Taking Flight

         It’s ten twenty-eight p.m. and Rachel, my girlfriend, will arrive on United Flight 405 from Phoenix, Arizona, at eleven. I’m sitting in one of the many empty chairs that constitute the waiting area at gate seventeen of Oakland International Airport. Outside, the lights and the Bay Area fog have given the dark sky an orange hue. Inside, under the harsh, white fluorescent light there is only a small handful of people--potential passengers, members of flight crews, family members of other passengers
--that drift through my field of vision.
There’s a couple that sit down behind me. Right away I can tell from their voices that there’s trouble.
         “Susan, I don’t understand your meaning.”
         “That’s just it. You don’t understand. You can’t possibly; that’s the problem.”
         “But if you tell me--”
         “I have been telling you,” Susan sighs. With all of the available seats, why did they sit behind me? I bet it was Susan’s idea. “It’s nothing you’ve done,” she says. “It’s who you are. I’m not in love with you, anymore. That’s just all there is to it.”
         “But you can love my best friend,” Susan’s victim says. “I suppose he’s just right for you.”
         Silence. Why do people find airports the perfect environment to permanently alter the relationships in which they are in? Maybe it’s the act of separation--if only for a few days, or a week--that gives the person strength? I don’t know. I only know that in thirty minutes it will be my turn.
         “It’s not you,” Susan finally says.

* * *

         I met Rachel two years ago, at a Humphrey Bogart film festival, a benefit for AIDS awareness, playing at Wolfgang’s. This was just after the place was renovated, after someone had torched it. I was a Bogart fan, and came in blue jeans, a t-shirt with the original Casablanca movie poster silk-screened on the front, and a grey sport coat. She was a member of the AIDS awareness committee for San Francisco, and she wore black slacks and a black shirt that hugged her five-seven frame like a glove. She was built solid, not thin, and was well-endowed. That’s not what first drew me to her, though. I would have to say that her outfit made her blonde hair, blue amethyst eyes, and white cream complexion come alive and made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. That’s what did it.
         I walked up and stumbled through an introduction; told her I was a glazier. I remember her being particularly impressed by that for some reason. She explained her duties for the committee--writing informational fliers, organizing benefits, speaking at high schools, that sort of thing. I didn’t know much about AIDS at that time; just the spoon-fed sound bites on radio and television.
         She had wanted to know what work I had done recently. I told her I worked on the Nordstrom Centre remodel in the City, putting in the glasswork for the sides of the circular escalators. She asked how I went about shaping the glass, curving it, for a structure like that. Oh, it wasn’t difficult, I lied, I just heated the glass until it became malleable, shaped it to fit the frame, and let it cool. I thought it particularly witty of me to use ‘malleable’, even though the word applies mostly to metals, not glass. I thought I could give her a pretty good argument if she pressed that point. Instead, she compared what I did on that job to art. A sculptor, clay pot maker, or something.
         A co-worker came up to Rachel, whispered something in her ear, and pointed to a woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, clutching her handbag, a gold, diamond chip-encrusted watch peeking out from under the sleeve of her black mink coat. Rachel said she better get back to mingling. I gave her a one hundred dollar donation and asked for her phone number. She hesitated for a moment, but smiled and gave it to me.
         That was pretty much how it started. I’m surprised I remembered as much as I did. When asked how we met, I usually embellish; isn’t that always the way with such things?

* * *

         Susan and her ex-whatever are still sitting behind me. They’ve been silent for five minutes now. I can sense them behind me; I feel a touch claustrophobic--like the rest of the seats in gate seventeen are occupied by the tension these two produce. I suppose I could move.
         I look at the clock. Ten forty p.m. I wish Rachel’s plane would arrive early. No, actually, a delay of five or ten minutes would be nice; I could use the time. I put my left hand in my jacket pocket and hold the small felt box. My thumb brushes over the top, hesitates on the back, touching the small, cold, hinges. My fingers rub the seam in the front. I try to pull my hand out of the pocket, but I can’t. I open the box, our future hides inside. My hands shake and the box snaps shut.
         Across the maroon and black square carpeted walkway, a handful of passengers have gathered together at gate nineteen for the departure of a red-eye flight to Boston. No more than fourteen, but I only count two single passengers. The rest look like couples, most holding hands. One couple off in the corner are contortionists, twisting their bodies around the arm that separates the adjoining chairs. He has his hands on her thighs, she has hers on his chest. They can’t get close enough. From here it looks as if they’re trying to consume each other.
         Another couple--two middle-aged men, one with thinning hair and one bald, with a greying mustache--get up and walk, arms around each other’s waists, over to the window to watch the planes taxi toward the gates.
         I look away, down toward the row of pay phones hanging on the wall, and I watch a man, waiting outside the woman’s restroom, quickly tapping his foot. He’s wearing a blue sport coat that hangs over his shoulders like it’s draped over a wire hanger, and black slacks that spill over his legs and feet, brushing the carpet. A minute later a woman with black, wire-brush hair leaves the bathroom, carrying an Emporium shopping bag in one hand and a make-up case in the other. She freezes when she sees the man. He points, first to the clock above the phones, then to the bathroom. Then he slaps her; hard enough to make her drop both the shopping bag and the make-up case. Perfume bottles, pastel shirts, a paperback romance, and a black leather day-timer spill out from the bag. The make-up case hits the ground and flips over, upside-down. They both look at each other, then the woman bends down to collect her things while the man walks toward one of the gates.
         I close my eyes, mutter, “Jesus Christ,” and--thrusting my hand in my jacket pocket--squeeze the small felt box.
         Why aren’t there many single people around? I wonder. There’s one buying a newspaper down the hall, in the airport gift shop. There’s another one, sucking down a beer in the bar two gates down. And another one running past me, trying to catch a plane; he looks like a sprint runner trying to win the one hundred yard dash.
         I suppose it’s not too much out of the realm of possibility; not recognizing those who are single and concentrating on couples. I mean, whenever I’m on a two week diet there always seems to be more high-calorie food commercials run during that time.
         I miss Rachel.

* * *

         I have this theory. It goes a little something like this: A person can hit the bars and social clubs for years and not find the one meant for them; the one that will be their wife, or husband. The instant a person is not looking for a partner, that’s the instant love arrives.
         The supporting evidence for this theory is simple. Love isn’t a Low Key Buy or a Blue Light Special; you can’t go bargain hunting for it. It’s too special. It’s not a right, but a privilege; and it is elusive. People want it so bad because they think it’s a paradise, but it isn’t. Not really. That feeling is there in the beginning, but it soon wears off. Love is commitment. Love is work. And knowing all of that, you still can’t imagine yourself without the person you love.
         Let me illustrate.
         On Wednesday, June 15, 1994--six months after I met Rachel--I took her to Fridays, down by Fisherman’s Wharf, for dinner. Fridays happened to be Rachel’s favorite place. I made sure we received a table by a window, and we watched the sky turn from bright orange to dark purple. After dinner, I had planned a nice walk down to Pier 39--Rachel loves watching the tourists and looking at the sea lions--but we never made it that far.
         Trina, our waitress, took away our dinner plates and we ordered dessert. I wanted a chocolate sundae, Rachel wanted a chocolate milkshake. Trina smiled and bounced away. I had noticed Rachel was kind of...out of sync the whole night. Pausing before answering questions, looking away--off in the distance--when I spoke, not smiling as much as she usually did, that sort of thing.
         “Hey, what’s wrong?” I asked. That had been the second time I had asked that question.
         “Huh? Oh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
         “Don’t lie to me,” I said. I meant it as a statement, but I must have said it with enough force for Rachel to tell me the truth. Looking back, I suppose I was upset that after six months Rachel thought she had to keep things from me.
         “I’m HIV positive,” she said.
         “You’re...what?”
         “Yeah, ah,” her eyes started to shimmer and she took a second to try and keep her lower lip from quivering. “I received the results of my test yesterday--”
         “Your test? Why did you take a test? Are you seeing someone else?”
         Rachel threw what was left of her Long Island Iced Tea in my face and ran out of the restaurant. I threw money down on the table and followed her; she got as far as The Cannery, across the street.
         “All right, why don’t you tell me this from the beginning? Let’s start with that.” I said. I thought that was safe enough.
         “I was in a relationship before I met you that,” Rachel hesitated, “well, it gave me reason to have myself checked out.”
         “You had unprotected sex with this guy?” I asked.
         “What do you want me to say?” Rachel screamed. “Just kidding? I was really extra careful and thought of everything every God damn time he and I were in bed? Can you tell me that every single time we’ve had sex, putting a condom on almost wasn’t an afterthought for you?”
And I thought about all the times we’ve had sex in the past six months. Every single time. And I put my arm out, my hand pushing against the red brick wall of The Cannery, as I tried to anchor myself against the sick thought that I may have this disease. I looked at Rachel; I almost voiced my concern. I felt my face turn hot and my mouth opened, but no words came out.
         “I tested negative at that time,” Rachel continued, a bit calmer. “I joined the committee shortly afterward. When I met you I thought about getting tested again, but I found out that HIV antibodies don’t appear until after six months, so the results would still be negative. I waited until that six month period was over and I tested positive and I’m just so scared that you’ll walk out and I’ll be alone.”
         I held her, her body shook, and I whispered, “I’m not walking out.”
         And I didn’t, but I really knew next to nothing about HIV or AIDS. We talked through the night; it reminded me of our first few dates.
I remember the night she told me with crystal clarity. I could repeat it a thousand times if called upon to do so; isn’t that always the way with such things?

* * *

         The plane lands and I stand up to face the door to the walkway for the plane at gate seventeen. Susan has long since left her victim, who is now staring at his hands, which are resting on his lap, as if they held the secret to getting Susan back; but the secret is in a language he can never understand.
         This is a good thing, I think to myself. He’ll be better off. I look over at Susan, who is getting ready to board the plane Rachel is about to leave. Susan looks at her victim one last time and shakes her head. He’ll be better off.

* * *

         The two months after Rachel told me she was HIV positive weren’t paradise. We had arguments. I didn’t get tested fast enough for her.
         “When the hell did the doctor say you’ll get the results?” Rachel screamed.
         “In a week,” I said.
         “That’s too long; he must’ve found something. Call him.”
         “I will not call him. He said he’d call me when the results--”
         “Call him, dammit!”
         Dishes were thrown during that particular argument. One in particular, a dark tinted salad bowl, broke against the wall to the left of where I stood. I held her most of that night; she cried for two hours straight, repeating her demand for me to call. Three days later we learned I tested negative. I tested negative again six months later to be sure.
         She endured the introductory doctor appointments, discussing options should she develop AIDS. We traveled to Phoenix, where her parents lived. This was the first time I met them. I stood there, holding her hand, as she told them she was HIV positive.
         “Well I think you should move back to the house,” her mom said.
         “Why do I need to do that?” Rachel asked.
         “You need care,” her father joined in. “Who’s going to care for you when your health deteriorates? Him?” he says, pointing to me.
         Rachel squeezed my hand tight. “We’ll get by,” she said.

* * *

         Passengers start walking through the door. Not many before Rachel appears, smiling; her blonde hair bouncing, her eyes bright and awake for eleven at night. She runs up to me, drops her carry-ons, and hugs me until I can’t breathe.
         “How was the conference?” I start in.
         “All right,” she sighs. “How is any conference? It had its interesting moments, it had its boring moments. I’m just glad to be home.”
         “I have something for you,” I say.
         “What is it?”
         “Look in my jacket pocket.”
         Her hands probe, she grabs the small felt box and brings it out into the light. Slowly, she opens it and stares at the bright gold band and the sparkling half karat diamond. She closes it, shaking her head.
         “I don’t know what to say.”
         “Say yes,” I answer. “I love you. I know you, and I know what I’m getting into.”
         “Do you? I’m kind of sentimental when it comes to marriage vows. I believe in ‘till death do us part. What happens if I get worse. What happens if I contract AIDS?”
         “Then we’ll be together,” I answer. “Say yes.”
         Rachel hugs me again, and whispers her answer; and in the fragile world of relationships, one more rises above the dust and takes flight.