The Truth is in the Wine (6 page)

“Am I right?”

Before Brenda could answer, he jumped in and went on.

“Of course, I'm right. But, still, when you're going somewhere you don't know, local knowledge is very important. So be sure to contact the concierge of your hotel and anyone you run into who lives out there. They'll really give you someplace that will be nice…”

He went on for another five minutes before taking a breath. She had long since stopped hearing what he was saying and was seething that he would besiege her with chatter—and an aroma that insulted her senses. When he took that pause, she finally jumped in.

“Thanks for all that info,” she said as politely as she could. “I will put it to good use. Now I'm going to get some sleep so I can have some energy when we get there.”

She was relieved to get that out, but it did not stop her neighbor.

“Sleeping on planes is overrated,” he said. “You're not comfortable, you're probably going to get a stiff neck and that doesn't feel good. Plus, sleep on a plane is fake sleep; it only fools you to believe you are rested when you really are not. So, pretty soon after you get off the plane, you'll crash.

“I make sure I get my rest before my flight, no matter how early it is. That way, I don't have to worry about sleeping or being rested when I get to the other end. You get what I'm saying?

“Now, some people—and you might be one of them—can sleep on a plane as they do in their beds. Not me. My arm goes to sleep. My knees get achy. My head is jerking all over the place. Me, I like to sit here and meet nice people and talk and learn something and take in the view and enjoy a great experience that way…”

Brenda was beside herself. She told the man she wanted to go to sleep and he ignored her and continued to talk—and shoot that disgusting smell in her direction. She did not know what to do. At an earlier time in her life, she would have stopped the man in mid-sentence and let him know he was annoying her. But as she got older and seriously involved in the church, she softened a little.

So, instead of humiliating the man, she pretended to fall asleep as he rambled. She slowly closed her eyes and even let her head drift forward. She had to hold back laughing at herself. Still, while it was funny to her, to the guy it was another reason for him to talk.

“Hey, watch it,” he said. “You're falling asleep. That's what I'm talking about. Your head jerked, you were kind of suspended. Any minute you were going to be slobbering all over yourself. And that wouldn't have been pretty. See what I'm saying?

“One time I saw this man snore on a plane. He had stuff dripping out of his mouth. He was a mess. And when he woke up, guess what he said: That he was tired. All that snoring and everything and he still felt sluggish. Best thing to do is to get some rest and a light meal for the flight and you'll be fine. You won't need to try to go to sleep in this tight little space.

“The best thing—”

Brenda couldn't take it anymore. She stopped him in the middle of another monologue. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Even with that, the man continued to talk. “Good luck in that little space in there,” he started. “I have heard of a case where a particularly large person got stuck in there. It took two flight attendants and a passenger to pull him out.”

“Excuse me,” Brenda said again, sounding exasperated as she unbuckled her seat belt. “I've really got to go.”

Finally, she was free, and when she reached the aisle, she let out a sigh of relief. Oddly enough, there was but one free seat on
the plane—next to her son's mother-in-law, Madeline. It was a center seat that became vacant just as she got up from her seat, as that woman moved to the only other open seat on the plane, a few rows up near a friend.

So Brenda had a choice: to return to sit next to stinky mouth-all-mighty or to sit next to Madeline, who she did not like. It was a tough choice. Before she decided, though, she asked Ginger if she wanted to take the seat next to her mother, which would give Brenda Ginger's seat.

“No, thank you,” Ginger said without hesitation. “It's all yours.”

Damn,
Brenda thought.
Her own daughter doesn't want to sit next to her. Why should I?

She went a couple rows back to check on Paul, who was sleeping. That relieved her because she was concerned about his paranoia around flying. After the bathroom visit, she decided she could not bear another few hours next to the loquacious man. So she swallowed hard and asked Madeline to allow her past so she could take the now-empty center seat next to her.

Madeline was shocked, but obliged. As she stood up to let Brenda into the aisle, Paul woke up. The women were face to face in the cramped aisle, and to Paul it looked like a confrontation. And he panicked.

“No,” he yelled, and everyone turned to him. “Stop. Stop.”

“Paul,” Brenda said.

“No, I don't want to hear it,” Paul answered. He unbuckled his seat belt and climbed over the sleepy-headed guy next to him and stumbled into the aisle, bumping into a seated passenger.

He hurried over to his mother and mother-in-law and separated them. “Why can't you just simply get along?” he said. “This is silly. You're fighting on a plane?”

“Paul,” Ginger said, pulling him by the arm. “No one is fighting.”

“I saw it; they were in each other's face,” he said. “And I heard them yelling.”

“Honey,” his wife said, “you were dreaming. They weren't fighting.”

“Is there a problem?” a flight attendant asked.

Paul looked around confused. “Maybe I was dreaming,” he said. “I'm sorry. I think I dreamed that you all were fighting and then I woke up and there you were, in each other's face… I'm sorry.”

Before he could ask for a cup of water, the plane hit some turbulence and rocked. Right away, Paul was panicked again, only worse—and Ginger knew it. She could see it in his eyes, which darted back and forth.

“Come on, sit back down,” she said, guiding Paul back to his seat.

“What's going on?” he said. “What was that?”

“A little turbulence, that's all,” the flight attendant said.

“But why? Why is the plane shaking?” he asked.

The flight attendant got him secure in his seat before answering. “It's just that we're going through some clouds or some wind bursts,” she said. “Nothing big.”

“Dude, you gonna be OK? You ain't gon' throw up on me, are you?” the sleepy guy next to him said. Paul did not answer.

The captain came over the intercom. “Folks, please strap yourselves in. We have some rough spots up ahead that will make it a little bumpy. But we'll be fine. It should only last about five minutes.”

Those five minutes seemed much longer to Paul. All the good feelings he mustered up diminished. He reached up to open the air vent above his seat; he was getting hot, sweating profusely and he felt as if the cabin was shrinking around him.

In his panic, he wondered how the lady to his right could continue to fiddle with the puzzle and how the guy next to him
fell right back to sleep. The plane not only was jumping, but it was spinning, too, at least in his mind. He felt like he was drunk off of two bottles of Shiraz, but was also fiercely scared.

Paul decided he would close his eyes and hold on. He started reciting a poem he memorized called “Invictus,” by William Ernest Henley:

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

In focusing on the words, Paul's attention was off the turbulence. And while he was far from comfortable, he did stop sweating.

He recited the poem over and over until, finally, the plane stabilized; they were out of the turbulent area. Paul did not open his eyes, though. He kept them closed, hoping that he would drift off to sleep so he wouldn't have to deal with anything else that could come.

And there was more to come. His mother and mother in-law, sitting side-by-side, got along like a mongoose and a snake.

“What's wrong with him?” Madeline asked Brenda, which was not a good thing to ask.

“What's wrong with y
ou
?” Brenda replied. “You smell like a bottle of Scotch.”

“Actually, it's cognac,” Madeline said. “You know the last time I was on vacation? Do you know what's been going on in my life? And do you know that I am sixty-four years old? I can drink whatever I want, whenever I want.”

“Who said you couldn't?” Brenda asked. “I wanted to know if you have a drinking problem. We're going to the wine country. I mean, we will be drinking a lot.”

“I have always been respectful of you, and I don't want to not be respectful now,” Madeline said. “But I really don't give a damn what you think. I lost my husband of forty-four years less than a year ago. Do you have any idea what that is like?”

“Actually, I do, sort of,” Brenda said. “I lost my second husband—my first marriage lasted a year; we were both too young. I woke up one morning and said I didn't want to be married anymore. And just like that, it was over. So, yeah, I understand exactly what you mean. My husband didn't die, but he might as well had. Shit, I wish he were dead because I feel like I wasted a lot of years with him.”

Madeline laughed. It was one of the few times they shared a laugh in the twenty years they knew each other. She then twisted the lid off her stash of Remy Martin and handed it to Brenda.

“Go ahead,” Madeline said. “You could use it.”

Brenda stared at it for a few seconds, reached over and took a swig. She curled up her face. “This is too strong for me,” she said. “But it did warm me up.”

They laughed again. And whatever animosity they held for each other subsided with each turn they took downing the alcohol.

Ginger sat a row behind them, watching in disbelief. She did not know what to think, how to feel. She thought:
Wow, it is great to see them actually talking and laughing. But is my mother corrupting Ms. Wall? This is crazy.

She shook her head. She was in a crossfire of drama. To her right and two rows behind her was her husband with his eyes closed reciting a poem. In front of her were her mom and mother-in-law getting drunk.

This is gonna be some trip,
she said to herself.

I
t was a rough landing. The wind off the San Francisco Bay rocked the plane on its approach to the landing strip. Paul closed his eyes tighter and recited the poem louder.

And when the pilot got it on the ground, it was as if it were dropped from the sky.

Boom!

So hard was the landing that an overhead bin opened up on impact. None of this made Paul feel good about the prospect of having to fly back home in a few days.

People clapped that the plane was safely on the runway, and Paul was confused. “They're clapping for
that
landing. I damn near got whiplash,” he said aloud.

“No, dude,” the guy that had slept nearly the entire flight said. “We're clapping for being safe. You never flew before?”

“Long time ago, when I was a kid and didn't know any better,” he said.

“Don't sweat it, man,” the guy said. “Go to sleep. It shortens the trip.”

“Up in the air is not the place to be,” Paul said. “But I hear you.”

His and Ginger's eyes met, and she offered him a reassuring smile that said, “You did it.”

He smiled back—and then looked right ahead of Ginger and
noticed his mom and Madeline chatting as if they were old, close friends.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he said. “Gin?…”

His wife looked at him, shook her head and hunched her shoulders. Then she did the motion with her hand toward her mouth to indicate they had been drinking. Paul rolled his eyes and grew concerned. The impact of alcohol could take it one of two ways, and one of them was not good.

But to see them getting along made Ginger and Paul feel good—even if it was alcohol-induced.

“I see we're gonna have to keep them drunk to make sure this is a good trip,” Ginger said to Paul when they exited the plane.

“Maybe I should get drunk before the flight back,” he said.

“You did good,” Ginger responded. “It was a little rough for you in the beginning, but it got better. I'm proud of you. How do you feel?”

“Not as good as them,” he said, looking at Brenda and Madeline. “You're right; gotta keep them drunk.”

“That shouldn't be hard considering where we're going,” Ginger said.

They walked over to their parents, who were giggling like schoolgirls.

“How's it going?” Paul asked.

“Great,” the parents said in unison.

Paul and Ginger looked at each other and smiled.

“Let's pick up the bags and then go rent the car,” Paul said.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Madeline said.

“I'll go with you,” Brenda said, and off they went.

“Am I in the Twilight Zone or something?” Ginger said.

“Hey, let's ride it out. It might not last,” Paul said.