Oliver Benjamin
An hour later, we ate our airline meals with great relish, and Jenny
requested a second, if they had it. When the stewardess commented
on her appetite she responded with, “You know, some things are just
better at high altitudes.”
We arrived at the Bangkok airport in the early afternoon. I was
surprised to find that Jenny’s new boyfriend was waiting at the
terminal to pick her up. She kissed me softly on the cheek and winked
at me, before walking away arm in arm with him. As I watched them,
he glanced back and flashed me an aren’t-you-jealous smirk. Feeling
sorry for him, I countered with a sympathetic watch-out-for-that-
pole grimace.
Gripping my seat and clenching my molars while on the death-
defying airport stunt bus on the way to the budget accommodation
area of Bangkok, I was accosted by a short British fellow named
Oscar. Oscar had small round glasses and a receding hairline, and
while altogether uncharismatic, displayed a demeanor and an eye
contact one might find endearing.
“Nice work on the plane,” he said good-naturedly, also gripping
his seat for dear life.
I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“That girl. Face it. Everyone around you knew what you did in
the bathroom.”
“We bathed.”
“Sure you did. You reeked of sex when you came back to your
seats. And you were the only person on the whole plane who finished
their meal, not to mention two of them. Nice work. I’m Oscar
Turnbull.” He extended his hand.
“Jake Rippy.” We shook for a second and then were split apart
by a hair-raising left turn.
“Yes, I know. I couldn’t help eavesdropping on your
conversation. That girl has a very piercing voice.”
“It’s her new nose.”
“Yes, I figured. I found what she had to say very interesting,
though.”
“Which part?”
“Oh that marvelous art project she perpetrated on your college
campus. Brilliant, really.”
“You think so?” I hadn’t made up my mind about it and
wondered what someone with an intellectual British accent thought.
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