Part 2 (2/2)
Courtney and I meet up at the baggage claim to wait for Fletch. Until now, we haven't had a chance to talk. She sat with Chad on the bus from the resort and dawdled with him so long in the Jacksonville airport that we couldn't get seats together on the flight. At one point, I noticed her quietly crying on the plane. Out of guilt, I a.s.sumed.
I interrogate her about what happened with the Chadifornicator, and Courtney blurts out that she's in love.
”Of course, you're in love. That's why you're getting married. It's not uncommon,” I say.
”No, with Chad. I'm in love with Chad,” she sniffs.
”WHAT?!?” I shout, attracting the attention of every single person on flight 973 from Atlanta waiting around carousel five in the baggage claim. ”You met him five freaking minutes ago! That's not enough time to fall in love. That's not even enough time to fall in like. l.u.s.t? Maybe, but definitely not like. And what about Brad? Did you NOT just get engaged?”
”I know,” she weeps. ”I'd been planning to break up with Brad because things just weren't working anymore between us. But then Hawaii was so romantic and the sun was setting and waves were cras.h.i.+ng and we were drinking mai tais and his proposal was so sweet...I didn't think. I just let myself get swept up in the moment. I knew it was wrong the minute I said yes. I haven't even told my family about our engagement yet,” she says. Her eyes get watery and she begins to sniffle. I root around in my bag to find her a Kleenex. Ooh, look, I have gum!
I remember something. ”Wait, weren't you drinking mai tais with Chad at the sales conference when you hooked up?”
Courtney blows her nose while nodding yes.
”Essentially, you allowed a fruity rum punch to alter the course of your life TWICE? Oh, my G.o.d, you're such a Wh.o.r.e!” This brings a fresh spate of tears. I know I should be more compa.s.sionate, but when you sleep around while wearing someone else's ring, I have trouble mustering sympathetic noises.
”Court...Court...COURTNEY! Listen to me. You have to be honest with Brad. Not later. Now. You cannot string him along anymore. It's just not right.” Courtney begins to cry huge racking sobs.
”People are looking at us. Can you please make them stop?” she begs.
”What do you expect? Acting like a wh.o.r.e attracts attention. They probably think you're here to go on Jerry Springer.”
”WAH!”
”OK, OK, I'm on it.” I look around. Although everyone from the Atlanta flight has collected their luggage, they've yet to leave. A sweaty fat man with an orange flowered vinyl bag has moved right next to us to hear better. I whirl around to face him. ”Yo, Marlon Brando, yeah, with the ugly carry-on, move along. Also? Burn that bag when you get home.” I see an older woman with stop sign red hair pretending to tie her shoes. Perhaps if they weren't LOAFERS her ruse would be more credible. ”And you, Red? Aren't you old enough to know better? FYI, a six-dollar box of hair color is NOT a bargain. Get going. And the rest of you?” I sweep the crowd with an accusatory finger. ”Seriously, p.i.s.s off. This does not concern you.” I stomp a pony-skinned mule and make shooing motions.
We attract the attention of airport security. An officer cautiously moves toward us and I see him pat his waist in the direction of his side arm. ”Oh, keep your polyester pants on, Rent-a-Cop,” I say, waving dismissively in his direction. ”Everything is fine. The situation is handled. My friend here is simply dealing with the ramifications of being a wh.o.r.e.”
”Please stop calling me that!” she howls.
”Stop making me. If you know in your heart that it's over, then you have to do the right thing. Promise me that you'll end it with Brad before you take up with Chad.21 You owe him that much.”
She whimpers and nods. ”I promise.”
At this moment, Fletch breaks through the retreating travelers. He looks at their sh.e.l.l-shocked faces and shakes his head. He readily recognizes the victims of Hurricane Jen. ”Hey, stranger, welcome home! How was your trip?” he asks while giving me a bear hug. He swoops down to grab my bags. Didn't I say he was a keeper? ”Jen, you left with two bags, but now I see four. You do some shopping?”
”I had to buy extra bags for all the treats I bought you.”
”I'll bet.” His face is wreathed in an ironic smile. Apparently he didn't care for last present I got him...a pink Ralph Lauren V-neck tennis sweater that just happened to fit me.
He notices Courtney and says a cautious h.e.l.lo as he takes in her tearstained countenance. I shake my head and whisper, ”Don't ask,” as we stroll to short-term parking.
On the drive back to the city, Fletch attempts to distract us with boring stories about work. Oh, sweetie, I love you, but do you really think anyone in this car cares about the IP-data-transport-telecom-bandwidth-blah-blah-whatever-it-is-you-do? Your job is to look pretty and keep earning fat commission checks, agreed? Agreed.
We get back to the city and drop Courtney at her high-rise apartment over by the lakefront. In the rearview mirror, I see her whip out her cell phone and one of our company's business cards. She's calling Chad! Stinking liar. I roll down my window and shout, ”Get off the phone, wh.o.r.e!” as we pull away. Courtney smiles and give me a wan one-finger wave, phone cradled in her shoulder as her doorman grabs her bags.
”What happened to Courtney?” Fletch asks.
I sigh. ”Mai tais.”
The What Street Journal?
Was.h.i.+ngton Times-Herald Opinion Page, March 6, 2001 $6 HOT DOG BETTER BE GOOD.
Rarely do I feel the need to skewer a family member publicly, but recently my younger sister made a comment that deserves some scrutiny.
My sister, a successful high-tech something.com salesperson in her early 30s recently announced that Chicago was ”growing a little too small” and she might be ready to move on. Hoping for the best, we thought that she might be ready to move a little closer to home. We were wrong.
She said that she thought the Big Apple was in her future because Chicago was just ”too Midwestern.”
We decided to dissect this statement over breakfast. Having lived in the New York metropolitan area, I felt I could give my sister some loving advice.
First we looked at housing. We established that her old Lincoln Park apartment (one bedroom) would quadruple in cost to $3600 per month in midtown Manhattan. I a.s.sume that this prime location would give her unfettered access to the beautiful East River and $40/day parking spots.
She said she would have better access to Broadway shows. When I asked her how her life has been short-changed by having to wait six months for the three Broadway shows she has actually seen, she quickly moved on.
On to restaurants. She said that New York has the best restaurants in the world and one can get whatever they want around the clock. I reminded her that no one actually goes to those places, they just talk about how nice it would be if they could. And if the food is so great, then why do all those people stand around eating $6 hot dogs?
I guess ”too Midwestern” would also mean she would get four extra ounces of steak for the same price in Chicago, but she wouldn't have access to goat tripe at 4:00 AM.
Books, music, shopping-all were bantered about at the kitchen and I felt like I made a pretty good argument for man's ability to survive if one had to shop at Marshall Field on Michigan Ave instead of Bloomingdale's on Fifth Ave.
The final straw was coffee. She said the Big Apple had better coffee than Chicago and that was an important part of her daily routine.
So we added up the totals for the environmental bliss of life in Gotham, $3600 in rent, $1200 a month in parking, $12 a day in coffee, $200 a week in Broadway tickets, and $96 a month in hot dogs.
After explaining that the rest of America goes to about one movie a month, pays an average of $600 a month for a mortgage, and could make four car payments on the $1200 a month parking fee, I knew I had made an impact.
My sister turned to me and said, ”I suppose I could do without the hot dogs.”
-Todd Lancaster
Ah, home sweet home. Fletch hauls my bags up the fifty steps to our apartment...the one drawback to living in the penthouse. You'd think my a.s.s would be smaller from all the climbing.
As I unpack, I s.h.i.+ver with delight over all the designer labels...Tomatsu, Karen Kane, Dana Buchman, Ralph Lauren, a few prized pieces of Chanel and Versace, etc. I really ought to thank Sh.e.l.ly Decker for my fabulous wardrobe. No, Sh.e.l.ly isn't my personal shopper. She's the hateful little troll who drew the thinly disguised comic strip about me (m.u.f.fy the Preppy, my a.s.s) and abused her position as features editor to place it smack on page two of our high school newspaper. If it hadn't been for her public goading, I'd never have become the fas.h.i.+onista I am today. Even almost eighteen years later, my blood boils about the day I saw that stupid cartoon....
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