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Ticket to L.A
A Galentine’s Story of LoVe
Terminal 5 was closing down around him. The staff behind the bar calling for last drinks. Seriously? Why have flights past 11 pm if there was nowhere open to seek libation?
He walks to the bar. Slowly. Methodically. Watching as the bar towel comes to a halt. The waitress. The other end of the towel. Looks him up and down. Cheeks flush. Jaw slackens. He really shouldn't. But he is going to. He smiles at her. Eyes half cast. Cheek dimpling. The blush deepens.
“Well, hey there.” Quick glance at the name tag. “Parker.” A flash of perfect white teeth. “I need a favour and you look like you could help.”
Stunned. They're always stunned. Don't want to overdo it. I don't need a Terminal 5 stalker. Ratchet down the smile. Half smirk. Charming. Aloof. Jackass. That's it. The girl. Now slightly more composed. Remembering her place. “How can I help you?” Smile bright.
“Well, I was hoping you had some of those mini-bar bottles hiding somewhere back there.” Accentuating his SoCal drawl.
“Um. Well, they're not really for sale. They're complimentary for the VIP's.” Apologetic. Uncomfortable for turning down the man with the chocolate eyes.
“Really? Just six little Drambuie bottles? My flight is a while away. A two-hour delay. I just need something to occupy my time.” The girl blushed. Wrong message Echolls. “It's all good. Worth a shot. Or in this case no shots.”
He fleets a perfected puppy-dog-eyed look her way. She sways. Pulling a crisp $100 bill from his billfold. He holds it aloft between index and forefinger. “How about six bottles of Drambuie? You can keep the rest for your troubles.” A conspiratorial wink seals the deal. Pocketing his treasures he saunters back out into the terminal.
What to do now? Shitty weather has pushed back his flight. Nothing awaits him back home anyways. An empty apartment. A wilted houseplant. An empty answering machine and an even emptier fridge. Living the highlife in the Windy City. That was him. His past and name precede him. He keeps his circle small. Perhaps too small. Hence the emptiness.
The terminal has that after-hours-mall-feel. Shutters clanging. Employees fleeing. To venture out into the big life of New York City. He takes a seat. Plastic moulded arms. Minimal padding. Why did all airports insist on these chairs? You could be in any state. Any country, for that matter. They’re all the same. Grey chairs. Grey floors. Grey walls. JFK was no different. Was it to remind people of their destinations? To make people long for home? Long for sun and sand? Comforting arms? Or is it more to keep a travel-weary mind ill-at-ease? Lest they miss their flight. Keep them uncomfortable. Keep them moving. Into stores. Into bars. A captive audience. Where proprietors can name the price and you have no choice? Well unless your flight is delayed due to weather and the airport closes down around you in the city-that-never-sleeps. Ironic? Paradox? Situational irony? I must be tired. I'm an English major for fucks sake. Words are my lifeblood.
He pats the bottles in his pockets. Not the finest of whisky. He enjoyed the wordplay. Dram; a measure of whisky. Buie, his new definition courtesy of the Urban Dictionary. A person who achieves ultimate enlightenment with the greatest of ease. What is a drink if not to open the mind and seek answers in the bottom of a glass? He ruminates on this as he rises. Seeking comfort and enlightenment deeper in the terminal.
Lightning. Brilliant white. Splits the sky. Intensifying the incessant rain. The boom of thunder rumbling in its wake. The occupants of the airport in the eye of the storm. Gate monitors glow red. Delayed. Delayed. Delayed. His eyes are drawn to the window of gate 22. The agitated, would be passengers. Waiting not so patiently for their flight to LA.
The storm. A feast for the eyes. The ever-changing sky. Black to iridescent and back again. A tiny form. Framed by the glass. Silhouetted against the storm. Also drawn to the view. Leather jacket. Choppy hair. Denim clad. Butch boots. She looked otherworldly. Her pale skin illuminated by the electrical storm. She looked determined. As if one fierce look from her could stop Mother Nature in her tracks. The lightning flashed back at her. He watches it play over her face. Like a siren song, he was drawn. Sitting a few seats away, no harm in sitting down at the wrong gate. To watch, under the guise of whiling away the time and watching the storm roll by. He studies her now. Taking in the detail.
Emotion plays across her face. Not as fierce as she wants the world to believe. Somewhere under the armour; a soft centre. A burnt marshmallow comes to mind. It was in how she held herself. Back straight. Shoulders square. The haircut. Experimental? Maybe. Done by her own hand? Definitely. This was a woman who had been burnt. Put herself back together. Kevlar. Protecting herself. Her thoughts. Her body. He felt a kinship. He understood the need to hide. Clothes make the man. Or a fierce woman as the case may be.
He fidgets. He's been sitting too long. A muffled sound. From one of his many pockets. He had been so intent, watching the storm. Watching the girl. He had forgotten his whisky travellers. He has been so consumed by the girl.
The girl. The storm. In his mind have become one. A single sentient being. Provoking each other. A battle he couldn’t see. Like an illusion of the eye. You can see both but not distinguish the two. She was the storm. His mind races with words. Tangents. Backstories. He has spent much of his life avoiding people of any depth. They are too inquiring. Too astute. They'll see through him. Through the façade of his family. Do-gooders, trying to do good. Unaware of the further degradation to his life they’re causing. Until anonymous payments are made. Jobs of a lifetime are offered or they just disappear. A flash in the pan. Here one day. Gone the next. The “help” once again branded on his skin. A permanent tattoo he never asked for.
Tangents. I haven’t even spoken to her. Scenes of his life. Scenes of her’s. Of them. Flicker through his head like film in a projector moving too slow. Stuttering. Get a grip. Permanency.
The noise from his pocket. At long last registers. Extracting a bottle. Long fingers wrapping around the cap. Seal brakes. He is still watching her. In a moment of silence from the storm, the cracking of the cap rings out across the distance between them. A head snaps to him, his eyes widened as she spears him with a look. He smirks. A poor cover for being caught gawking at her. Leaning forwards, he extends the bottle to her. The gesture hangs in the air. Questioning looks pass across the aisle.
“I don’t take open drinks from strangers.” Looking down. Was that an apology? “It’s just a rule I have,” as though she needs to explain. To not cause offence. Marshmallow.
Without pause he extricates a matching bottle from his pocket. Eyeballing the seal. Presenting it to her. She shrugs her thanks. Accepting it. Snapping the cap. “Cheers, big ears,” she quips. Tipping her head and taking a swig. Wincing as the whiskey hits her throat. She rights herself in the chair. She’s looking at him. Evaluating. He shifts. Uncomfortable, under the heat of her gaze. An interrogation of his character to which isn’t privy. Nor invited to participate.
He sees her shift. Near imperceptible. Having studied her for the better part of an hour he can see it. She’s made a verdict. Widening her knees. She leans forward, resting her elbows upon them. “Hello. Where are you headed to?” Her voice is light. A melodic quality. He’s certain he’s smiling like a fool. The verdict in his favor.
“I’d go anywhere with you.” It wasn't really a lie. A tiny bending the truth. He just needed a moment of her time.
“Does that line actually work on anyone?” she snarled.
“You started speaking to me first.”
“Hardly a line. Asking where you are going. More like a conversation starter, and you sir, came back with a conversation ender.” The open posture closes. Arms and legs cross. Pushing herself back into the seat. On cue lightning splits the sky. The cracking thunder. A millisecond behind it.
“Your name better not be Dana.” As he hazards a glance past her to the storm outside.
“There’s no Dana’s here. There’s only Zuul.” A look of shock slips across his face. Hers gives nothing away.
“That’s interesting. That’s interesting Zuulie, very interesting.” Pausing for effect. Troubling his lip with a long, tanned finger. “No! No, I just can’t see myself as Venkman in this scenario. He’s so... well he’s just so..”
“Manic,” she throws at him. “Cynical perhaps? Sarcastic even?”
“I’ll have you know sarcasm is my native tongue,” he interjected. “Although, I think you have forgotten my most favourable characteristic during your assassination.”
Rolling her head to the side she looks down her nose at him. Raising her brow in askance. He throws her a look. Arms out. Palms upwards. “I can’t believe you haven’t checked it off the list yet. You forgot to mention secretly-sweet natured.”
“Let’s compare the pair. A man possessed by manic spontaneity.”
“I’m not spontaneous, that's my friend Dick.” He caught her look. “A real person. Richard, we call him Dick. Let’s just say it’s a name that suits him well.” Smiling to himself.
“So a manic man, with a want to twirl in circles around a public concourse or to declare undying love for a woman he’s only just met”
“I only twirl when passion takes me,” a lecherous wink. “It’s more of a spin-kiss-pin to the wall kind of a deal,” he leans towards her. “And only ever in private, I don’t like to share,” spoken like someone who knows. He wriggles in his seat. The last said with so much truth. Truth and strangers.
“And I do believe I just declared I’d go anywhere with you, but no I still don’t see the similarities. You can call me Han then. I’ll call you? Leia? I really hope you packed your gol-”
Before he could finish that thought she steamrolled over him. “I think I’ll call you Jackass.” Blue eyes sparking. She really is fierce.
“Then it’s agreed.” A blank stare meets him. “I’ll call you, Bobcat.” A dazzling smile. A sharp intake of breath. If looks could kill, he’d be dead right now. I hope she bites.
With a clear voice. Ignoring his chosen name, she continues. “Venkman and Solo; they’re the same character. You know that, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Manic. Sarcastic. Cynical.” She counts out delicate fingers. Her features soften. Her lips curving into a slight smile. “Secretly sweet natured,” pointing to a fourth. She watches him. Thoughtfully, she stretches an arm over to him “Veronica.” Approval. Be cool Logan. Reaching out. Clasping her hand in his own. His hand tingles. Eyes snapping to hers. Both staring wide-eyed at each other. Palms pressed together. Heat at the point of contact. This was the other side of the coin. Two halves. Same whole. “Logan. Would you like another drink?”
It’s past midnight in the middle of JFK. The thunder and lightning had given way to persistent rain. She doesn’t even know I have missed my plane. Trying to take her mind off the falling rain.
“Spring? That's an odd time to start a new degree.”
“There were some issues with my funding and scholarship application. A whiny-assed assistant to my professor kept mutilating my application.”
“Really? What is their name?”
“Tim Foyle.”
His eyes crinkle. “You should’ve seen that coming, then. His name says it all.” His lip quirks. Mirth in his eyes. “And why was Mr Foyle so intent on foiling your application?”
“He didn’t like me.”
“No doubt you’re smarter than him and he knows it.”
“I may or may not have corrected him a few times during tutorials. He didn’t take too kindly to me cock-blocking him with the girls in the front row.”
“So how did you get your application through in the end?”
“He was hooking up with students for better grades and access to the professor.” Eyebrows raised, before he could ask she continued. “Including the captain of the soccer team and his girlfriend,” she deadpans. “I got that one on camera.” She said it so matter-of-factly. It made his head spin. Who is this girl? She's amazing. She cocks an eyebrow at him. “No, I’m not” Shit, I said that out loud. What is she doing to me? “But do you know what is amazing? It’s amazing what happens when the heir of a Californian tech giant gets caught balls deep, in his advisor to get a passing grade.” She smirks. “So I’ve just been doing the first semester via NYU before starting in the spring.” It was said like it was the simplest explanation ever told. No exclamation points. No embellishments. Just a statement of events. Like it was run of the mill. A day in the life of Veronica. He should be afraid. She could unravel all his secrets. He’s none too sure she hasn’t already.
“Want another drink?” He breathes out. He has come this far. What he wouldn’t do for a ticket to LA.
Gate 22 is calling her flight. Their bubble burst. Suddenly both aware of passengers once again on the move. His time had run out. By the third drink, he knew almost everything. Secretly hoping she could stay. She reaches into her tattered bag.
“I have to go,” the sadness in her tone mirroring the look in his eyes. She holds a sharpie in her hand. She grabs his hand. That now all too familiar tingle vibrates through him at her touch. She tugs at the cap with her teeth. He cannot look away from her. “The ball’s in your court,” as she finishes the final digit on his palm.
They walk to the gate. Slowly. Stretching out the all too few minutes. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Stalling for time. He presses a chaste kiss to her forehead. Rocking back on his heels. “Until next time, Bobcat.” She sneers. He smirks. She is gone.
She makes her way down the bridge. Her phone chimes. An unknown number
What are you doing next Saturday?
Back in NY. Studying. Y?
Me too. Somethings come up.
Something’s come up? She thinks. She has only just left him. She can still feel his kiss. Burning. Branded on her forehead.
Like what?
You