Velocity

"I must learn to love the fool in me - the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility and dignity but for my fool." - Theodore Rubin, MD

“Have you ever had the beauty of life educated out of you?” This stranger seemed to be speaking to me, but surely he could not have been.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. Random people never spoke to me, certainly not on an airplane, this early in the morning, while my nose was tucked into a weighty novel.

“Yes, you. You seem confused. I’ll speak slower.” He repeated himself, emphasizing each word of his original question as if I were a toddler. For reasons I can’t explain, his condescension piqued my interest. I had learned early in life that the questions of “why” were better left to psychologists. I just placed one foot in front of the other and marched along, happy in not understanding human motivation.

I turned to look at him, the airline forcing a proximity that was unsettling. I mentally lambasted airplane designers for not respecting the most basic principles of personal space. As I turned to look at him, one corner of his mouth curled into a slight bow. I noticed that he must have had his nose broken at some point in his life, the curve so pronounced that it could only have occurred from some trauma. “Every single day of my life.” I replied simply. I did not return the smile he attempted, nor did I continue looking at him. I returned to my novel, although it was challenging to concentrate. I could feel his stare burning the side of my face.

“It was a serious question, you know. You’ve got your face buried in The Alchemist, of all things. It wasn’t random.” The irritation in his voice was easy to recognize, I was feeling it myself. We were an hour into our flight. I didn’t have the energy to continue this sort of discourse for the next six hours.

“Yes, I constantly learn something that ruins life for me. Happy?” I asked him.

“No, I’m not happy. Give me an example.” He leaned towards me.

“Sir, you are dangerously close to having your nose broken again.” I said, not looking up, and shifting myself closer to the window, a near-impossible attempt to create more distance between us.

“Nice. You are observant. And ballsy. Ballsy women are a total turn-on.” He snorted a laugh.

The morning light beamed into the tiny airplane window, creating a glare that made reading impossible. I stared through the window and thought that the mere act of flying was one of those moments. As a child, I would stand on the ground and stare up at the clouds, amazed at their softness, overwhelmed by their distance. I remembered believing in God then, thinking the rays that formed a prism through the clouds at certain times of day were His light, a visible harbinger of the invisible.

I remembered the first time I flew, bumping gently through the clouds and sobbing. My father reached for my hand and asked if I was afraid. I told him that I was. Dad launched into an explanation on the mechanics of flying, a complex and characteristically logical explanation meant to explain the simplicity of the feat and to allay my childhood fears.

I curled into my fathers shoulder then, breathing in his familiar scent, thankful for his attempt to comfort me. While I felt secure in my father’s arms, I was unable to explain that it wasn’t the act of flying that was upsetting, it was the realization that we were airborne due to human ingenuity.

God wasn’t reaching out of the clouds to carry our plane from city to city. Even at the age of eight, I knew my father would be unable to accept this sort of confession, ill-equipped to alleviate the mental burden I carried effortlessly, tucked neatly into my Bee Gee’s backpack. Coming out of my reverie I laughed at myself. ‘Such ego.’, I thought.

I turned to look at the stranger, my mood softened by the memory. I briefly considered sharing my recollection with him, then thought better of it. Being forthcoming was not my strong suit. There was a glint in his squinty gray-green eyes that was familiar to me - it was a look I often saw reflected back at me in mirrors - impish and amused. The look I adopted when I was on the verge of inciting another for sport - my own perverse entertainment.

“You just realized one of those moments. Tell me.” He said.

“Why are you still talking to me? Have I not given you enough signals to let you know that I’m not exactly the chatty type?” I was looking at him fully in the eyes, finding myself smiling against my own will.

“That’s a lie. You’re desperate to talk to someone.” He was right, of course.

“What are you, a therapist?” I asked. The smirk on my face was surely evident, and suddenly I realized that I was enjoying our conversation. “If this whole little existential discourse is your attempt to get me to suck you off in the lavatory so you can say you’re a member of the mile-high club, you’re engaging in an exercise in futility.”

I closed my book and tucked in into the pocket of the seat in front of me. Unwillingly, I shifted myself, legs crossed towards him, my hands shoved tightly between my legs.

“Your self-righteousness is funny.” The glint in his eye became a full sparkle, lightening his face, gentle wrinkles radiating out from the corners of his eyes, reminiscent of the rays of light that emanated from the clouds in my childhood recollection. “I’m a pilot. I could easily find someone to run into the lavatory with for a quickie. But you sure have a way with words.”

“Now I’ve caught you in a lie.” I said. “You’re too tall to be a pilot.”

“Self-righteous, foul-mouthed and willing to engage in stereotyping? Wow. You’re the trifecta.” I saw him shift away from me as he spoke. The withdrawal annoyed me.

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the window. The cool morning air was comforting on my face, I hadn’t noticed a heat rising from deep within my body, and wondered if my cheeks were flushed. I was annoyed with myself for being so abrasive.

My best friend often told me that I sabotaged everyone that attempted to get close to me, building personal walls out of bricks and mortar that were so secure no one would ever want to attempt to crack them. “You’ll have to meet Superman so that he can fly over them.” She would tease gently, knowing that her message was not lost on me. I hated this aspect of my personality.

I gave myself a little pep talk. The whole purpose of my journey to Brazil was to let go of the old ways of life, to free myself. For thirty-five years, I had counted every calorie, stopped at two drinks, exercised five times a week even when sick, bowed gracefully to my marital vows at my own expense, tended dutifully to my children and neglected the things that were important to me. Hell, I had long forgotten what was important to me. ‘Just talk. You’ll never see him again.’ I told myself. I inhaled sharply, summoning my courage.

“Sounds like you may have some interesting stories to tell.” I beamed at him, my smile feeling overly done and forced. Would he notice?

“I might.” He leaned in towards me again, returning my smile. He looked like the Cheshire Cat, and I felt like Alice - if only I could find the bottle labeled ’Drink me’. “Why don’t we take a step back and ease into a conversation?” He tapped his knee with his index finger.

“Wonderful suggestion. I’ll start.” I said. I was forcing out words in an attempt to sound natural, aware of the thud of my heart in my chest, curious as to whether he could actually see my pulse bound. “Why are you on going to Brazil?” It seemed an innocuous enough topic.

“I’ll be flying this plane back to Miami in a week. I have this week off, so I decided to spend it in Brazil. Lay on the beach. Do a little surfing. It’s good for me.” He replied flatly. “Your turn. Same question.”

I thought about how to answer. Should I tell the whole story? No, likely I should not. I had yet to master the art of self-confession, unsure of how to reveal some of myself without divulging my soul.

I had spent my entire adult life married to another for whom the term ‘verbal diarrhea’ was almost certainly coined. Not only did he welcome every random thought, he forced confession out of me with the ferocity of a KGB operative. This had an effect opposite to that which he intended. Instead of strengthening our marital bond, I isolated myself against the constant barrage for self-revelation.

It seemed to me that some of the wonder in life was in not knowing another wholly. Passion wasn’t born of the words we spoke, it was only discoverable in the silent moments. The devastating beauty was the way your fingers automatically intertwined with your lovers as you walked along a busy street, the automatic knowledge that it was his laugh you could hear intimately across a crowded room, the salty taste of his skin as you curled into him spent and satisfied. No, words rarely served a strong purpose.

The knowledge that each of us contained multitudes - thoughts and desires that could never be fully expressed - was the magnificence. It was what leant meaning to relationships and made the journey to know another so pleasurable.

I thought then, for the first time, that it must be the fulcrum on which relationships existed. The crumbling point must be the moment when there are no more secrets or discoveries to unearth. That’s when the dull ache of monotony sets in, the moment you either push up on the seesaw and hope your partner does the same when it‘s his turn, or you simply dismount and leave the playground, plucking splinters out of your ass.

“I’ve never been to Brazil.” I stated simply. “That’s why I’m going.” My answer was predictably safe. I bit my lip, mentally urging myself to try harder. “And maybe I am on my own quest for some meaning in my life.” I acquiesced, nodding towards the novel.

“A journey into the abyss?” He asked, rubbing his palms together devilishly, a mockingly sinister grin plastered on his face.

“No, a journey out of the abyss.” The confession startled me to my core and I felt my body tense. I snorted a chuckle, “You know, I don’t feel as desperate as that sounded.”

“It didn’t sound desperate, it sounded honest.” He said.

“Yes, it was honest.” This man was beginning to interest me in earnest. I noticed his hands, palms down on his knees, rubbing softly, his face soft and thoughtful. I thought I’d feel very comfortable with those hands controlling the plane. He seemed so comfortable in his own skin, so certain of his own soul.

I was suddenly very curious about his life, his background and his plans for the future. I shoved my own hands harder between my legs, fighting a conscious desire to reach out and stroke the tortuous veins that lined the surface of his soft hands. I felt foolish at the realization and glanced towards the window again.

“Death, drugs or divorce?” He asked, startling me with the bluntness.

“Are those my only options?” I laughed sincerely.

“Yeah, I think they are. And since you don’t look like a drug user and you seem to be alive - at least by the conventionally accepted definition of life - I’m going to guess divorce.” He was toying with me and I was enjoying the taunting.

“Impressive!” I chortled. “Not much gets by you, eh?” I was happy. For the first time in recent memory.

“Well, good for you. I wish I would have just taken a trip. When I got divorced, I got a tattoo. I was almost forty, sitting in a tattoo parlor in Miami with a bunch of twenty year-olds, getting a fucking tattoo.” He ran his hand up his cheek and into his dark hair before a boyish laugh emerged.

I was charmed. “You were supposed to buy a Porsche and screw the babysitter.” I informed him.

“Yeah, I did that too. But that was after the tattoo, it’s a BMW and she wasn’t the babysitter.” He laughed. “I still love that damn car.” He placed a hand on the armrest between us. I wanted him to touch me, to feel his hand grasp my thigh with urgency and intensity. I shivered.

“Is that what your husband did? Fuck the sitter?”

“No.” I replied. “Sometimes I wish he had. I wish that I could tell people that there was a good reason I ended my marriage. I think people would be less critical of me. As it is, people just look at me like I’m selfish for leaving a perfectly adequate marriage, for destroying the lives of my children without an acceptably good reason.”

“Are you?” He asked.“Yes, I suppose I am.” I replied. It felt good to admit culpability, to accept the accusations that I had heard repeatedly for the previous year. “But I’m not sure if it was selfishness or self-preservation.” My second confession startled me as much as the first and I felt my heart quicken.

“What are you looking for? What do you really want?” He asked sincerely.

“At the moment, a drink.” I winked at him, surprising myself with the assertion, mentally continuing to prod myself into an openness that I had spent years turning off. “For the future, ask me again when I see you next week. I‘m planning to find that in Brazil. Now, tell me about your tattoo.”

“Oh, well, to hear the story of the tattoo, you’re going to have to find it first.” He grinned at me. I thought the offer was certainly tempting.“I knew the invitation to the lavatory was forthcoming.” I said disdainfully, rolling my eyes dramatically for effect. I hoped he could tell that I was engaging him, toying with him as he was me.

“Do you really think you’re going to find what you’re looking for in a week?”

“Well, a week is all I have. The meaning of life can’t be that elusive, can it?” I knew my tone conveyed the intended sarcasm.

“You’re searching for the meaning of life? Well, that’s easy. I can fill you in on that one.” He nodded his affirmation, “and free you up to play on the beach with me for a week.”

“If you can enlighten me before we land, I‘ll take you up on that offer.

"He reached out to me, his hand gently brushing my knee. I could feel each hair on my body stand to attention, his touch an electric shock awakening me from a loss of sensation I hadn’t realized existed until that second. I felt my panties moisten against my will and shifted, made uncomfortable by the remembrance of the long-forgotten abilities my body held.

“Learning to fly.” He said. I was puzzled.

“Learning to fly is the meaning of life? All I have to do is jump in the cockpit, learn the controls, and thrust into Nirvana?” I asked. “That sounds easy enough.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes at him.

“Don’t be so literal.” He informed me.

“You really don’t know me at all.” I smiled.

“OK, fine. I’ll dumb it down for you.” It was his turn to wink at me, the action causing the breath to catch in my throat. He reached between my legs and pulled my hands out from their secure place.

He placed his right palm against my left, looking at our hands before lacing his fingers through mine and continuing, “Suspend logic for a minute and just listen. Close your eyes.” He uncurled his fingers from mine and stroked my palm with a finger. “Keep your eyes closed. Are you ready?” I nodded, letting my head rest back against the seat.

“Throughout human existence, people have wanted to fly. But, from a very early age, we hear that we need to ‘keep both feet firmly planted’. It’s a dichotomy that we all experience. As young children, we watch birds and believe that if we just will it hard enough we’ll find lift. We read the myth of Icarus and Daedalus, we idolize the superheroes that can fly more than the ones with superhuman strength, we learn about the Wright Brothers in history class, all the while being reminded of the importance of being grounded and logical humans.”

He laced his fingers in mine again, and I gently squeezed his hand to let him know I was paying attention. The tone in his voice changed slightly, lowering just a touch, softening noticeably. I felt my mouth curl into a gentle smile.

“But it isn’t solely the act of flying we seek, it’s the escapism. Of course, we don’t realize this in our youth. But to be able to propel yourself away from any situation that‘s less than rewarding, well, that’s magic. It’s the ultimate freedom.” I could sense him lean into me and suddenly, I could smell his skin, a scent foreign but inviting.

“There’s the sensation of it that’s amazing, too. You know, being propelled forward with the wind all around you. It’s the antithesis of inertia.” His feet began to tap a little drum riff.

“It’s also possibility. So, you don’t like where you are? Fly out. Go ahead, flap your arms and go somewhere else.”

He leaned even closer, his lips brushing my ear, “But here’s the biggest secret. It’s fun.” A barely audible giggle escaped my lips.

“When I was a kid, I would stare up at the sky, at birds with wings outstretched, dancing gracefully among the clouds and think that it looked like so much fun. That’s why I became a pilot, more than anything, flying is really fun.” He leaned back away from me.

“But, you know, when you actually learn how to fly, it’s not as magical as you originally thought. Some of the beauty disappears when you realize that it’s mechanics and physics. That’s why I asked you the question this morning. I just didn’t think you’d make it so difficult to explain.” He said.

His confession made me reflect on my earlier musings. I thought how eerily uncanny the similarities in our recollections were. I briefly toyed with the idea of fate, tossed around the idea of whether our meeting was somehow preordained. ‘No’, I thought. ‘Don’t attribute this to something bigger. Just accept that as humans, our experience is fairly universal’. I was able to breathe normally again.

“The meaning of life is freedom. And fun.” He poked me in the ribs to emphasize his point.

I squeezed his hand tightly and beamed at him, the largest, most genuine smile that ever graced my face. Almost miraculously, I was having the beauty of life educated into me. A lifetime of questioning suddenly condensed to one single beam of pure light. I looked out over the clouds, realizing that I was on the right path at long last, the path to freedom.