Two Much!

24

The next plane to Los Angeles was not, as I’d already known, until nine-thirty the following morning. Betty and I rode out together to Kennedy in the Lincoln, Carlos at the wheel. A good if arrogant driver, Carlos delivered us to TWA’s concrete-bird terminal earlier than anticipated, and we had a cup of coffee together before saying good-bye. “I’ll call you from Joe’s place the minute I arrive,” I promised.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“And remember,” I said, “you be sure to call me if there’s any problem at all. You’ve got Joe’s number?”

“I have it,” she assured me.

“Good.” And if she called, Joe would tell her I was at the hospital or out to dinner or whatever the time of day suggested, and would then call me, and I would then call Betty. Considering some of the scrambling I’d already done this month, the Bart-in-Hollywood device was child’s play. Miniature golf.

At last the moment came for departure. “Our first separation,” I said, clutching her to me.

“Hurry back,” she whispered, and just slightly ground her hips.

“Oh, I will. I will.”

We kissed good-bye, I clutched the first-class ticket paid for by Betty’s American Express card, and off I went through the anti-hijack screening process. Passengers Only Beyond This Point. She stood on the other side of the private guards, watching me with her friendly and efficient smile. Bye-bye, Betty. I waved and waved, and walked away down the long red tunnel.

Out of sight. Good. The men’s room was just over there. Fortunately, Betty had reminded me to buy a paperback book for the plane ride, so I had reading matter to take me through the following twenty minutes in a toilet stall for which I had paid a dime. Then, leaving the book behind for the next customer, in case the toilet paper should run out — it really wasn’t a very good book — I hefted the small canvas bag I’d packed for my California trip, left the men’s room, and joined a group of passengers deplaning from — or so their conversations suggested — Detroit We all walked together back down the red tunnel to the main terminal area, where I tried to turn the roundtrip ticket in for cash. (My expenses had been hellish this month.) Damn them, they wouldn’t give me money, only a credit on Betty’s American Express. “In that case,” I said, “I’ll take the flight after all.”

“I believe it’s already left, sir.”

“I’ll catch up,” I said, took my ticket, and went away.