The Adventures of Jetboy747

Love Fiona

“Hello.”

“Hi, is Scott there?”

“Um, you have the wrong number.”

“Don’t hang-up!” the impassioned interrupter of my chilly Sunday screams. Why do I answer the phone? I’m lounging on the couch, in long underwear. It’s snowed. It looks cold outside. But I don’t know, because I haven’t stepped outside. I’m watching X3, mainly for the shirtless boy with wings.

“Is this Kelly?” she says. “And you have a brother, Scott?”

“Yes.” Oh great, either a psychic or some trollop my brother impregnated in his booze-drenched hetro-promiscuous days. Well, she’ll get no child support out of me.

“It’s me! Fiona!” You know, I’ve always thought Fiona is such a pretty name. But I don’t know anyone named Fiona, not even on TV. Fiona Apple? Why would Fiona Apple be calling me? I bought one of her CDs, once. Don’t think that would warrant a call.

This Fiona is rambling on about dogs. I still have no idea who she is until she says Brad’s name. Ah, Brad. Brad I remember. Cheap son of a bitch. Seriously, the only guy I’ve ever met who collected his empties after a party for the 5 cent deposit return. He was mystified that everyone didn’t do the same.

Now that I know who she is, I have to get rid of her. I haven’t seen this woman since my brother’s wedding, what 5 years ago? We were never friends. I hardly know the woman. I’ve heard stories though, stories about jail (she was arrested for beating up her mother), drugs, alcohol abuse and a psych ward. The woman is nuts. She makes Courtney Love look like a demure socialite.

She asks for my brother’s phone number. I tell her I don’t give out people’s phone numbers, which is true, but, next time I talk to him, I’ll tell him she called. She can leave her number with me. The funny thing is, my name is spelled wrong in the phonebook, so only the spelling-impaired can look me up. On reflection, this may not be the best policy.

“It’s such a shame that I fell out of touch with the gang,” she says. And, though I search my memory as hard as I can, I can not place myself within the realms of a gang and certainly not with this woman. I tell her I have to go. She tells me I’m a wonderful person and so is my brother. I say good-bye.

She says, “okay, I love you! Let’s keep in touch. Bye.”

I love you? Funny, on this chilly Sunday, coming from a mental patient, those words don’t warm me up at all.

Me, Brad, Altoids and Air Canada

I’m reading about two famous people caught canoodling.  Canoodling?  I love that word.  To me, I picture kissing after cannoli, licking powdered sugar off someone’s face.  Or noodles.  There’s nothing nicer than a long hard slurping suck on a noodle.   Or your noodle or mine?  Let’s bang noodles.  I just love canoodling.

I started this entry on my flight to New York.  The two caught canoodling are actors, even though I’m only vaguely aware of their acting, but I know they’re famous, because they canoodle in public.

I’m bored.  And hungry.  I’ve read Esquire from cover to cover.  Brad Pitt is more interesting than watching clouds float by at 35,000 feet, but not by much.  People wrongfully assume that because I’m aviation obsessed, I love to fly.  I don’t.  I hate everything about flying that everyone else does.  I don’t have a fear of flying though.  This separates me from some people.

And I can sit around airplanes in terminals and find endless fascination with them.

I have another Altoid, an early dinner, since no food is offered on Air Canada any more.  Everyone wants more money these days, especially large corporations.  They cut everything down to a well-oiled machine so high-powered executives can get big bonuses and give speeches about how rich people are getting more rich.  And so, I can have breath mint for dinner on a 5-hour flight.

We’re over the Atlantic now, descending.  The water looks choppy and cold.  Still, it’s nice to see something other than clouds.

I know things now.  Things I didn’t when I looked at the Atlantic that day.  Things like my Dad being admitted to the hospital when I was in New York.  I know he’s still there.  I know he’s not improving, but not getting worse.  A thing I still don’t know is what’s wrong, exactly.  But no one seems to know that.

I know he’ll be all right.  At least, I hope I know that.

Still, it’s fun to think about canoodling and boring Brad Pitt while having an Altoid for dinner over the Atlantic.  Even though, unfortunately, I have no one to  canoodle with.