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So far, it had been a typical trip. Leaving Denver mid-Sunday, I had arrived in Hartford CT, rented a car, drove to New Haven, found a motel and was out to the customer site early Monday. I spent the whole day with them, training a new set of network engineers on our server failover product. This was a frequent trip; they were always hiring, firing, moving around engineers, so I knew the route.
Rush-hour traffic found me on I-95 heading south to Manhattan. Arriving late, I turned my car in at La Guardia, took a taxi to the hotel, collapsed, and was at the customer site in Tower 2 of the World Trade Center on-time the next morning. I never minded working with these guys. They were sharp, knew the product and knew a couple of good restaurants.
Heading back to La Guardia, the taxi seemed to take a long time, arriving to find my flight had been cancelled.
“We can get you on a later flight. Around midnight”, offered the sullen customer service rep. A bit too tired to argue, I accepted my fate. I called the customer in Dallas, saying I would be late tomorrow and looked for a quiet spot to wait. I dozed off but road warrior training alerted me to midnight. Stumbling onto the aircraft, I found 28F and tucked in for a long winter’s nap.
Still in the early stages on my nap, I recognized that 28D and E had arrived. Adjusting my blanket, I snuggled closer to the window.
“Hi”, a perky Texas accent attacked. “Hi” I mumbled and moved closer to the window. “Going to Dallas?” - always one of my favorite questions. Man, what’s this all about. Can’t she see I’m sleeping. Undismayed, she babbled on “We’re from Dallas. Are you from Dallas?”
“No” I said, “from Denver” and pushed against the window.
“Oh, I just love Denver. We have a ski place in Aspen and we always like to see Denver”.
Realizing I was doomed, I sat up. Wishing I had a blindfold, it would make the torture easier, I smiled and reached for the in-flight magazine. We were airborne now, the flight attendants were making their desultory rounds, service is never great on red-eyes.
I looked at my assailant; mid-40s; plump; plastic, blonde hair; lots of expensive jewelry; a man, husband? sitting in 28D sound asleep, obviously used to such crucifixion.
“We were on the 8 o’clock flight but they cancelled it. Were you on it also? We were in First Class but my friends got the last seat so we had to sit in Coach.” A hoarse, toothy laugh burbled forth as she continued, “I’m going to give my friends such a talking too when we get home”
Not a kind-hearted person by nature, a wave of empathy for her friends flooded me.
“What were you doing in New York?", I found myself saying, aimlessly wandering.“Oh, we were shopping. Don’t you just love New York stores? I mean Dallas has some very nice stores but nothing compares to New York! We spent just ages at Tiffany’s. They have the nicest jewelry. I had to get something really nice for the party”.
To my horror, I found myself echoing “Party?” Her trap sprung, on she went. “Oh yes, we went to The Party at Trump Towers. My husband is such good friends with The Donald”. Hubby twisted in his seat and went under again. My admiration for the man, his coolness under fire, his durability, knew no bounds.
“The Donald? Trump Towers?” I questioned. The La Brea tar pits weren’t as sticky as this gal. “Oh yes” – I noticed that she began almost every sentence with “Oh yes”. “It was such a nice party” she said dreamily, “everyone was there. It was so elegant. I really loved it. And The Donald is such a fine man. Very proper but very friendly. He talked to me for such a long time” her voice misting.
“Who’s The Donald?”, the words just came out. I mean it was honest, I had no idea who The Donald was and I felt I had missed a major part of this woman’s life, being old friends that we were.
She was startled. Her look defined incredulous. She moved away from me, then returned with a saccharine smile usually reserved for the servants and other lower creatures. “Why, Donald Trump! My husband and The Donald are very good friends”
Her blow bounced off my airline blanket and I continued. “Is he a New York guy or one of your friends from Dallas” Her disbelief mounted, I was beyond the pale, she visibly puffed up. “Donald Trump, The Donald, is one of the biggest developers is the world. He built Trump Towers. He made over Atlantic City." "Paul, motioning to her comatose husband (my admiration for Paul mushroomed) and Donald Trump are very good friends”
“Sorry, I guess that’s the price of living in Denver”, my smile reflecting my agony.
“Melissa, Melissa”. I looked up to see a 40ish; plump; plastic, blonde hair; lots of expensive jewelry woman standing at row 28. “Melissaaaaa!” the newcomer hissed. Turning in her seat, “Melissa” yelled “What” causing 27Es seat to abruptly return to its upright position.
“There are two seats in First. Somebody didn’t make it. The Flight Attendant moved some people around and you and Paul can come up”.
“Thank God!” Melissa said and grabbed her elegant handbag. She never looked back at me as she stumbled over Paul. I thought a parting shot of “I wondered why someone as important as you, knowing The Donald and all, would be sitting in 28E” but sometimes maturity overcomes me.
After she fumed off, I noticed Paul was still in 28D, sound asleep. Smart guy.
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