Page 4 of The Woman in 3B
“You’re not winning bingo; you’re winning money,” he pointed out. “Cold. Hard. Cash.”
Gemma interrupted our juvenile bickering before it could escalate. Conflict made her itch: “You guys want to do something tonight?”
“Can’t,” Kent clipped. “I’m having spaghetti.” He wiggled the fingers on his right hand in parting. “See you grandmas tomorrow.”
Kent sashayed out of the flight crew lounge, leaving Gemma and me on our own.
“Kent sure eats a lot of pasta,” Gemma observed with a wistful sigh. “I wish I could have carbs.”
Gemma was perpetually on the quest to lose five pounds. I thought her curves were sexy, but I could appreciate her concern. In our profession, every little extra bit on your body added to the overall claustrophobia of the galley.
I cocked an eyebrow at my friend and laughed. “You know that’s not what he’s talking about, right?”
“Huh?”
“He’s probably hanging out with one of his married pilot friends. Spaghetti is code,” I supplied. “Straight until they get wet. Straight until they get a few drinks in them.”
“Oh.Oh,” Gemma blinked rapidly as the realization set in. “That makes so much more sense.”
I couldn’t understand Kent’s near-obsession with sleeping with married pilots. For one, they were married. How could your conscience ever forgive that kind of behavior? For the other, pilots were notoriously cocky. Confidence was attractive, but most of the pilots I’d met over the years were ego-maniacs.
How many pilots does it take to change a light bulb?
Just one. He holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.
“What are you doing tonight?” Gemma asked. “Are you having ‘pasta,’ too?” She highlighted the euphemism with air quotes.
I snorted at the suggestion. “Not likely. The only pasta I’m eating these days comes out of a little blue box.”
+ + +
“Honey, I’m home!”
I shut my apartment door with my foot since my hands were busy with grocery bags. I only went shopping once a month, mostly for non-perishables and a gallon of milk whose expiration date I considered as a recommendation, not the end all, be all.
My apartment wasn’t much, but I didn’t spend too much time at home anyway. At least I actually had a home though. I knew some people who had crashpads around the country instead of renting a proper apartment. Crashpads could be a house or an apartment with bunkbeds in each room. For a couple hundred bucks a month you could have a place to stay if you weren’t keen on the commuting life.
I had lucked out that the city in which I lived—Romulus—was a central hub for my airline. Despite its name, Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport was actually located in Romulus, Michigan—a small city about twenty miles west of downtown Detroit. The airport was the busiest in the state and one of the largest airports in the country. My own airline operated over one hundred gates in two different terminals.
I knew a few others whose home airport was also Detroit Metro, but they commuted to a different city in a different state to go home. They always seemed overtired and overstressed. Commuting took a lot of planning and your schedule could be ruined with a simple weather delay.
Even without commuting, our work hours were long. In a month, I typically spent between 65 to 90 hours in the air with another 50 hours of preparing planes for flight, completing reports, and other grounded tasks.
I dropped off the bags on the short countertop island that functioned as both a food prep area and my dining table. I left the bags on the counter for the moment.
“You hungry, Honey?”
I didn’t expect a verbal response, but my pet turtle enthusiastically splashed in her tank. I’d had Honey—a red-eared slider—for close to a decade. My job kept me from owning more traditional pets unless I paid to have them kenneled or hired a pet sitter. That was money I didn’t have. Honey was the perfect compromise. She didn’t require much maintenance beyond occasional feedings and cleaning her aquarium. Plus, she had loads more personality than a fish.
I dropped a handful of floating food pellets into her tank and watched her hunt down each piece of food with erratic precision. She was clumsy—smashing her open mouth against the clear glass walls—but persistent. No piece of food went undevoured.
“How was your day?” I asked. I leaned close to the aquarium glass and watched her zip across the water’s surface. I tapped lightly against the glass, but she was in hunting mode and paid little attention to me. “Get some good sunbathing done today? Take a dip in your pool? Must be nice; I was in recycled air all day while you’re on a permanent vacation.”
With Honey fed, I started the task of feeding myself. I didn’t have occasion for eating at home too often. The airline paid for most of my food since I was on the clock during most meal times. I cooked a little though; my life would have turned into too much of a sad cliché if I relied on frozen microwavable dinners and cereal.
My conversation with Gemma had inspired me to make Italian that night—homemade meatballs on top of thick-noodled spaghetti, swimming in a rich marinara sauce. I’d just settled down at the kitchen island to tuck into my meal and a glass of red wine, when my phone rang and my sister’s name and number popped up on the screen.
My sister Dawn was a few years older than me. While I hadn’t made it through college and had boomeranged back into my parents’ basement, Dawn had achieved practically everything she had set out to do. I was a single, gay, college dropout who lived in an 700-square foot apartment in Romulus, Michigan while she was married with kids and lived in a big house in the affluent Detroit suburbs.
