Catch-22

           I was stuck.

            If ever there was room between a rock and a hard place that was where I was. If a catch-22 existed, I embodied the concept. If but one man had experienced a no-win situation, I was that man. How could a win-win so quickly become a lose-lose? Allow me to recount the tale and perhaps you can answer for me.

            I got on and she began speaking to me immediately.

            “Is this your seat?” she asked, bright blue-green eyes sparkling in the dimly lit airplane cabin.

            She was obviously talking to me. There were 3 people in between us, she in her seat and I in the aisle, but she was obviously talking to me. Her eyes were locked into mine and her tone was pointed at my soul.

            I froze. I was a nervous high school nerd who had just been approached by the Homecoming Queen. My honest nature took over and I checked my ticket stub before responding. If I were cooler I would have just sat down. But I was a dork, so I checked my ticket.

            “6B” I said aloud.

            “That’s right here!” she celebrated, indicating the seat next to her. “Here, let me help.”

            She unbuckled her seatbelt and helped the little girl in the aisle to put her small carry-on bag under the seat in front of her, clearing the way for me to take my place. I stuffed my black duffel bag in the overhead compartment and squeezed into the seat that had been too small for me since the year after I finished my first graduate degree and began to make a respectable salary.

            She seemed to enjoy my extra pounds, though, and she settled in comfortably next to me. She was not shy about infringing upon the personal space to which each airplane passenger feels entitled. I had nearly grown accustomed to my hopes being dashed upon realizing that I would not be alone in my row on the plane, and that the bubble establishing my personal comfort zone was in fact mythical. She was just the opposite, though. She entered my bubble willingly, purposely, purposefully. She wanted to be in my space, and that set me at unease.

            I was not lacking in self-confidence, but that moment made me wonder what was wrong with her. Why was she all up on me like that? Didn’t she have a sense of personal pride? It made me want to scream!

            Move over, woman!

            But I held my cool.

            “Is Atlanta your final destination?” she asked, perfect white teeth matching her perfect white skin and perfectly bright eyes.

            “No, I’m headed to LA,” I said, squelching my discomfort and allowing only pleasant tones to enter my vocal response. “Where are you headed?”

            “Minneapolis,” she said, still smiling. I had to look away because she would not break her gaze.

            “Oh, is that where you’re from?” I asked, pretending to need something from my laptop bag.

            “Yup. What’s taking you to LA?”

            “Television,” I said, a little less reluctant than I should have been, considering the crazy broad I was sitting next to.

            To be honest, I was excited about my trip to Los Angeles. I had an important meeting to look forward to. I could feel myself drawing closer to accomplishing my lifelong dream of becoming a reputable writer for television and the big screen. I couldn’t help it if my excitement spilled over and erupted from my mouth like so many active volcanoes.

            “Oh, that’s awesome!” she said. Her enthusiasm sounded genuine. I found this even more off-putting. What did she care? I raised my guard a level higher.

            She waited. I figured it was my turn to feign interest as to the reason for her trip.

            “Why are you headed to Minneapolis?” I asked after a long pause.

            “One of my closest friends is getting married,” she said. “That’s where I’m from. So excited! So much fun!”

            “Yeah, that sounds great,” I said, again choosing to prevent my true feelings from creeping into my voice. She had no idea how little I cared about her friend’s wedding.

            “So television, huh? What do you do?”

            “I write and I produce,” I said.

            “Good afternoon, passengers, welcome to Delta flight 1784 to Atlanta, Georgia.” the flight attendant broke into our conversation.

            “Oh wow, that sounds like a lot of fun!” she continued. One would think she would have been deterred by the fact that the flight attendant was going through her safety standards speech, but this girl was undaunted by such a minor detail.

            “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Got a big meeting with some producers tomorrow,” I said, still talking over the flight attendant.

            “So what’s the show?” She leaned into me intently, pressing her ample breasts even further into my right forearm.

            She needs a mint, I thought.

            “I can’t tell you,” I said. “I don’t have a non-disclosure agreement to give you.”

            “Oh I see,” she said, laughing. “If you tell me you have to kill me?”

            “Haha, not exactly. But if I see my idea on TV made by someone else then maybe I will come and kill you.”

            Her eyes twinkled again when I said that.

            I reached into my pocket and produced the small container of mints I almost always carried with me. I popped one into my mouth and pretended to begin putting the container back into my pocket. I pretended to realize something before my hand made it all the way to my pocket, and then I proffered the case.

            “Mint?” I asked.

            “Oh God, yes, I really need one. I don’t have any gum or anything.” She cheerfully took a mint and I exhaled for the first time in at least 40 seconds.

            “Our flight time from takeoff to touchdown will be 26 minutes,” the flight attendant continued.

            “Wow, I don’t remember this flight being that short,” I ejaculated.

            “Yeah, me neither. I take this flight all the time. I thought it was an hour.”

            In retrospect, I’m glad the flight was that short. She talked for the entire 26 minute flight, and I’m certain that if there flight were an hour and 26 minutes she would have had no problem finding material for that entire flight either.

            She was quite lovely to behold, though. Once her breath was no longer distracting me, I could focus on her features. She had silky brown hair and small hands. Her short jean skirt revealed legs that were shapely and tanned. She did not have the face of a supermodel, but she did this cute thing with her mouth when she talked, almost like she wanted to talk out of the side of her face. Her smile was enchanting, a fact more than slightly aided by her clear, beautiful eyes. She was also quite friendly and not as stupid as I assumed she would have to be when she started talking to me from across the plane. I couldn’t get serious about a White girl, but that wasn’t what she was after anyway.

            As we descended into Atlanta, the subject of our conversation changed from my television exploits and her new job in the Internet Marketing department of some company or other to her plans for her layover.

            “I get stuck in Atlanta a lot,” she began, playfully brushing her hair out of her eyes and looking away sheepishly.

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yeah. I let them bump me from flights if the flight is overbooked. They usually give me a pretty nice hotel room, too. Food vouchers and everything.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            Hey eyes found mine again.

            “I think my flight is overbooked today. What is it, Friday?”

            “Yup.”

            “Yeah, it’s probably overbooked. I think I’ll let them bump me. I could stay in Atlanta overnight in a nice hotel room. It would be good to relax.”

            “Yeah, I can imagine,” I said, committing to nothing.

            “Do you like sushi?” she asked, trying a different path to what would undoubtedly lead to the same destination.

            “Yeah, I love sushi!” I said, too excited again.

            “Cause there was this great place I went to last time I was here. I can’t remember the name of it, though. Do you come through Atlanta a lot?”

            “Yeah, I do. I don’t eat airport sushi, though. I don’t trust it.”

            “Oh trust me, this place is really good.”

            The flight attendant interrupted us again.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, at this time could you please turn off all electronic devices as we descend into Atlanta? Please return all seat backs and tray tables to their proper upright and locked positions… blah blah blah…”

            Neither the newly employed recently graduated suburban White girl from the right side of the tracks next to me nor the perpetually single nerdy Black prospective television producer next to her had produced any electronic devices during the entire 26 minute flight. She was too busy staring into my eyes and trying to bewitch me, and I was too busy trying to be polite and trying to avoid her bewitching. I could feel my resolve weakening, though, as we descended into Atlanta.

            “Oh my God, they have this Philadelphia roll there…”

            “I love the Philly roll!” I exclaimed.

            “Right? With the cream cheese and the salmon?”

            “Yeah, it’s my favorite.”

            “Ok, now you have to let me take you there.”

            “Yeah? Have to, huh?”

            “Absolutely. Come on, break your airport sushi cherry,” she said.

            “But my connection…”

            “You said you have a 2-hour layover,” she said.

            “Right, but yours is only…”

            “I’m not taking that flight, remember? I’m gonna let them bump me. Free night in a hotel!”

            “Right, the hotel,” I said.

            So we got sushi. It wasn’t the best sushi I’d ever had, but it was pretty good. My stomach didn’t start hurting immediately, so that’s always a good sign. The check came, she insisted on paying, and I excused myself to the restroom. I didn’t have to go, but I wanted to give her an opportunity to retreat into the night if all she wanted was some company while she ate.

            When I came out of the bathroom, though, she was standing right there.

            “Ready?” she asked.

            “Yeah, I gotta catch this flight.”

            “No, silly. Are you ready for what’s next?” she leaned further into me than she had at any point previous during the evening.

            She needs another mint, I thought, catching a hint of the raw salmon she had just eaten.

            “What is next?” I asked.

            “You know. Free hotel. Come on.” She started walking toward the tram that connects the various airport concourses while holding her hand out behind her.

            I didn’t know what to feel. I didn’t know what to do. She turned again when I didn’t move.

            “Ya comin’?” she asked, light from her bright white teeth reflecting off her bright white skin.

            What would you do?

Co-Pretenders

I stood in line patiently at the Italian deli near my place of employment/living quarters in Pennsylvania.  I’d been driving around all day running errands trying to decide what I wanted to eat.  When I passed the deli the second time, on the way back to my temporary home on campus, I realized I felt like a New York-deli-style sandwich.

            I reviewed the offerings presented by the menu.  There was a ‘hot sandwiches’ category, a ‘special sandwiches’ category, a ‘grilled panini’ category, and a ‘salads’ category, all posted on the wall.  As I stood behind the two gentlemen in front of me, both of whom were being helped, I noticed that both of the deli workers sported New York Yankees baseball caps.  I wore a similar blue and white cap demonstrating support of my lifelong favorite baseball team.  I’d been to the deli once before and knew that it was owned by transplanted New Yorkers; however my previous visit did not reveal their allegiance to the Bronx Bombers.

I looked at the menu again with renewed interest and noticed that some of the items were named for famous Italians and others for famous New Yorkers.  They had ‘The Godfather’, ‘The Raging Bull’, ‘Soprano’s Special’, and ‘Rocky Marciano’s Knockout’, all special sandwiches; there was ‘Mike Piazza’s “Catch a Local Favorite,”’ and ‘Joe Torre’s Roast Beef Italiano,’ both hot sandwiches; there were even dishes bearing only a first name, no doubt the inventions of deli employees or regulars: ‘Michelle’s Delight’, ‘Doreen’s Delight’, and ‘Nancy’s Salad Sampler’, all salads.

A name that was noticeably absent from the list was that of the captain of the Yankees, my favorite sports figure, Derek Jeter.  Of course, Jeter isn’t Italian, a trait all the other namees shared, but to a Yankees fan that shouldn’t matter.  It was my turn to order.

“Half pound of pastrami,” I said, partially to kill time while I thought about my sandwich choice, partially to cross off the last item on my mental list of groceries.

“Anything else?” the lone remaining deli worker asked.  Sometime during my musing the other employee had retreated, perhaps in favor of more pressing duties.

“I notice you don’t have a sandwich named after Derek Jeter,” I said with a sly smile on my face.

“Alright, you got me,” the worker said with a chuckle and a glance at my sideways-turned baseball cap.  “You from New York originally?”

“Yeah,” I said proudly.

“Yeah, me too,” he said.  “Not too many of us around.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What made you come down here?”  He made the words “down here” sound particularly distasteful as though the area in which we stood was a major step down for a New Yorker.

In many ways the deli man’s implication was accurate.  The deli was located in a very rural section of Pennsylvania, a little less than an hour’s drive from Philadelphia.  The town did not have a stadium or a theater, a major highway or a major taxi cab company.  It was an area where vehicle ownership was a necessity.  In these ways one might say that The City That Never Sleeps was vastly superior.  In this town, however, drivers did not honk their horns unnecessarily, the roads were well-paved and without potholes, and people were generally courteous to each other.  New York wasn’t superior in all areas.

“I’m stupid,” I said still smiling.  “I do want a sandwich,” I said, regaining my focus, “but I’m not sure…”

“You don’t have to get something from the menu,” Deli Man said.  “You can have anything you want.”

“If I make up a sandwich will you call it the Derek Jeter?” I asked, only half joking.

“Sure,” he said.

It was then that I realized Deli Man wasn’t really a Yankee fan.  He wore the hat, he had the manager’s name on his menu, and he came from the city, but he didn’t love the team.  He may have watched some games or even followed the team’s success (or lack thereof), but he wasn’t a fan.  A Yankee fan would have had some memorabilia in the store; a Yankee fan would have been excited about the proposition of adding another Yankee’s name to the menu; a Yankee fan would have had a current Yankee player up there already, instead of merely a ‘Steak Bambino’ hot sandwich in honor of Babe Ruth; a Yankee fan would have been excited about my being a Yankee fan – this guy only cared that I was a New Yorker!

“Let’s see,” I said, this time looking at the menu of available meats and cheeses which sat atop the large refrigerated glass case Deli Man stood beside.

“Let’s have… corned beef, peppercorn turkey, muenster cheese… lettuce, tomato, onions, mayonnaise, salt, pepper, and oregano.”

“That sounds good,” Deli Man said as he opened the case.

He filled my pastrami order first, carefully laying each slice of the salted cured meat on the parchment paper itself, not stacking the meat carelessly like they do in most grocery stores.  The care with which he handled my order reminded me why I preferred to get my lunch meats and cheese from delis rather than supermarkets.  He cut a predetermined number of slices and weighed them on the deli scale.  It was a little over half a pound, but I didn’t care.  The meat would not go to waste.

“What part of New York are you from?” Deli Man asked me while he wrapped my pastrami.

“Brooklyn,” I said a little too proudly.  I chided myself for forgetting what I called my “New York demeanor” – sounding a little annoyed every time you spoke.  The pride in my voice made my being from Brooklyn seem like a ring rather than a watch: an adornment rather than a necessity or a reality.  It was the moment I gave away the fact that, although I had been born in Brooklyn, I was not really a New Yorker.

“I’m from Staten Island,” Deli Man said, un-phased by my slip.  It was only after revealing my own semi-New Yorker-status that I considered the possibility that he was like me: born in the city to a New York family, but not raised there.  He had neither the accent nor the demeanor.

“My uncle used to own a pizza place on 46^th and...” he stopped making my sandwich for a moment to think, “… 122^nd?”  He could have been making the blocks up, I had no idea.

“Oh yeah?” I said, trying my best to limit my speech to avoid further non-New York revelations.

“Yeah,” he continued making the sandwich.  “My dad got transferred out here for his job a while back and I opened up one of these in Montgomery County.  A few months later I opened up this one.”

“Ah, so you have an excuse,” I said.  It was a lame reference to the question he had asked me earlier as to why I was in this Podunk town.

The joke was lost on him.  He was concentrating on making my Jeter sandwich.  He was doing a fantastic job.  For the second time since I had entered the deli I reprimanded myself silently, this time for considering Subway before pulling into the deli.  Subway advertises sandwich artists, but too often the “artist” in question is a pimple-faced high school kid making minimum wage who has no real concern for the quality of my sandwich.  This guy, however, this man, this Deli Man, cared about his work.  This was clearly his shop; it was his business, his livelihood.  Since I had been standing there a woman had walked by two or three times, walking to the cash register in the front of the deli, then to the back room, and back again.  She had emerged from the back with a baby in her arms.  At one point she stopped and said “say hi to daddy” to the child, who gurgled his excitement.  Deli Man was a father who fed his son based on the satisfaction of his customers.  Deli Man wanted me to be happy with my sandwich, and he took the time necessary to make sure that would happen.  Deli Man was a sandwich artist.

“Yeah, not many of us around,” Deli Man said again as he was wrapping up my sandwich.

I picked up my package of pastrami from off the counter where Deli Man had placed it.  He handed me my sandwich with a sincere look in his eye.

“Let me know how it is.  Then when you come in and order a Jeter I’ll know what you want.”

“Sounds good,” I said, returning his earnest gaze.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, placing the hoagie in my hand.

I lingered for just a moment, trying to think of the appropriate thing to say.  We were both liars.  He was not a Yankee fan; I was not a New Yorker.  But in that moment, I did not hold his abstracted disinterest in the only baseball team that ever mattered to me against him because he was a New Yorker.  In that moment, he did not hold the fact that I obviously hadn’t been reared in New York against me because I reminded him of home.  In that moment it didn’t matter that neither of us was exactly what the other wanted.  By being a New Yorker, he was a co-Yankee fan; by being a Yankee fan, I was a co-New Yorker.  We were co-pretenders.