UP, UP AND AWAY (Part One)

Graduation was looming, Professor Seltzer was packing, and although W.S. had not yet scheduled the oral defense of his dissertation, the job offers were already coming his way. A large U.S. company flew us to their headquarters in Puerto Rico, but shortly after we arrived, political extremists set off a little bomb in the lobby. “Yankee go home!” was the message, and we did---as quickly as possible.

The second potential job was with a government overseas, but before they sent a plane for us, the monarch was overthrown and religious fundamentalists took the rein of power. “I suppose this means the job has been filled,” said W.S. “I guess it has,” I replied. “Why don’t you find gainful employment where a job opening doesn’t mean---‘we shot your predecessor.”’

The next offer came from a large hospital in Providence, Rhode Island. W.S. suggested that since Newport was just over the bay, we take a couple of extra days to explore America’s charming yachting capital before his interview. When we arrived at the Providence airport, W.S. asked a flight attendant, “Where do we catch the plane to Newport?” She said, “There’s a desk around the corner. You can’t miss it.”

We rolled our suitcases around the corner, and saw a small desk with a sign taped to the front that said, “Newport.” There was no one there to greet us other than a big, black horsefly, who marched back and forth across the top of the desk, climbed over a telephone, and then started his patrol all over again. After waiting five minutes, I picked up the phone and a voice said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” I replied. “We’re waiting for our flight to Newport.” “I’ll be right over,” said the voice. We waited for 20 more minutes. Finally a door swung open, and a pilot wearing jeans, a leather jacket, goggles and a hat with earflaps, entered. Slamming a pad of paper on top of the desk, he came around, looked at us, and then picked up our suitcases one at a time. He then placed them back on the floor and wrote something on his pad of paper. Then he looked at W.S. and asked, “How much do you weigh?”

W.S. proudly said, “I’m six feet tall and weigh 175 pounds.” Then the pilot looked at me. This was one of those life-altering moments. I did not want my obituary to read, “The plane went down because chubby lied about her weight,” so I mumbled, “With or without clothes?” The pilot replied, “That depends on how you choose to fly, but most people board my plane fully clothed.”

“Can I write it on your pad?” I asked. He handed me the paper, and I wrote down a number, which I am sure was 10 pounds over my actual weight, because I was wearing extremely heavy earrings. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go!” He opened the door and we followed him across the runway to a small four-seat propeller plane.

“How do you get into this thing?” W.S. asked. “You step onto the wing. Follow me,” said the pilot as he hopped up and hoisted me up behind him. The pilot sat in the cockpit, while W.S. and I crammed into the two seats in the back. “Buckle up. We’re cleared for takeoff,” he said. The plane lurched and we wobbled up, up and away--- (To be continued.)

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2003