Chapter 4
4
I journeyed home from the VBB feeling high. At last, I’d found a way to assert my desire to the universe, rather than waiting passively for my moment to arrive, as I’d done most of my life, with the exception of the flight binge following my dad’s death. That experience taught me that simply flying nonstop wasn’t sufficient to budge the statistical probability in my favor. The universe would not be cudgeled into delivering my fate prematurely, and I sensed it did not appreciate my petulant demands. I hoped my vision board had conveyed that I’d humbly accept my fate, whenever the universe saw fit to bestow it. Best of all, I’d transmitted my intentions while fitting in reasonably well with Karina’s friends. Karina herself seemed to like me more than she had before the VBB. She’d kissed both my cheeks at the door, perhaps in a nod to Guillaume Faury, whose inclusion on my board was assumed to hint at latent Francophile tendencies I did not in fact harbor. “See you tomorrow, ma chérie ” were her last words to me.
As I walked to the bus stop, I called my mom, to whom I hadn’t spoken since my yearly visit at Christmas. We’d always had a strained relationship. I knew I wasn’t the daughter she’d hoped for, whereas Al was the perfect son—confident, athletic, in possession of conventional ambitions and romantic desires. Growing up, the battle lines in our household were clearly drawn: my dad and me versus my mother and Al. But now that my dad was gone, I’d have to settle for the company of my surviving parent. I was excited, and I wanted to share my good news with someone.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello? Linda?”
“Hey, Mom,” I said. “How are the pants?”
On my last visit, I’d found the house infested with leggings—stacked on the dining room table, draped over the couch, loose pairs tangled together as though engaged in an orgy. “The last shipment was bad,” she admitted. “More holes than usual.”
“I’ll take some, if you can’t sell them,” I said.
“Okay, hon. I’ll send a few pairs.”
“Is Ron there?”
“He’s coming over soon, with the boys.” Her boyfriend Ron’s sons, Teddy and Ron Jr., were large, pale men in their early twenties. During Christmas dinner, they’d sat next to each other and remained uncannily quiet, like beautiful white cows.
“I have some news,” I said.
“Is everything okay?” My mom was always apprehensive about my well-being, and I didn’t blame her, but her concern irritated me now that my life had taken such a fortuitous turn.
“More than okay,” I said. “I’ve decided I want to marry a pilot.”
“Oh, that’s nice, sweetie. Did you meet someone?”
“Not yet. But I’ve laid the groundwork.” I told her about the vision boards, and she said she’d heard about them from her friend Trish, whom I distrusted, as she was also involved with the pants scheme.
A clamor erupted on her end. “They’re here with Chipotle,” she said.
We said, “I love you,” sealing the call, so that if one of us perished in the night, we’d have less regret than otherwise. On the 28 bus, I headed north on 280, to Junipero Serra, where we veered left onto Nineteenth Avenue. The bus’s northbound route carved through the Sunset District, Golden Gate Park, the Richmond District, and the Presidio; made a loop at the Golden Gate Bridge; and continued east along Lombard Street with its strip of cut-rate hotels, terminating at the heart of Fisherman’s Wharf. I rarely rode it beyond Taraval, however. I got off there and walked west, to the Chens’ house.
The Chen family lived in a burnt-orange house on Thirty-eighth Avenue. I entered through a side door to the garage, half of which was occupied by my in-law apartment, a prefabricated, enclosed structure with dimensions of twelve by twelve feet. The rest of the garage was used for storage and laundry, though I was not permitted to use the washer and dryer. Sometimes, on those occasions when I’d failed to monitor for activity in the outer garage before leaving my cube, I encountered Mrs. Chen using them and was forced to make small talk with her.
My room featured an en suite bathroom with a sink, a toilet, and a shower. I’d never had a private bathroom before, and this luxury motivated me to be a perfect tenant. When I’d come to see the space, Mr. Chen told me I would be their first renter. He seemed uneasy about the arrangement, as the room was surely not up to code. The ad had said they were looking for a single person, someone quiet, preferably a student, and the prospective renter would have to agree to the house rules, which included no cooking, no audible music, no excessive water use, and no overnight guests. Were they to rent this room at all, it would be to a tenant who barely existed. I’d kept up my end of the agreement, doing my best to be a ghost in their midst, a ghost with a checking account that automatically deposited rent money on the first day of each month. I was grateful to be accepted as a tenant, just as I was grateful for Karina’s friendship. Ever since my awakening on board N92823, I’d feared other people would discover my connection with planes, and the fate I was bound for. I knew they’d be horrified and shun me. I’d tiptoed through life, keeping myself under tight restraint, afraid that an excess of feeling would cause me to reveal too much, ushering in my social demise. Though my isolation sometimes weighed on me, I reasoned that my bond with planes more than compensated for my disconnection from people.
But today, post-VBB, I felt suffused by the universe’s generosity and was no longer content with being a ghost. I’d shown myself to be socially capable, and I wanted to exert my newfound confidence upon Mr. and Mrs. Chen. I would inflict on them my personality, which had been so amply tested at the brunch and proven to be a winning one!
I crossed the threshold into the main house. By contrast with the clammy air of the garage, the interior of the house was cozy, warm, and sunlit. I traversed the short hallway to the kitchen, where I beheld a serene domestic tableau. Mr.Chen sat at the table, tapping the screen of an iPad. Mrs. Chen stood at the sink, washing vegetables. I crept forward. The radio was on, tuned to a classical music station, and due to the screen of noise they did not notice me.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Chen,” I said, and they both turned with alarm.
“Linda!” Mrs. Chen said, shutting off the faucet. “Is everything okay?”
“I just wanted to say hi,” I said. “Happy Sunday!”
Mr. Chen put down his iPad and removed his readers. He appeared to be around the age my dad had been when he died, and I felt a surge of affection for him. I wished I could participate in their family life and be loved as a daughter, or at least a quirky niece. “Is your room warm enough?” he said.
“Plenty warm, with the space heater,” I said.
“Just make sure to unplug it when you leave. And don’t use an extension cord, please. Fire hazard.”
I nodded, thinking about the nest of extension cords under my bed. “Of course.”
They stared at me expectantly, clearly waiting for the real reason I’d entered the house. Karina had told me the best way to connect with people was to ask them questions.
“I was wondering,” I said, “do you enjoy flying?”
“No, I hate it,” Mr. Chen said with a grimace. “The airlines are terrible. They overbook every flight. They treat passengers like cattle.”
“Never fly United,” Mrs. Chen said. “We learned our lesson the hard way, last year.”
“Why do you ask?” Mr. Chen said.
I chuckled in acknowledgment that it had been an odd question. “Well, I happen to love flying,” I said. “I’m going to Phoenix next weekend.”
“You have family there?” Mrs. Chen said, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
I felt trapped by this question and became self-conscious, aware I was behaving in a risky manner. It was one thing to practice the art of socializing with people whose opinion had no material impact on my life, and quite another to practice with my landlords.
“My sister,” I lied. “She just had a baby.”
“How wonderful,” Mrs. Chen said. “Give her our best wishes.”
I promised I would. “Well, I should go back to my room now,” I said before they could ask any follow-up questions. “I just went to brunch at a friend’s house, and I’m pretty beat.”
“Sounds good, Linda,” Mr. Chen said.
I returned to my cube, which I saw in a new light. For the last year and a half, it had served as a comfortable hole in which I secreted myself, like a river eel in its mud burrow. Now it seemed cramped, depressing. The room was already tidy, as I possessed few belongings, but I further neatened it, smoothing the duvet across my bed and hanging my denim jacket on a hook I’d glued to the back of the door. I reflected on the jacket, dangling with an attitude of nonchalance, as though it had never doubted its own worthiness. Resentment set in. How I envied my jacket.
A knock came, startling me. For a moment, I believed my contemplation of the jacket had summoned the sound. I opened the door, revealing Kevin Chen. He was twenty years old, tall and broad-shouldered—a good-looking fellow, I gathered. He brought to mind the Bombardier CRJ100/200, a regional jet with a certain plucky maneuverability, though limited in range, as is characteristic of the young. Kevin had made the shrewd decision to continue living with his parents while he studied business at SF State and worked part-time as a trainer at the 24 Hour Fitness on Ocean Avenue. I wished my mom had allowed me to live with her after high school. Instead I’d been evicted to make space for a second macramé loom.
“Hey there, Linda,” Kevin said. “Sorry to bother you. I talked to my parents, and they’re a little concerned.”
“Nothing to be concerned about,” I said. “I just thought I’d wish them a happy Sunday.”
Kevin’s eyes scanned my wall. “Cool map,” he said.
“Come have a look,” I said. He advanced into my room warily.
“I keep records of all my flights,” I said. “I can afford to fly once a month. I wish I could fly more.”
“So you fly just for the sake of flying?”
“Oh, of course not,” I said with a calculated laugh. “I also visit the sights at my destination.”
I’d never had another person in my room before. I suddenly wanted to show Kevin everything. I unrolled my vision board and explained its components. “My goal is to get married,” I said. “To find a man with a good job, with a pilot being one example.”
Kevin examined the board with his arms crossed, like an art critic. “Well, good luck,” he said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Do you know how I might do it?”
“Do what?”
“Find a pilot to marry.”
“Uh, I dunno. Have you tried the apps?”
“Is that how you met your girlfriend? Lois,” I remembered.
“We met at school.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, I’m not a student, so that’s not an option for me.”
“They have lots of dating apps now, for different types of people,” Kevin said. “Maybe there’s even one for pilots, if that’s really what you’re into.”
I thanked Kevin for this information. He edged toward the door.
“Like I said, I didn’t want to intrude,” he said. “It’s just my parents, they’re not used to having someone living in the garage. I think it would be best if you kept it low-key.”
“That’s what I’ve been doing.”
“I know, and we really like having you here. You’re like a family member.” He scratched beneath his left ear. “A family member we never see or talk to.”
I was moved by this, though I knew he was only trying to manipulate me. I’d always hoped I could become part of their family.
“My parents, you know, they get nervous,” he said. I gathered he was referring to my room’s slapdash construction and lack of a secondary exit. “It’s probably better for you not to remind them you live here, if you want to keep living here.”
I remembered the mornings I’d seen Kevin on the bus on his way to SF State, while I was bound for Acuity. We didn’t speak, but he’d acknowledge me with a nod that made me feel like I belonged in human society. I’d been so grateful for those small movements of his youthful head. Though I now realized he must have avoided me on the walk to the bus stop, as I never noticed him until we were already jostling down Nineteenth Ave.
“I promise I won’t enter the main house again,” I said.
“I think that’s for the best.”
“Thanks, Kevin. You’re really looking out for me.”
He lingered in the doorway. “If you need help with your dating profile,” he said in a cheeky tone, “hit me up.”
—
I sat on the edge of my bed, marveling at the day’s events. I’d charted a course for future success and formed friendships with people who would help me on my way, even if they did not understand what they were abetting. Best of all, I would take to the sky on Friday, for my monthly roundtrip flight.
I reviewed the email detailing my itinerary. I would depart from SFO, bound for PHX, at 8:10 p.m. If I emerged single from the first flight, I’d spend the night wandering the airport, visiting past and potential lovers where they slumbered at their gates. I’d depart back to SFO at 11:00 a.m. Saturday, and if the second plane didn’t choose me, either, I’d sleep through the day and awaken Sunday morning, with time to launder my clothes so I’d be fresh for the work week. My joints ached with accumulated gravity. I was getting by on the minimal flights my budget allowed, but by the third week of groundedness, withdrawal inevitably set in. I would become edgy and irritable, full of brittle energy that could pivot, at any moment, into despair. These symptoms typically abated the moment I entered the airport’s secure sector, and when my lover’s wheels lifted from the runway, I would feel reborn.
My date for Friday evening was N108DQ, a fellow I’d been with a few times before. I’d looked up his tail number only after booking the flight, a rule I adhered to with all my lovers, out of a superstition I harbored, something about how romance was dampened by overplanning. N108DQ was a fine twenty-year-old 737-800. I’d found him erratic and hot-tempered on our previous dates, qualities I ascribed to his lust for me. I kept meticulous records of my encounters in the Notes app on my phone, and presently, I revisited the entry I’d made for N108DQ. One line recalled the eroticism of an abrupt wing dip late on our flight to Seattle, six months ago. More recently, we’d made a bouncy landing at Dallas Fort Worth, N108DQ’s wings rocking from side to side as his landing gear settled, as though N108DQ didn’t want our date to end. I was excited to reunite with him on Friday, and hoped the months since our last tryst had increased his desire for me. Just as tantalizing was my date for the return flight, N942NN, a seventeen-year-old A321-100 I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting.
In the meantime, I could make inroads on my quest for a pilot. I decided to fine-tune my intentions. I opened a fresh note on my phone and tapped out a list of things I would do if I succeeded in becoming intimate with such a man:
—Discuss flight routes
—Ask if I can fly in jump seat sometime
—Ask to describe experience of being a pilot (affection for planes?)
—Build trust over course of years
—Marry
—Use flight benefits to fly as much as possible
—Be united with soulmate plane for eternity
I squinted at my list and deemed it sufficient. The VBB had taught me that no goal was too lofty to aim for and that the universe respected fearlessness and positivity above all other human qualities. Certainly I would never meddle with the operations of a plane, even if it was for the sake of our eternal togetherness. I wasn’t sure how such a thing would be attempted, and anyway, I was not a violent person. A crash I’d caused myself would not satisfy my desire, as it would be a fraudulent victory. The plane I’d sabotaged would descend with hatred for me in his heart. I wanted a plane to choose me, as human lovers choose to marry. I wasn’t greedy, nor was I impatient when it came to something as important as marriage. I’d wait a lifetime if I had to.
I plugged in my phone, then perched on the edge of my bed, constrained by the cord’s limited span. “Dating site pilot,” I typed into the search bar. This query produced a slew of articles: “Six Reasons You Should Date a Pilot,” “7 Things That Happen When You Date a Pilot,” “How to Date a Pilot and Where to Find Them??” It seemed I wasn’t alone in my mission. I recalled Judy’s statement about pilots being sexy and felt proud to have devised a socially acceptable cover for my desire.
There was in fact a dating site catering to those seeking pilots. Within minutes I’d created an account on Pilotdate.net. Now it was time for photos. I made an honest appraisal of myself in the mirrored door of my closet. My breasts were a C cup that drooped unless held aloft by an underwire bra. My limbs were skinny, but my entire body was covered in alayer of fat, due to lack of exercise, probably. I possessed a wide mouth and a high forehead. My hair was naturally a sandy color, which I’d bleached and dyed a more vivacious blond a few months ago, at Karina’s suggestion. Since then, the hair had grown four inches from its roots, so that it looked like my hair was wearing socks. I caught Karina looking at my mangled dye job sometimes, but she never mentioned it, for which I was grateful, as I rather liked the effect.
I possessed nothing close to Karina’s beauty, but my appearance was not objectionable. I was happy to occupy this bland median status, as it protected me from unwanted attention. As I belonged nowhere on the conventional spectrum of sexual orientation, I allowed people to assume I was heterosexual, and I suppose I was, as all planes are male in spirit, just as all boats are female, and helicopters possess the souls of mischievous children.
On the floor of my closet, I located the only sexy bra I owned, black lace with cords of nonfunctional fabric strung above the cups. I took several photos of myself in the bra. When I reviewed the photos, I found that in the harsh overhead light of my windowless room, I looked somehow both older and younger than I was. I could pass as a forty-year-old methamphetamine user or a fifteen-year-old victim of human trafficking. I appeared in dire need of hydration, vitamins, sunlight, and a sense of humor. I imagined what Karina would say—that like attracts like—and was frightened to consider the male equivalent of the persona these photos embodied. Natural light would yield more flattering images, but it was 5:20 p.m. , which meant the sun had already set, according to my weather app. I was annoyed by the sun’s laziness, clocking out before dinner and delaying my plan to lure a pilot into my net. I was too excited to defer my mission entirely, however. I added the best of the bra photos to my Pilotdate profile, along with the blurry headshot from my Acuity ID card. In the written section, I cribbed from the “Six Reasons You Should Date a Pilot” listicle. I’m a jetsetter! I wrote. I love a man in uniform!
My profile went live, and I tucked my phone behind my pillow, imagining I was burying a magic seed that would bear fruit by morning.