“Now, for some of you it doesn’t matter. You were born rich and you’re going to stay rich. But here’s my advice to the rest of you: Take dead aim on the rich boys. Get them in the crosshairs and take them down. Just remember, they can buy anything but they can’t buy backbone. Don’t let them forget it.”
– Herman Blume (Bill Murray) in Rushmore
Get that crow ready on a silver platter, because I’m ready to admit that I own a damn iPad.
Remember when I told each and every one of you how I had absolutely no need for such a frivolous device? Cast your stones, readers. In a moment of weakness, I drove over an hour to pick it up the same way others might grab a gallon of milk. Might as well, it could come in handy, right? So rather than wait for it to be delivered in 3 weeks, I found myself in Springfield’s Best Buy about a month ago.
But that’s done with, and also not the point of this piece. I’m sitting in seat 7A on my flight to Detroit earlier this month, pulling that damn iPad onto my lap in an effort to lessen the cardiac episodes of panic I get while flying, when the cute girl next to me says “ooh, is that an iPad?”
Well, you see…. uhhhh wow, what an accent! And yes, yes it is. Angels crooned, the light got beautiful and my stupid purchase suddenly made sense. It’s the perfect conversation starter: Stupid crazy expensive and new enough to attract attention. And I never even used it on that flight.
She’s a German au pair, tall with hazelnut/green eyes. Gorgeous, to borrow another G-word. And somehow, here she was leaving Peoria’s ramshackle airport on a plane that permanently damages my spine every time I try standing up. I remember peering at her during the wait at the gate, but we all know that natural law stipulates you’ll end up with the largest and smelliest person crammed halfway into your seat. No point in fantasizing, and yet…
She was returning to the family she takes care of in New Hampshire after visiting friends in Pekin, Illinois. This the suburb of Peoria that once proudly claimed “the chinks” as their high school nickname. I shudder to think of the mascot that went with that.
“My name is Mikeh,” she said. “Micah?” I asked. No no. Mike-eh. “I am not a sausage!” she exclaimed. Apparently Meica is a well known sausage brand in Germany.
I felt bad steering the conversation toward our differences, but maybe she didn’t mind. We talked and laughed the entire flight, and soon we were saying goodbye in Detroit. I handed her my business card, scribbled my personal email address on the back, and told her to write me.
Another one lost? Silence, at least for now.
UPDATE: “It’s actually a pretty popular brand of sausage in the states,” says Micah. HEY-O!
Written in 5-inch capital letters on a sheet of notebook paper, these words sit on the sidewalk along Moss Avenue tonight. I’m lacking context, obviously, but I imagine two small children cradling the dirty sign with hollow eyes: a crappy M. Night Shyamalan flick.
Moments earlier, I made a beeline through the Bradley University campus. It’s no longer Deadsville, now populated with gaggles of freshmen taking wrong turns to their respective dorm rooms. Cutting across the quad, I perform a double double-take when I see a familiar face dash past me, turn around to flirt with a few people, then race off into the dusk. The dim light is playing a dirty trick on my poor eyes, I’m sure, but I’m unnerved enough that I put my hands in my pockets, my heart pounds, and I keep my head down. I’m ashamed of my reaction – I don’t fear this person – but my subconscious reacts like a balloon popping unexpectedly.
Sleep has been fitful and fleeting this week, and we know that days are growing increasingly shorter. Maybe none of this happened.