The Alpha For Her

Ninety minutes later she was at JFK, in line to board an actual jet to St. Louis.

“D’accord,” a woman at the head of the line called in a loud voice. “Tout le monde a ses cartes d’embarquement prêtes. Nous sommes dans les rangs vingt-six à dix-huit. Regarde moi maintenant. Être prêt.”

She was pretty and petite, and obviously guiding some band of tourists. She was dressed in a pink, silk, skirt-suit that lay on her fine figure like water.

“If I could afford clothes like that,” Jen typed into her notebook, “I’d fly in the nines.”

The woman was shepherding her people as the boarding aisles were called. She had a creamy complexion, and her bright blonde hair was cut boy-short. She wore round, silver wire-rimmed glasses, and she had the sort of pretty face that made them work. She seemed to beam as she spoke to her charges like a mother-hen, and her charges looked at her like happy chicks.

Jen was up to board first. She was in the tail, and so had to wait as the plane rocked with the passengers climbing in. She watched the blonde in the pink-suit usher her people. There were a few problems, but with the help of a French-speaking flight attendant, they worked things out. The flight attendant looked so relieved, and she thanked the blonde many times.

Forty-five minute later, the jet was screaming down the runway. Jennifer shut her eyes and held it up by the armrests until they reached their cruising altitude. Jennifer relaxed her grip and gave the plane to the pilots. But she never let go.

Jennifer understood that the strange thing about travel, whether it was in a plane, a train or a car, was that the human body could not sense motion. She knew that she sat inside of a pressurized aluminum and plastic balloon, traveling at over five-hundred miles an hour, and yet she felt nothing but the occasional ripple. City busses were wilder than that. Pennsylvania was streaming under her, and she had no feel for that.

So she sat back, shut her eyes and told herself that with each passing moment she was getting closer to the end. The whine of the jet engines lulled her. She listened to the engineering marvels, her brain ready to note any brown note in their music.

Soon, she was startled as the constant hum grew, and the plane banked.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said, “we are beginning our decent into Saint Louis. If you look to port, the left side, you will see the famous arch…”

The human body could not sense motion, but it could sense acceleration and deceleration. Jennifer gripped the armrests, silently willing the pilots to do her bidding. The aircraft touched down flawlessly. Jennifer breathed.

Then they spent the next forty minutes waiting for a parking space. In that time, the blonde got up and spoke to her people.

“Je suis tellement désolé, mais ici, nous devons nous séparer,” she began. “C’est un plaisir de vous aider. Et vous avez si bien aidé mon Français! Au revoir tout le monde. Au revoir!”

The tourists got off, each one thanking the blonde as they left. And Jennifer saw many of them grease her palm with Euros.

After the tourists had left, the woman collapsed into her seat. A flight attendant went to her with a drink, and the two talked and chuckled. Then the plane began to board with new passengers.

“Three hours to Frisco,” Jennifer said to herself. “I can do this.”

The ride to San Francisco was uneventful. The attendants brought the trolley by, offering drinks and nuts at ridiculous prices. She was surprised at how many people bought scotch or gin. She was also surprised at how many people paid with plastic. She made a note; thirty-six thousand feet above the planet, and the plastic is still green. I wonder if it is being uploaded as they swipe, or if we have to land and so download

Jennifer paid six dollars cash for a ginger ale and a bag of honey-roasted peanuts.

Strange, she wrote. Everything up here is in round dollars – no ninety-eight cents.

Jennifer sipped her ginger ale and ate her peanuts, one by one. She cracked the whole ones with her teeth, savoring the drop of oil that oozed. Then she massaged the honey-roast from each half before she nailed the raw peanut.

She calculated that she would be half-way through the bag before the plane was half way to San Francisco. She frowned, and so ate slower.

She told herself that flight-time was time, and so she should use that time. She opened her notepad to the download that Dryzek’s secretary had sent her. It was a catalogue of all of the other people who would be attending the seminar, and they couldn’t have been more diverse. One woman was into retro-clothes. One was all about investing in feminist friendly films. One was a musician who tailored music to weddings. One was all about helping transgendered women learn about being a woman. One was even about how to win at Blackjack.

But the thing that Jennifer saw in all of the attendees was that they weren’t looking for cash. They were all about helping. They were all about free info, and if someone wanted to make a donation, that would be happily accepted. But they didn’t charge, they didn’t try and send you to another web-site, and there were no hidden fees. They were honest people, offering honest advice, and making money through the advertisers that chose their site. That was a comforting thought. But even as she felt comforted, Jennifer felt the plane bank. She clutched her armrests

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said over the speakers, “we are beginning our descent…”

Jennifer shut her eyes and held her armrests. She guided the plane down, but as she did she couldn’t help but look out the window at the San Francesco Bay shrouded in mist. The Golden-Gate-Bridge came into view, wrapped in grey. Then she knew; she was three thousand miles from home.

The plane landed.

The plane parked.

Passengers rushed and jostled to get off. Jennifer watched them grabbing their over-head compartment bags and wondered what was so important.

The people from the window seats shoved themselves past her. They grabbed their over-head things, then lined up. Jennifer sat. She felt the plane rock as the important people exited slowly, all going to their important things and places. When the aisle was almost empty, she stood. She slung her hobo and got to the end of the line. As she did, the French blonde stood also and got in line behind her.

“Bonjour,” she said.

“Hi,” Jennifer answered.

“Let me guess,” the woman said in a sudden, and very crisp British accent. “Boston?”

“No.”

“But you are east-coast.”