning alter. And then blah blah blah, a little well-deserved bloodshed, some police intervention, and a slice or two of the salvageable portion of our lemon poppyseed cake.

But I mention this only so you understand that after my week of perpetual Sundays spent snuggled in bed with the guy I love, the only logical response to Robbie's "So why're you headed to Vegas?" was a beaming "To call off my wedding."

Robbie (and yes, I do know for a fact that's how his name is spelled -- I'm not just projecting my Darcy [sic] rage onto my victims) and I first met in the D gates of the Salt Lake City Airport. He asked "Is anyone sitting here?" and I said "No." And then he sat there.

Fast forward 20 minutes (and about half a page of Borges' Labyrinths) to our plane's boarding and my suitcase's inability to wedge itself into the 4-inch space left for me by the kind occupants of seats 2A and B. After only a moment's struggle, Robbie swept up my suitcase and began rearranging the overhead compartments to ensure that my dirty underwear and Tate's Mom's fresh baked biscotti would be stowed safely. I thanked him and waited patiently as he found his seat -- which, praise the Lord, was right next to mine.

Robbie, other than looking like the grown-up version of the Gerber Baby (had the Gerber Baby not actually grown up to be a woman), was a true southern gentleman. A postal worker from Jackson, Miss-eh-sipp-eh (and generous with his window seat), he was headed to Vegas on a vacation that would last until "either Thursday or Sunday, depending on how things go." I sympathized with the uncertainty of his plans, and he shook his head. "You're calling off your wedding?" He asked as if this were some sort of Vegas faux pas. "My fiance cheated on me with my stepsister," I told him, knocking back a shot of water from my baby Dasani. "NO," he whispered, and immediately had me clarify all the details:

- I'd heard the news only 14 hours ago. Over the phone. From my stepsister, who was crying and begging me to forgive her.
- I had not yet told my fiance the wedding was off.
- The wedding was scheduled for Friday and today was, in fact, the day I had originally set to fly out. I had not been forced to buy a last-minute ticket.
- I had not arranged a place to stay. "Originally I had planned to stay with him, but after tonight, that's probably not going to work out..."
- Well, no, we're not blood-related, but it still counts as sleeping with a member of my family.

Robbie seemed convinced that the wedding would still go on. "He'll beg you to stay and you will. Watch." I was a little taken aback by his conviction, but plowed on. "Hell no, Dude. Hell no. It's over. And let's see him explain this to his parents -- They're paying for the whole wedding... Regardless of whether or not it actually happens." He whistled. "He's gonna regret this one..." I nodded, explaining that I actually felt pretty bad about it, because his parents were nice people and our families had been close for awhile. "A little too close..." he added with a laugh. I read over the nutrition facts on the back of my water bottle in silent response (isn't potassium chloride used in lethal injections?)

Robbie began to apologize but I cut him off. "No, jokes are good. I was up crying all last night, and now I just want to... stop caring. I want to laugh it off." He cleared his throat and changed the subject, asked what music I liked. I told him Cake, which he had never heard of. When posed with the same question, he told me he listened to "everything." Obviously not, Robbie. We just established this. How the hell do you reach middle-age without ever hearing Short Skirt, Looooong Jacket? I even said it like that - "loooooong jacket." And nothing. No choral response. What the fuck are they teaching people in the south? You can't consider sweet tea drinkable AND not know who Cake is. Robbie did say he liked rollercoasters though. And ice bars, like that one on the Travel Channel, what was it called? "Ice Bar?" "Yeah."

During the hour and a half long flight there would be occasional periods of silence where I would stare at the issue of Sky Magazine in my lap and Robbie would listen to his iPod while watching the clouds pass outside our window. And paying no attention to where I was in my Elisabeth Moss interview, he would continually interrupt my Mad Men research with a question or two about my love life. "Does he live in Vegas?" Yes. "How old is he?" 24. "Does he know karate?" ....No.

At one point, Robbie even beckoned me close so he could whisper an idea for how to confront my fiance right into my ear. "Ok, here's what you do - you get off the plane, he picks you up, and notices you're upset. You're noticeably upset. You don't even have to act it, because obviously you're going to be - you are. So he says 'Baby, what's wrong?' and you say - seriously now - you say 'Honey, I just found out my stepsister has AIDS and I'm so scared for her. One of her exes called her and wanted her to get tested and the test came out positive.' And then you watch his face DROP."

The south was redeemed. We bantered back and forth with possible reactions for awhile ("How positive..?") and then moved back into the nothingness of casually name-dropping the exotic locales we've visted. "Oh, have you been to Jamaica? No? Hm... Yeah, too many people begging for money, I didn't really like it..." I tried to play my Russia trump card (because who the fuck goes to Russia?) but he topped it with most of South America and parts of Egypt. Note to self: If advertising doesn't work out, join Mississippi Postal Service.

Maybe the best part of this LFL though, was the fact that I got to play tourist in my hometown. I asked Robbie for hotel and club recommendations, what his favorite thing to do in Vegas was, what the good shows were, everything. "Have you heard of Zumanity?" No. "Circus Circus?" Is that the pink one? "Luxor?" That's the castle, right..? And perhaps my favorite thing of all was staring out over the sprawling valley, the hospital where I was born, the house I grew up in, the schools I sort of went to, and asking the same question everyone asks when they first set eyes on this dirt and concrete expanse - "How the hell do people live here?"

And Robbie, quick to defend his favorite bi-annual vacation spot, asked how people got married here. And I told him Well, they don't. They just buy white dresses and then call the weddings off. Or get them annulled 6 hours later. He laughed and said "We'll see," and then, as the plane was landing, added "I don't mean to pry, but I'd like to know what happens with this..." and had me take down his phone number. "That's Robby, right?" "Yeah. R-O-B-B-I-E... Plane. Put it in as Robbie Plane."

So now I have a Robbie Plane in my phone. I promised to call or text him tonight to let him know how everything went, but I honestly have no idea what to say. I don't want to leave him hanging, but at the same time... maybe this is pushing it.

Open to suggestions.

McFlying Home

2009-06-21T20:17:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty indifferent toward my name. I think about it as often as I do any other word, which is never (unless it's Russian, in which case I'll spend forever separating roots from prefixes, nouns from verbs from adverbs that really aren't really adverbs but we must call adverbs for "simplicity's sake," all so I can lay everything out flat in my brain, poke the pieces, and prove to myself that NOTHING about this language makes sense), but each time I meet another Darcie, I begin to analyze the shit out of my name. I want to talk to her, know her, dissect her, shove her into a lop-sided circle and create a Venn diagram of our traits so I can analyze the overlap and finally, finally, finally understand what Darcie really means.

That's not to say I really believe that our names define us or affect our personalities or even that time travel is not a totally legitimate explanation for any and all observed similarities between me and my Otherselves. In fact, I can't help but wonder if each new Darcie I meet is just me from the future/an alternate universe where I was born blonde and still maintained a friendship with Caz.

Having watched my fair share of sci-fi movies, I feel I was understandably nervous when the pilot announced that "Darcie" would be our flight attendant. I've seen Back to the Future enough times to know that meeting your future self often yields catastrophic (and potentially incestual) results – something I typically try to avoid when trapped in a metal tube a good 30,000 feet above the nearest DeLorean.

So, due to unforeseen circumstances, I was forced to abandon my prepared Flight Lie in order to defend life as I know it.

I never got my seatmate's name, which, considering the circumstances, may have been for the better. She was maybe a few years older than me (mid-twenties?), blonde, and fussing with a Blackberry when I sat down next to her. Her nails were well manicured (long squared-off acrylic talons), but they seemed to in no way hinder the accuracy of her tiny button punching. I waited for her to finish texting before initiating a conversation, still thinking that I would be acting as an escaped cult member and yet unaware of the danger lurking near the front of the cabin.

Small talk was pleasant, but you know... Small talk. I found out she was in town on a Costco-related business trip (?) and this was her first visit to Eugene, Oregon. She said she will not likely be returning any time soon, and spent most of the week "trapped in her hotel room watching Real Housewives of New York." This seemed like a perfect opportunity to segue into my ignorance of pop culture due to a series of bad decisions ultimately resulting in my initiation into a religious cult, BUT just as I began to ask what that show was about (maybe this cult rid me of my ability to use context clues?), the pilot introduced our flight attendant. At first I thought maybe I'd misheard, because it sounded a lot like he'd said my name. I quickly turned to Blondeberry and asked if she'd caught the woman's name. She shook her head. Then I heard it, loud and clear:

Darcie.
Me.
Weird.

Somewhere along the line we'd developed a slight southern accent and changed our eye color, but there was no denying that this woman was my future self – her hair was the exact. Same. Brown. She introduced herself as Darcie, told us all about seatbelts and flotation devices and exit rows, and then proceeded to repeat our name over and over and over again until its syllables bled from our ears. "I'm Darcie, I'll be your flight attendant..." "My name is Darcie, I'll be passing through the aisles with beverages in just a moment..." "If you need any assistance, my name is Darcie... " I immediately began to dig in my bag and pulled out my wallet to reveal an empty ID slot. I looked over at Blondeberry, who was eyeing me with mild concern. "You lose something?"

"My license." I bit the inside of my cheek and stared off into the distance, or, I guess, two tray tables in front of me. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Blondeberry suggested I check my pockets, which is exactly where I'd shoved my license after surviving Eugene's airport security (who had taken an extra 15 minutes to swab and pat down my bandaged foot AND once tried to convince me that my apple was a liquid), so I ignored her. I pulled out my school ID and cupped it in my hand. I flashed her the name. She looked confused, so I did it again, letting her look for longer this time. "Darcie," I whispered, trying to help her out. "It says Darcie."

I don't know what they teach you in Costco business trip school, but this girl was really struggling to put two and two together. She flashed me a hesitant smile. "Same as the stewardess?"
"FLIGHT ATTENDANT!" I snapped, defending our feminist sensibilities, and shoved the ID back into my bag. I covered my face with my hands. "Ok," I said, staring out the window, trying to get a grasp on the situation. "Ok ok ok." We were speeding up, the plane was getting ready to take off, and I was hyperventilating. BB leaned toward me, "How you doin?" she asked. I continued to breathe. She moved to close the window shutter and I shook my head. "Keep it open," I told her. "Keep. It. Open." I had no idea what this meant, but I felt the slow repetition sounded appropriately ominous, and although I couldn't see her, I like to think this is when the worry lines began to crack the powder on BB's forehead.

Once we were airborne, I turned to BB again and explained that we couldn't let the flight attendant see me. She didn't ask questions. "If you're sleeping they don't bother you," she told me. I shook my head again. "She canNOT see me." I was whispering, but BB continued to talk at normal decibels. "Just face that way," she motioned toward the window. Goddamnit, Blondeberry. Ask me why I'm paranoid!

"I can't believe this is happening," I told her, explaining how unlikely it was that this would happen by accident. There must be some reason we're both here. Why would she/I/we risk it? I wasn't sure BB knew if I was talking to her or myself though, because she stayed quiet in her aisle seat and didn't respond. I decided to calm down a little bit and direct my mumbling more toward her. I smiled. "I'm sorry, you probably think I'm crazy, but this is just... too weird." She shrugged and told me she preferred ground travel as well. What the fuck? No, Blondeberry. I tried to laugh. "Oh, planes are fine," I told her. "I'm just scared of – do you believe in time travel?"

A beat.

"Do I believe it's possible?" Sure. Whatever. "I don't know. I don't really think so, but I don't know much about it." I swallowed hard and turned away from her. "Yeah," I said "Well. I pray it stays that way for you." I placed a hand on the window. This had no meaning. This had no meaning whatsoever, but it seemed wrong to whisper something like that with your hands folded in your lap. But then I started wondering if maybe I was being TOO creepy, and if maybe this was coming off as ... well, you know. Threatening. So I decided to wait and maybe, I don't know, think things through for once?

I draped my sweatshirt over my face, leaned my head against the window, and started to try to sort everything out...

But it was boring and I couldn't breathe, so I said fuck it. I was just like "Whatever, how about I stop acting like a fucking terrorist and focus back on the fact that there are TWO OF ME?" I ripped the sweatshirt off my head. "There are two of me on this plane," I told Blondeberry. She furrowed her brow and stuck her neck out. She looked skeptical. I told her I knew it sounded crazy, and I'm sorry she had to sit next to me, but I swore – I SWORE – I wasn't nuts and that the flight attendant really was me from the future. BB looked down the aisle, then back at me. "No," she said, "I don't think so." Her voice was surprisingly chipper for someone in such deep denial. She smiled at me. I stared blankly back. "Really," I told her, and she placed her chin on her fist. She kept smiling. "Do you really believe that?" I nodded solemnly and she laughed, eyes to the ceiling. "Perfect," she said. "That is just perfect."

I offered to show her my ID again and she declined. She was more interested in why I honestly believed the flight attendant was me from the future. I explained that I had been researching time travel for quite some time and decided that it really was possible. There were countless theories, I said, and some were totally hokey, sure, but a few of them actually held some water. I planned to continue my research with one of the time traveling field's (ha) top scholars (I used the name John Robbins, who is actually the author of Food Revolution. I was just trying to come up with a random name and that's what fell out. BB didn't notice though, I don't think. Plus that's a really common name, right? John Robbins? Totally plausible) this summer and had already begun to wonder if any breakthroughs would be made... and if so, would I attempt to visit myself?

"I trust myself," I said "to make good decisions, but given the fact that I am working as a flight attendant and obviously had to go through training in addition to the fact that I have given myself no indication that I actually know I'm here, I think I must have messed up getting back to my time and just settled down here in 2009." Blondeberry laughed and told me she had no idea what I was talking about but she thought I was being paranoid, and that my future self and I looked nothing alike. "I know," I told her, "but you'd know if it was you. You'd just know."

We argued back and forth for awhile about how/why this woman was not my future self, Blondeberry laughing and shaking her head through most of our conversation. I was struggling to keep a straight face and really getting into it when I noticed the beverage cart nearing our seats. I mumbled an "Oh shit, I'm here!" and draped my sweatshirt back over my head, sitting straight up in my seat. Blondeberry just laughed and asked if I wanted her to get me something to drink. I whispered that I'd like a water. When Future Me finally reached us, BB spoke for both of us: "I'll have a Diet Coke and she'll have a water." When Future Me asked if we'd like cookies or peanuts, Blondeberry said "Peanuts for me and – " I could feel them (us?) staring at me from underneath my disguise, so I muttered "Peanuts," in the deepest voice I could manage. Blondeberry started laughing and snorting while I just sat there in my dark, sweaty little cocoon, listening to the effect twenty years had had on my voice. When did I start smoking?

After awhile, Blondeberry passed my cup underneath my sweatshirt and placed my peanuts in my lap. I sipped quietly until BB informed me that I was long gone and it was safe to come out. We somehow got to talking about 80s movies (maybe she was thinking Back to the Future too?), and I mentioned that I'd just seen Breakfast Club recently and didn't really like it (This is in no way relevant to the rest of the story, but I figure this blog post is already turning into a goddamn novel and nobody will read this far anyway, so what's an additional sentence or two going to hurt? Maybe I'll just start writing in Cyrillic. Почему нет?).

Anyway, conversation trailed off, but every once in awhile Future Me would walk by and I'd have to cover my face with my hands/sweatshirt or assume the crash landing position with my head between my knees. And each time, Blondeberry would laugh. And then I would laugh... So I kind of failed. Again. I guess it was obvious that I was joking again, but HEY, at least it wasn't really awkward exiting the plane this time. I just shielded my face from Future Me as she bade me goodbye and did a victory dance in the jetway as Blondeberry's laughter egged me on from behind.

So, I guess that didn't go as planned... But lately, nothing really has. And that's okay, because it keeps things interesting, right? Maybe I don't want to know what I'm doing with my life. Maybe I don't want to see into my future or know everything for certain or have steadfast grammar rules that don't let adverbs wander. Maybe I like having the only certainty in my life be the fact that, when my future extends the option, I know I will always always ALWAYS choose "nuts" over anything else.

Abort! ABORT!

2009-03-23T00:47:00.000-07:00

After our plane had birthed the last of its Reno passengers into the darkness, our singing flight attendant (she'd pause for applause after every announcement) informed us that we had approximately 5 minutes to change seats before the plane began reboarding. I figured my mid-plane seat was still a pretty good one, and scooted toward the window so my row would seem more inviting. No awkward straddling required -- people would be lining up for the chance to sit with me!

But, as it turns out, there were only 3 new passengers on our flight and they all wanted to sit together near the back. Fine. But this meant the flight was only a quarter full, and that I was now completely alone. Behind me, in front of me, across the aisle - no one. Not a soul to lie to.

I was restless. I was bored. I had to move. But why did I have to move? And where did I have to move?

Fuck. The flight attendant was starting to sing Over the Rainbow again, replacing random words with "Southwest" and "seatbelt." FUCK. She was actually pretty good, but FUCK. I HAD TO MOVE. I HAD TO MOVE AND I HAD TO HAVE A REASON TO MOVE AND –

This is where I began to cry. Because crying people are allowed to do whatever they want. I grabbed my bag and started walking. One row, two rows, three rows, four -- and then there she was: Melissa, infant in arms. She was alone. I was alone. We were alone together, and suddenly I felt pregnant.

I stared at her from across the aisle and shook my head, not bothering to wipe the itchy tears from my face. "I'm sorry," I told her, "I know this is weird... Actually, this is really weird, but I just --" I buried my face in my hands and tried to collect myself. "I'm pregnant." Melissa looked confused, but nodded. She whispered a weak congratulations and I started laughing, repeating the phrase "I'm pregnant," over and over again as the tears poured forth from my face. "I'm sorry," I told her, soaking the sleeves of my sweatshirt. "I'm so sorry, but you're the first person I've told and it just, it sounds so -- " I broke down into sobs again. Where the fuck was I taking this? This wasn't funny. Not even to me.

To buy myself a little more time to think, I curled up into a seated fetal position and continued to cry hysterically. My tear ducts had just begun their surrender when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, expecting to see Melissa handing me her first-born, telling me softly to use this one as practice, but instead it was the blurry figure of a flight attendant. I wondered briefly if she was going to break out into song, but instead she bent down and asked if I was all right, and if she could get me anything. I shook my head no, lip trembling. "Water?" she asked. I hiccuped in response. "I'm sorry?" she asked, and I dropped my eyes to my feet. "Me too," I whispered.

After making me promise to let her know if I needed anything, the (maybe?) singing flight attendant disappeared back down the aisle. I looked over to Melissa again, whose expression was 9 parts exhaustion and 1 part sympathy... ish. Maybe 9 1/2 parts exhaustion? "Beautiful baby," I told her, squinting through swollen eyes at the pile of blankets in her lap. "How old?" She replied that he was nearly 6 months old. His name was some permutation of Kayden. This was his first plane ride. I smiled at him for a moment before turning away to hide what were now non-existent tears.

"How far along are you?" she asked. I turned back around to face her. "I don't know," I told her. "Maybe 6 weeks?" She nodded. "And you just found out?" I confirmed that I had. She looked down at Kayden, then back at me – "Do you have options?"

Do I have options? What? Was this a polite way to ask whether or not I was going to have an abortion? Is there a polite way to ask that? And more importantly, was there a polite way to respond? I shook my head and made a mental note to write Judith Martin when I got home.

Melissa sighed and stared at the ceiling. "Well, I'll tell you, it's not easy. Any of it." She told me how she and her husband hadn't planned for Kayden either. They'd only been married for a few months before she got pregnant, and neither of them felt like they were ready for a child, but knew they could make it work. Her husband's mom was helping them out financially, and even offered to babysit when Melissa went back to work, but she had recently decided to quit her job as a marketing consultant to "mother full time" instead. I smiled and told her that's exactly what I needed to hear, and that it must have been so nice to have a husband and mother-in-law to support her through everything.

She asked if the father was "still in the picture," and I gave her a long, blank stare. "The father?" I asked. "Of the baby," she clarified, but I was still lost. I cocked my head. "Your baby... The guy who... did this to you... is he around? Have you spoken to him about this?" I gave her another sideways glance and then smiled. "Oh, no no no... NOOOOO... I'm a virgin!"

I chuckled for awhile, waving my hands in front of me and assuring her over an over again that I was not a slut. In fact, I'd never even kissed a boy. I was saving all that until marriage, but now that I was pregnant, I felt like no one would want me. I knew this baby was a miracle, but it was still scary, and I felt like no one would believe me. "But you get it, right? You've been through this." I turned to her, to Kayden, and managed to coax the waterworks back on.

Melissa didn't answer. She scrunched her face and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked really tired. "And you're sure you're pregnant?" she asked, a little annoyed now. "One hundred percent positive," I told her "I'm over two weeks late."

She wanted to know if I'd taken a pregnancy test, if I'd been to a doctor. I told her pregnancy tests were unreliable and that I was planning on seeing a doctor in Vegas, after I'd told my parents. She advised me to switch the order of those events and to "never trust my period." Fine, Melissa, but I'm inclined to trust a LACK of it. No period means you're either knocked up or post-menopausal, and I've yet to cry at a Kodak commercial, so by process of elimination...

I thought about quizzing her on her knowledge of reproductive health, but figured it would be best not to rub it in, and instead went straight back to freaking out. "Does it hurt? Did you do a natural birth? Did you see God?" It was then that Melissa gave me a look that made me want to drop the whole act and apologize. Too far, too far! Reverse, reverse! She flashed her eyes and her mouth tightened. "I'm sorry, I'm done with this conversation." I felt my stomach seize. I've never had problems with airsickness, but suddenly I found myself searching for something to vomit in. I sunk back into my seat and wanted to cry for real.

I stared quietly out the window for the remainder of the flight, thinking maybe this was cruel. Not just this lie, but all of them. I manipulate people for fun, and every once in awhile, they'll get genuinely upset. And when that happens, it makes me feel like shit. The absolute scum of the Earth.

Which is why it's so confusing that I'm already planning my next one.

Tikka-librarian-too

2009-03-20T13:29:00.000-07:00

Without going into all the gory details: I missed my flight home. And the Eugene airport (more of a drop trap baited with a sidewalk of a runway for confused planes to wander into maybe twice a day) wasn't going to let me out any time soon. I sent out an SOS to my roommate Lauren, who I knew would be driving to Portland later that day, and had my mom book me a flight out of PDX.

And a mere 14 hours later (I don't want to talk about it, but if you're ever stranded in the Portland airport, gate C11 is where to be. Its seats have the highest raise, so not only can you squeeze underneath, but there's even a little wiggle room to toss and turn throughout your shitty pretzel scented sleep) I was on a plane back to Vegas, with only a short layover in Reno.

Full flight. Southwest boards by an arbitrarily assigned zone and number, then allows passengers to choose their own seats based on preference. Families and seniors tend to congregate toward the front, women near the windows, while the younger or more anti-social people head to the back in the hopes that everyone else will leave them the fuck alone. Sometimes these people are more fun to bother, but usually they bring headphones, and goddamn do I hate headphones.

The awesome thing about airplanes is that you can't escape. If you're sitting next to a screaming baby or a guy with a rectal prolapse who insists on showing you and then making you flick the weird protrusion - tough shit, you're 35,000 feet in the air. Close quarters means you can't even yell at them, let alone kill them, so you just have to sit there and take it. It's character-building. Some people, though, insist on being little shitheads with structurally unsound characters, and slip on their headphones before you can even get your carry-on properly stowed. NO, assholes. STOP CANCELING MY NOISE.

That said - I like having the ability to choose. And for this flight, I chose Janet. She was seated alone mid-plane, probably jealous of all the people nearest the bulkhead, but courteous enough to keep moving when empty rows were still available. Janet doesn't know this, but she was my elementary school librarian. In fact, she was everyone's elementary school librarian. Her hair was cut into a short gray bob and her glasses magnified her eyes to a perfectly natural size, were her life an episode of Sailor Moon. She was wearing an oversized pastel yellow polo draped over white cotton pants, and every time she moved, the 18,000 bracelets on her wrists would tinkle softly with memories of lunch detention and medieval torture. I asked whether this seat was taken. She shook her head no and sighed, telling me this would be her 3rd flight of the day and that she was more than ready to go home. I twitched sympathetically. Poor Janet.

She was headed toward home in Reno, where she worked in the billing department for some company that didn't sound like an elementary school (I tell the lies here, Janet). She asked where I was from and I told her that I was born and raised in Las Vegas, but was currently living in Eugene as a student at the University of Oregon tikka-too. She nodded and asked how I liked it up there. After wincing and twitching toward the aisle for a few seconds, finally controlling the tic by shooting my left arm across my body and slapping my knuckles across the tray table, I replied that I really liked it, that people were different in Oregon than they were in Vegas - more laid back, more accepting, just ... nice people. She nodded and stared forward, pursed her lips, and told me very seriously that Yes, people in Vegas tended to be a little more abrasive than most. That's why she liked Reno. I asked if she had always lived in there, and if tikka-too she planned on staying.

From there she launched into a detailed account of her migration patterns, how she had even lived in Korea for a few years while her ex-husband was stationed in the Airforce there. I responded with occasional twitching and excessive blinking, sometimes combining the two when she said something of particular interest. Somewhere between her move from New Hampshire to California, I got so excited that my spine arched dramatically and I had to stare at the ceiling whispering "tikka-too tikka-too tikka-too tikka-too" until she finally stopped and asked if I was okay. I smiled and told her I was fine, and asked that she please continue.

So she did. My twitching and tikka-too-ing got progressively more ridiculous throughout the flight until half of her stories were just "umm... and uh... uhhh.." Goddamnit, Janet, ASK ME. ASK ME WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME. But Janet was too nice. She wouldn't ask. She just kept talking, doing everything in her power not to make eye contact.

So I decided to break the ice. When our drinks came, I immediately chugged down my water and handed the flight attendant my trash while she was still distributing cups to the row behind us. "The tic," I explained, "gets worse when I'm flying for some reason. I can't have anything in front of me, or I'll knock it over. It's even worse on long flights - I can't tell you how many packaged dinners I've launched across my poor seatmates." She nodded seriously. I started to apologize and she cut me off - "No, no, no, no, don't apologize." I twitched and tried to explain, but she stopped me again. "Really," she said. "It's not a problem. I've enjoyed talking to you." She squeezed my hand and smiled too close to my face.

But then she let go. Janet had finished with me. She fell asleep against the window, claiming exhaustion would not mix well with her looong drive home. I resisted the urge to tell her Reno really wasn't that big, and that a "long drive home" would probably lead her straight back to Oregon, but instead I simply tikka-too'ed her goodnight and watched her dream of torturing small children behind stacks of Beverly Cleary books.

Strip Taxi

2009-03-19T08:06:00.001-07:00

Despite my love of Christmas and impressive collection of Books of Mormon, I can count the number of times I've been to church on one hand. The act of repentance is completely foreign to me, so in order to relieve the guilt of my moral lapses, I've been forced to turn to self punishment. But because I'm unwilling to give up food for any amount of time and have really come to enjoy having pinkies, my penance often comes in the form of booking 6 a.m. flights.

I have only one roommate with a car and, sadly, she does not suffer from insomnia. Taxi drivers, on the other hand, have evolved past sleep and live only to pick me up at 4 in the morning and listen to me spew bullshit for the full 20 minutes it takes to drive to the Eugene airport.

This morning, while cutting up a yellow bell pepper I had no intention of eating, I decided it might be a good idea to practice my vocal tic (a whispered, almost inaudible "tikka-too" after every sentence) on the taxi driver. This way I'd know if it was even remotely believable, and could avoid the embarrassment of potentially being labeled a Tourette's faker by someone I'd have to share an armrest with for the next 2 and a half hours.

But all that worrying for nought! My conversation with Rob of VIP Taxis went off without a hitch. He said good morning, I said good morning. He asked "Airport?", I confirmed my destination. He complimented my punctuality; I ... completely forgot to add the fucking tikka-toos! GODDAMNIT. TS tics are known to come and go frequently, but 3 sentences in, I'd already psyched myself out. Fuck shit bitch ass whore! Tikka-too.

I probably would have just dropped the whole thing, had the Cancún-bound Taiwanese students not kept pleading "5 more minutes" into Rob's cell phone. We sat in their apartment's parking lot for nearly half an hour, talking about love, about life, about philosophy, dreams, the existence or inexistence of free will... But really, I just told him I was a stripper.

He asked for it though. After thoroughly exhausting the weather and my major, Rob asked if I worked or if I was "just a student." What I wanted to say was "Fuck you, Rob, I've slept a total of 5 hours in the past 2 days -- being a student is work," but what came out was "Yeah. I work." I hadn't thought about all of this beforehand though, so I'd paused for too long when he asked where. And that pause can only mean one of three things - either I'm lying, I'm a secret agent, or I take my clothes off for a living. So because admitting to the second option would immediately take us back to the first one, I told Rob I was "a... uh, dancer."

His eyebrows moved a ways up his forehead, but it wasn't doubt that lifted them so much as surprise. His eyes quickly darted to the remnants of my runner's body; my thin limbs and round belly, my newfound spider-self, born as a result of atrophied muscle and a tendency toward late-night snacking. I wanted to yell for him to go fuck himself, that even real strippers didn't look like strippers, but he stopped me - "What kind of dancer?" I yawned my response. "Stripper." He laughed, turned his body to face me. "Really?" I nodded. Fuck this guy. I didn't say I raked in tons of money as a stripper, I just said I was one. He asked where I worked, how I liked it, if business had suffered at all... He was actually really interested. For some reason I expected him to feel awkward and drop it, but he started talking about how he dated a girl once, found out she was a dancer (he kept saying this - "dancer" - even after I had referred to myself as a stripper), and he was totally okay with it. He said he didn't understand guys who had a problem with it, that any guy should feel lucky to date a dancer.

Apparently, I work at Jiggles. Probably because this is the only Eugene strip club I know. It seemed to be an acceptable answer though - he was neither horrified nor impressed. I told him I had trouble getting into the dances and being "sexy," so my signature dance was performed in a hazmat suit to the Ghostbuster's theme song. And he must have approved, because he immediately started singing. And didn't stop. I had no idea that song was so long! He had to silence 2 calls during his performance. I kept waiting for it to finish, and when it didn't, I felt weird about just sitting there listening, so I started adding in "GHOST BUSTERS!" when appropriate. After he'd screamed "I AIN'T AFRAID OF NO GHOSTS!" to his reflection in the rear view mirror, he leapt out of the car and started smoking a cigarette. After he'd finished his first one, he stuck his head back in the van to offer me one, and when I declined, he lit up another. And another. Had the Taiwanese students not showed up, I'm pretty sure Marlboro's stock would have tripled.

He seemed to forget me once they entered the van. He berated them for being late and told them they would miss their flight, to which they replied with maniacal screaming. Or maybe it wasn't maniacal, but I tend to put mental straight jackets on anyone who reaches octaves higher than my mumbled monotone. After they calmed down, the van fell silent for awhile, and the driver apologized for our tardiness. He asked when my flight was scheduled to depart, where I was going, and that was that. No more mention of shaking my ass in strangers' faces part time. "Vegas," didn't even elicit a smirk.

When we finally got to the airport, the driver had the girls in the backseat pay first. A fifty dollar fare resulted in a non-existent tip, and he yelled through the window that he hoped they'd miss their flight. Feeling awkward again, and realizing that this time it would not be appropriate to interject the titles of Bill Murray movies, I made my mouth into a backslash and handed him my debit card.

And he handed it back.

Moral of the lie: Time to switch career plans because STRIPPERS. RIDE. FREE.