Prelude
The plane was ready to load. Pacific Margin Air stewardess invited transfer passengers to start boarding the upper class. She looked at me, instant recognition lighting up her face; how very LA -- another fan sighting another movie celebrity. I could almost hear a familiar script playing in her head. "This one … isn't he that latest mega movie star, that British hunk? What was his name…Roderick? No -- Robert!!! Looks like a great piece of boy candy…Can I ask Him…? Would He ever…?"
Her blatant lust made me sick. She was old enough to be my grandmother. These days I was stuck in a nightmare: "Oedipus Rex" incestuous hero and Garcia Marquez' "One Hundred Years of Solitude" pimping grandmother have ganged up on me. I became their prime stud forced to pair up with estrogen-crazed, shrieking females, lined up for miles in endless queues, each of them with a "Killing Me Softly" ticket for a free ride on me. Or was my life a Fellini's "City of Women" nightmare fantasy gone real??
I took back from her my boarding card stub and almost run down the gate to get away. Hopefully onboard I would find some privacy; majority of my adoring young fans were going right down thru the business section to their cheap coach seats. I turned left back to my upper class spot and landed.
Aaah! Safe at last…
2A next to me was the only seat still open; all others already taken by the usual elite travelers.
A male attendant served me some beer. Good. I was grateful for anything to numb me down for the remaining flight. Hopefully 2A will remain empty, and I can chill out alone for the next 5 hours to JFK.
The nearly closed plane doors were being open again. One more passenger was rushing to make it.
Please make it business or coach…
No such luck. She turned left walking down the isle towards the only seat available: 2A. Window.