Next to Nothing Clark Handlebar Chapter Seven                                                       Roy and I continued drinking until almost closing. I ended up spending the night on the couch in his parent’s basement (where Roy lived at the time). When the alarm on my cell phone went off it was 9: 30am. My entire world was in pain. There was no bathroom down in the basement, but luckily for me there was a sink. I threw up as quietly as possible so that I wouldn’t wake up his folks sleeping upstairs. As I stood there gripping the edge of the sink I knew I was in for a long fucking day. I threw some water on my face, put on some deodorant, and changed my shirt. Some folks might call this taking a “Puerto Rican shower”. Being a Puerto Rican myself, I’m inclined to object to such a blatantly racist epitaph. I feel that it’s wrong to generalize an entire nation’s hygienic practices based solely on some silly sterotype. Don’t you? Sure you do. It’s just wrong, people. So after I finished taking my Italian shower, I looked over my gear and tried my best not to vomit… again. The shuttle was going to be here at 10 and I was in no mood or condition to sit in any vehicle of any kind. I stumbled into Roy’s room and nudged him. He didn’t move. I didn’t have the energy to wake him up so I scribbled, “Talk at you later” on a blue note pad that was sitting on the floor and tossed it on his bed. After I brought my shit outside, I sat on the porch with my head in my hands. All of my belongs were packed and ready to go. My entire life fit somewhat neatly into an old green suitcase, a large army rucksack, and small black duffle bag that I was taking as a carry-on. Most people’s carry-on luggage contained CD’s and books and magazines and such. Maybe a couple of snacks. Not Mine. I had nothing but socks and under ware and some shoes that wouldn’t fit in my other bags. I didn’t need anything to read. I needed a drink and some god damned sleep. “First things first,” I told myself. Just get to the damned airport, check in, and immediately head to the bar. When the shuttle arrived I was somewhat pleased to learn that I was the last pick-up. Newark Airport is only about a fifteen minute skip up the Jersey Turnpike from Carteret. I sat in the back and stared out the window, breathing carefully out of my nose so as not to fill the van with the horrible stale liquor smell that would surely come out of my mouth if I opened it. I made a note to myself to buy some gum and toothpaste at the airport. I also needed to locate my toothbrush, which for all I knew was lodged in a shoe in my carry-on luggage. When we arrived at the airport I checked in, made my way to the gift shop, and bought the items that I needed. Check in was fairly painless. Anyone who flew during the first couple of years after 9/11 knows that this wasn’t always the case. It’s almost five years after the fact now and things are pretty much back to normal. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or bad thing. We as Americans demand convenience and safety when we travel. I truly believe that if were given the choice of one or the other, most of us would choose convenience. I probably would. I found my toothbrush (which thankfully I managed to wrap in a paper towel  before shoving it into my duffle bag) and gave my choppers a good brushing. And finally it was drinking time. It was close to 11am and my flight wasn’t leaving until 1:35pm. Plenty of time and money to level out and get ready for the big nap on the plane. I sat down at some bar in some terminal and ordered up Jameson’s and a beer. I had no interest in fucking around with bloody marys or momosas. The shit that respectable alcoholics drink in the a.m.   Not today. I needed to take the edge off and I needed to take it off quickly. After a couple I started to feel better and sense of relief came over me. And then I was excited. Truly excited. It really sunk in that I was moving back to San Francisco. I had been gone for a year and five months and now I was going back. November 1st, 2003 was a dark fucking day. As I mentioned in Chapter One,  Dan and I had given up our apartment on Capp St.  and had gotten on a plane back to Jersey. All the bullshit and hardships that followed were finally over and I was going to do things right this time. I was going to get us set up. Dan was going to come back out eventually and things were going to be ok. It was a sure thing. The thought of it all had me beaming and I was suddenly full of hope and optimism and I must have been smiling because the woman sitting two seats over from me nodded and smiled back. She wasn’t a bad looking woman. Late 30’s early 40’s I’d have guessed. Shoulder length dyed hair that was a dark auburn sort of color. She had dark eyes and was somewhat tanned for early April. She was well groomed and generally well put together in her long dark skirt, brown boots and light sweater. She wore some light make-up and some red shade of lipstick that stained the end of her Marlboro Light cigarette. The subtle lines on her face, something hollow in her eyes, and her very relaxed demeanor told me that drinking before noon was a regular thing for her. I asked her how she was doing. “Fine. And you?” she replied. “Not so bad. Going to California. Things could be worse. You know?” “Yeah,” she said. “I’m headed to Minnesota. Things are worse.” “Oh yeah? I think I’m on that flight. I have a 3 hour layover in Minnesota.” “Really?” she asked. Are you on the 1:35pm flight out of gate so and so?” “That’s the one,” I replied. “Well. Good. It looks like I’ll have a drinking buddy for the flight,” she said with a wink and a smile. “Got that right,” I said, raising my shot glass. The chair between us had her jacket on it. She removed it and offered me the seat. I slid over, we clinked glasses and she finished off her drink as I shot my whiskey. “What was that?” I asked her. “Rusty nail,” she answered. “Great. Excuse me, sir.” The bartender, probably in his sixties, with thin glasses and an expressionless face, looked up from reading his paper. We were the only two patrons in the bar so I suppose there wasn’t much else for him to do other than to read the news. There was golf or Nascar or wrestling on the TV, but it didn’t seem to interest him. “May we have a Rusty Nail, a Jameson, and a budlight?” He made the drinks without responding. I paid him and left three dollars on the bar. He was unaffected. Didn’t even say thanks. We clinked glasses for a second time. I took down half my shot while she sipped her Rusty Nail and then I introduced myself. “Well it’s nice to meet you. I’m Diane,” she said. “Thanks for the drink.” “The pleasure’s all mine,” I told her. We began the usual chatter. What do you do? Where are you from?  She said she was an English professor at some university in Minnesota and that she was impressed that I used the word “may” and not “can” when I ordered our drinks. I told her that I’d be sure to do that again when I ordered our next round, but she insisted the next one be on her. No argument there. I’m sure she had much more money than me. In fairness, I was technically unemployed. Justice had that job lined up for me in Fremont, but in my experiences I’ve learned that there what ever can go wrong will usually go horribly fucking wrong. The upside was that I knew that I had enough money to live for a little while when I got to S.F. and it was comforting to know that I still had a pay check from the Border Café being direct deposited into my account in a few days. We talked and drank some more and she started to get a little friendly. I couldn’t tell if she was lonely or interested in me. Either one was OK. She started doing what I call the “unnecessary touches”. Grabbing my hand when she would say something that was important to the conversation. Squeezing my arm as she excused herself to use the bathroom. At one point she even put her hand on my knee when she was asking me if I wanted another round. Of course the answer was yes. When it was time to board the plane we were both a bit buzzed. The conversation had turned a bit flirtatious towards the end and I would have skipped my flight if it meant going some place with Diane and fucking her lifeless. At least that’s what my drunken mind was telling me. The flight was just over half full so we were able to sit down next to each other and have an entire row to ourselves. I pulled the armrests up and sat down next to the window. Diane sat next to me, grabbed a blanket that was lying in the isle seat and I replaced it with my gray wool coat. She threw the blanket over her lap. My first thought was that that blanket could come in really handy later. And indeed it did. After take-off we ordered up a couple of scotch on the rocks, pulled our trays down and settled in for the flight. Diane began to check out our surrounding area. There was no one in the row across from us. There was some guy lying across the entire row behind us sleeping one off most likely. In front of us was an elderly couple. Both with sleeping masks on and earplugs in. Diane pulled the blanket from her lap and draped it over mine. She gave me a bit of a mischievous smile and slid her left hand into my lap. Oh boy. Despite my alcohol intake, I became hard instantly. This seemed to please our Diane and she slowly massaged my (dare I say) member through my pants. After just a few moments she slowly pulled down my zipper and slid her hand inside. I probably should have been nervous about it all, but I wasn’t. I was too drunk to really care. Diane found the hole in my boxer shorts and just like that she was stroking me. I was getting a hand job on the 1:35pm non-stop flight from Newark International to St. Paul. And she was good. I knew she wasn’t going to finish the job, but she knew how to tease just right. Stroking slowly, yet firm. Rubbing the tip with her thumb. Gently juggling the testicles. I could tell that Diane was no stranger to a cock and balls and that fucking her might just be my life’s greatest achievement. OK. That’s a bit of an exaggeration. But it would be great. I was certain of that. After a while I figured, why not go for broke here. I reached over her, grabbed my coat and pulled it across her lap. She looked at me some what inquisitively as if she wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I slid my arm underneath hers and squeezed her thigh. Her eyes lit up a little and when I ran my hand down in between her legs and started to gently rub her she gasped. After just a couple of seconds she asked me to stop. I figured maybe she wasn’t into it and I started to pull my hand away when she leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I don’t want to stain my skirt. Just put your hand down it and finger my pussy for me.” Did I say “oh boy” before? I tried not to look surprised. But Jesus Fuck I couldn’t believe what she said to me. I slipped my hand under the waist line of her skirt and I could see why she was concerned about leaving a stain. She wasn’t wearing any bloomers. She was shaved all but for a small patch of hair that felt like it was the shape of a triangle. She was already wet so I complied to her request and began fingering her slowly. She was enjoying it maybe a little too much and I felt that I should probably stop before a flight attendant that was taking drink orders at the front of the plane reached us or one of the passengers caught on. Before I got the will to stop myself, I think she started to appreciate the dangers of what we were doing and stopped me herself. “My god,” she whispered, “We can’t do this here.” We both looked over our shoulders towards the bathrooms. There were two flight attendants back there. I knew there was no way the two of us were getting in there without being seen. “There’s no way the two of us are getting in there without being seen,” she said. “Yeah. Sadly you’re probably right,” I answered. “I guess I’m going to have to finish the job alone,” she said. “But don’t worry. I have a car at the airport and you have a couple of hours to kill. I’m sure we can work something out.” She kissed me softly on the lips and then she was gone. I sat back in my seat and zipped my pants back up. I thought about her in the bathroom, standing up, forehead pressed up against the mirror, working herself out, a trickle of her juices running down her thigh. “God damn! I need a drink,” I said. Probably out loud. Thankfully the flight attendant who was taking drink orders reached me in a few minutes. I ordered us a couple of scotches and after the drink cart passed, Diane sat down smiling. “Hey,” she said. “Hey back,” I replied. “Here,” I said. “I thought you could use another.” “Oh yeah,” she said. Reaching for the drink with her left hand and pushing her hair back behind her ears with the other. “So we should come up with a plan,” she said. “You know. For when we land.” “OK,” I replied. And that’s what we did. The plan went a little something like this: Once we landed. I would go down and get Diane’s checked bag while she went over to long term parking to get her car. After 20 minutes or so she would come around to the baggage claim doors and pick me up. We would then head over to a close by motel for some hot sweaty monkey fuck and then she’d take me back to the airport in time to check in. Perfect plan. At least to the drunken mind. When we exited the gates, we kissed briefly and went our separate ways. I stood at the baggage claim carousel and cursed it for not starting up right away. Once it did and bags began to pour out, I cursed all the lucky bastards who were getting their luggage before me. After a while, there less and less bags and still no sight of the light brown flower suitcase Diane described. This was about where the plan fell apart. A sober person would have thought to exchange phone numbers, but that never occurred to me. After 25 minutes or so I was the only person left standing there and the contraption had stopped. I didn’t know what her last name was so I couldn’t ask the baggage claim folks where her bag was. I decided to go outside and she if she was there. I’d have to break the news to her that her bag was missing. The idea of dirty nasty sex with a complete stranger started to slip away. I went outside and stood around for a while. There was no sign of the black Lexus that she told me she drove. After about 15 minutes outside, I came to the terrible realization that I had been duped. There was no brown flower print suitcase. There was no black Lexus. There was going to be no hot sweaty monkey fuck. Over 40 minutes had passed. I decided to cut my losses and head back inside to find another bar to drink at before my connecting flight. I got it into my head that she had done this before. That she wasn’t even a college professor. That she knew what she was doing and that I never stood a chance. I took comfort in that. I figured she probably wanted to rob me, but realized I didn’t have much and decided to have a little fun instead. I pictured Diane in her long black skirt, brown boots, and light sweater riding whatever train gets you from St. Paul International to downtown. Heading off to some small apartment where she gets ready for her shift at the local tavern. Drinking Rusty Nails out of a coffee cup while the regular drunks make passes at her. All’s well that almost ends well I suppose. I headed back inside and sat down at some nameless bar. I still had two good hours left. The bartender approached me. “What can I get for you?” he asked. “I’ll take a budlight and a shot of Jameson’s.” He turned to grab my beer out of the cooler when I called back to him. “You know what? Never mind. Scratch that. Let me have a Rusty Nail please.” “Sure thing,” he said. Sure thing. CHECK BACK FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT