Joe's Bar and Grill

Today's Menu:

"High and Tight"

Prior Menus:

"How Close the Grim Reaper?"

"Jonesboro, world icon"

"Is that all there is?"

"I want, like,  a job"

Back to Friends of Randy Krieger

---Joe

In the course of an average work year, I'm probably on 150 different flights, consume close to 75 pounds of peanuts and pretzels, get my chair kicked by about a dozen kids, and effectively ignore the 400 or so passengers who sit close to me. It's not that I want to ignore most of them, it's just that most of them don't seem all that interesting to talk to. Yeah, I'm a picky, conceited SOB, but I like the life that goes on in my little bubble. There's a rule that all frequent travelers swear is true, "the less interesting your seatmate, the more likely he/she will want to engage in conversation." I propose this law be forever documented in the annals of commercial aviation as "Goss' Law of Airline Strangers." When I get a chance, I'll work on a couple of corollaries, probably relating the size or body odors of these strangers in especially tight spaces or the likelihood of having alcohol spilled on you in relation to the sobriety of the person you're flying to meet.

Never in my days as a traveler have I sat next to the aspiring supermodel with an IQ of 150 who wanted to talk about the intellectual approach to casual sex or a massage therapist who wanted to practice her art prior to landing. Hell, I haven't even sat next to an aspiring Miss Possum Grape with an IQ just above the average radio talk show host who wanted to talk about sex with (or between) animals. The few men or women who looked to be interesting people to talk to immediately buried their heads into old copies of National Geographic or a battered book on sexual symbolism by Freud. My attempts at anything closely resembling conversation were met with a guttural "un-huh" or some similar sign telling me to shut up and keep my inane thoughts to myself. The ones I don't want to talk to immediately pull out pictures of their grandkids or tell me their nephew is big in computers (probably came up with the idea to put pictures on the cash register at McDonalds).

The flight from San Francisco to Austin promised to be no different. My seatmate is already on board and is curled up on a pillow against the window. All I see is hair…lots and lots of frizzy hair….I'm thinking "trailer park." I've got plenty of work to do and, if I get caught up with that, I can crank out a few column ideas I have for "Joe's Bar and Grill." Up go my "airplane annoyance deflector shields" and I'm ready to travel.

"Excuse me. Do you fly on this route a lot?" "No, I've never flown this one before."

"Is this a bumpy trip?" "Well, um, that has nothing to do with the route. I think the bumpiness of the flight is usually determined by the weather, our altitude, wind speed…a whole lot of things. It's not a consistent situation." "Okay, thanks."

Five more minutes have passed. I assume I'm safe. She's just a white-knuckle flyer and will whimper over in her little corner until we're airborne, but she won't bother me. I study her carefully, trying to figure out more about her. Every now and then, a low moan escapes, one that says she's worried. She reminds me a lot of a secretary I know somewhere, one with lots of brass and tons of over-permed hair. The hair, however, only distracts from her most prominent feature, one that couldn't be missed by those seated in every row of the plane--yes, I mean her nails (after the intro to my story, you probably thought I was gonna say something else…just for the record, I'm very much a leg man). They were bright red (which is fast becoming a conservative color these days) and very long. I've never liked long nails, I've never liked colored nails. They look absolutely trashy. The only time I've ever taken even the smallest liking to them is when having them scraped across my bare back while… oh, never mind. You get the idea. I am not attracted to this woman and her being scared about flying only heightened my ravenous lack of lust for her.

When we get up in the air and the drink cart makes its rounds, my seatmate puts down a hefty drink (a double, I believe), with plenty of alcohol and not much filler. My mind is already three steps ahead, trying to figure out what I do when she gets sick or panics or demands to be let off the plane. I can tell this won't have a pleasant ending.

My simple goal for this flight is to get a little work done and have a pleasant journey. She has other things in mind. She admires that I'm working on my laptop. She wants to know if I'm a computer geek. She makes small talk about the economy being bad in Hawaii. She says she can't get a contract there. Odd choice of terms there. I'm thinking contract teacher, contract programmer, contract recruiter, contract writer or artist. What do you do, I ask.

"I'm a dancer," she replies. I stop typing. There is more than one kind of dancer, I'm thinking. She wouldn't be an exotic dancer, I think. Maybe Honolulu has a thriving industry of dinner theaters for the Japanese tourists who can't make it all the way to Broadway. Maybe she's in "Showboat" or "A Chorus Line." I look again. She's not well-endowed. She's over 30. Can't be a stripper. Must be something else.

"Yeah, I hear there are some great clubs in Austin. I can make $500-600 a night down there or at least my friend does. She works only when she wants to and the patrons are a lot nicer than in the other places I've worked. And I won't have to do all that fucking lap dance stuff. The bouncers take good care of her and she doesn't have to do anything extra for the customers...unless she wants to."

I pride myself on being a pretty liberal guy (I'm not very good at it, but I keep up appearances) and I try not to judge people too quickly, but two thoughts passed quickly through my mind. I'm not very proud of these notions, but many of the fellas in our viewing audience will relate to these and I'm sure these have already occurred to more than a couple of you. First my mind processed the term "Mile High Club" and then "Dear Penthouse." I'll admit the first of these has passed through my head more than a couple of times when some very attractive passenger wanders toward the back of the plane. The second one is not a common thought for me at all. But I had the letter already composed. "Dear Penthouse. You won't believe what happened to me on a flight recently…" I know better than to think such things will ever happen to me, but a guy's gotta have some dreams, right?

She's not gonna be a casual chat, that I can tell. She's too wired to sit there quietly, engrossed in the airline magazine article on fly-fishing with the Secretary of Education. Dammit, I'm gonna have to talk to her and act like I'm enjoying it. And I'll gonna get her to talk more about her profession if it kills me.

Shy, reserved, easily embarrassed, she's not. My seatmate lays it all out, much to the amusement of the people sitting in front of us. Oh, I suppose I should tell us her name. Like all strippers, she has two names…Krystal (my spelling), her stage name, and Tami (ditto), her real name (or so she told me). Krystal wasn't afraid of talking about anything. "Okay, maybe I gave up a blow job for an occasional twenty." "They'll fuck the customers out in the parking lot in the middle of the afternoon." "Some of the girls think with their pussies and get into tons of trouble." The poor old man in front of me nearly broke his neck trying to hear everything we're talking about. He'd whisper to the dowdy woman seated next to him (presumably his wife) while he massaged his sore neck. I would have paid large sums of money to learn how he described our conversations to her. I doubt he quoted her verbatim.

Krystal told me just about everything, far more than I would have ever asked. She'd done some sleazy things. She'd been in the Navy twice, but got kicked out for alcoholism. She had dated a couple of her customers, but they turned out to be very jealous of her performing. She was 38 and ancient for her industry. She didn't want to get a boob job. She'd tried the drug scene, but kept to only cocaine these days. She didn't like blacks and wouldn't dance for a black man. For the right amount of cash, she'd do just about anything. She'd been pregnant twice, but got abortions both times.

Pretty much everything I've ever wanted in a woman, right? But, true to her profession, she was very good at keeping my attention. She played with my ego, much as the other exotic dancers I've had the rare occasion to keep company with (honest). I was in a different place…I was playing the game with a woman whom I had no interest in other than sexual, whom I wasn't even attracted to and I was sober. I had no reference points for this one.

Krystal kept it up. She fawned over my computer and over me. She got my business card and the number to my hotel. She said words I have never heard directed toward me before and probably never will…"I've wanted to kiss you ever since I saw you." Needless to say, I granted her immediate permission to do so. The old guy tried to bend his neck in ways God never intended it to. I had an ego boost to last for a few weeks or more. She proposed getting together over the next couple of days to have a drink and "let things proceed naturally." I'm having trouble not appearing too eager. "Yeah, I hang out in the hotel with strippers all the time." She also tapped into my psyche by offering to have me see a show. Something about being able to monopolize her time without spending a dime while other unfortunate dudes flash tens and twenties to no avail. I'm in, I think.

When we landed, Krystal didn't let up. She slipped out into the crowded aisle snuggled up behind me, grabbed my ass a few times to let me know she was there. I was never in less of a hurry to get off an airplane in my life. Hell, let's go back to California and do this again. We keep it up during our walk to the baggage claim, hoping I'm not breaking a Texas law or two, but not really caring.. Krystal even flashes her claws when a female co-worker comes up to say hello. Gee, women fighting over me? Someone must have drugged my latte in SF. This doesn't happen to plain vanilla me. I'm the guy who can't come up with an interesting answer for "where's the strangest place you've had sex?" "My bed" is probably the best answer. Buddhist monks have more exotic tales to tell. I just like to watch, but even that isn't very often.

Now for the letdown. In keeping with the Federal Communications Act, the laws of several states and with my lifetime batting average, I didn't hear from Krystal. She didn't call, write, fax, e-mail, nothing. I didn't have any info for finding her. She vanished.

The upside: My co-workers looked at me with a strange sense of respect once they heard the tales of my adventures. I stayed on a personal high long enough for me to notice the difference. My fantasy bank was more than overfilled for the next couple of months with "what ifs" involving brass poles, thongs, schoolgirl costumes, glow-in-the-dark props and a heavy bass beat. I actually look forward to chance encounters in airplanes.

Certainly there are many among you who can easily top this tale with exotic, erotic adventures of your own, perhaps from your 8^th grade algebra class. Tough. My life is so devoid of these true stories that I must have at least one to share. It's pretty tame, sure, but so's the rest of my life. Give me a break and leave me alone with my thoughts. My new goal is to top this one and that will take some work. Just leave me alone, okay? I'm thinking about a little vacation touring the gentlemen's clubs of Texas.

ã 1998, Joseph Goss.

Write Joe at: joseph.goss@sap-ag.de