Up In The Air Part 6

My future brother-in-law's Minnesota accent-the one so many comedians make fun of and which I don't hear in myself, though others do-prevents me from judging his level of concern. "Ryan, I'll get to the point here: she took off. No, we're not arguing. It's about her job. She lost two dogs this morning at the rescue farm. They jumped the fence and ate some gopher poison and pretty much died in her arms, from what we hear. It got ugly, I guess: they coughed up lots of blood. She split in her van and no one's heard from her."

"She hasn't called Kara? She usually calls Kara."

"We think someone saw her in Rochester. A cop."

"Has Julie been eating?"

"Like a horse."

"I doubt that."

"It was the dogs, I swear. They'd been abused. Two Border collies with collars grown into their necks. Should I be worried? She's done this in the past, right? Your mom says this is typical."

She's wrong. Yes, my sister runs when she's unhappy, but there's a novel element in play here: Julie's attachment to the poisoned animals. This is a girl who a.s.sumes all bonds are temporary, who's famously well-defended against loss. Her divorces were strangely painless; she skipped away from them, demanding no money, no car keys, nothing. The weekend after our father's funeral, she sang in and won a karaoke contest at a supper club. She took the job at the rescue farm not out of pity or tenderheartedness, but because the vet in charge was a family friend who didn't hold her history against her.

"You call me as soon as you hear from her," I say.

"Kara's flying up from Utah tonight. She thinks Julie's probably crashed at some motel, crying things out."

"This isn't wedding jitters? That farm must lose animals every other day."

"I know what you're saying. Your sister's changing, Ryan. Stuff affects her now. Pray for her, okay?"

"I never stop," I say. "Put Mom back on."

I finish my beer while I wait. It tastes like mucilage, that glue that's used to paste photos into alb.u.ms.

"Is it raining there?" my mother says.

"It never rains. It's the desert. About this dog story: I don't buy it, Mom."

"Portland's not the desert."

"I'm in Nevada. This wedding is being rammed down Julie's throat. Of course she's AWOL. Can't you people see that? This house Kara picked for her, the whole arrangement, it's like you're hanging Julie in some museum."

"You fibbed to me," she says. "Where are you, Ryan? You're probably not in Nevada, either, are you? You're probably in Des Moines, a hundred miles from here, and you just can't be bothered to come help out."

"You know that's wrong, Mom. Whenever I'm that close to you, I'm there. The force field still works. Do we always have to fight?"

"Kara says you got fired."

"Well, she knows better. You made that up."

"I wanted to be sure."

"I need people not to make things up this week."

"You told me you were in Oregon Oregon."

"Fight fire with fire. Can we go back to Julie?"

"It's you you that worries us. She that worries us. She knows knows what she's running away from." what she's running away from."

"That's so profound. Someone's been reading a major woman novelist."

"I don't like having to wonder where I'm reaching you. It puts me at a disadvantage, Ryan. For all I know, you're in j.a.pan and it's tomorrow. I'll see you on Friday. We're tying up the line."

"I love you, okay? No matter what you think. Congratulate Burt and keep me posted on Julie."

"How long are you coming for? Just the weekend? Longer?"

"I'm going in segments. I'll get to that one soon. Are you crying?"

"I'm crying a little."

"Me, too."

"I know."

I pour a gla.s.s of water to drink in bed but it tastes of chlorine, so I collect some change and step out into the hall to find a soda. Paper menus with early-morning breakfast orders hang from the doors, and I read a few of them. Coffee, juice, and m.u.f.fins-they're all the same. If the doors were to become transparent suddenly, the people behind them would all be the same, too: asleep with the news on, their bags beside their beds, their next day's outfits hanging on the desk chairs. We travel alone, but together we're an army.

The c.o.ke machine isn't where it ought to be, in a nook by the stairwell. I'm disappointed in Homestead-they've let things slide. The soul of their business is predictability, and if I were consulting for them I'd yank the name off any unit caught s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with the blueprint.

I walk down a floor and resume my search. I normally avoid caffeine at night, but the news about Julie will keep me up. I'm half rooting for her to stay away, I realize. Wherever you are, my sister, just sit tight. Hug your pillow. Don't answer the door. This Keith's a good man, and Kara wants the best for you, but this is not their life. Just call me, will you? Do you have my number? Call me, Julie.

At last I find a glowing red c.o.ke machine and drop in my quarters. The can thunks into the slot. I heard once that if you immerse a penny in a cola drink the coin will melt. I could use some good strong solvents now.

"You're here," a voice says.

It's Alex, from the plane. My fingers start to b.u.t.ton my open dress s.h.i.+rt.

"What a surprise," she says. "Wow." She's in pajamas, a baggy pair of pink flannels that smells of dryer sheets. She's smaller than I remember, slim and kittenish, her hair clipped into a haphazard ball. Primed by the strip club, my nerves swell up with l.u.s.t, and I take a step back to disengage our auras.

I ask her about her cat.

"He's at a vet. You were right, he shouldn't have come. I overtranquilized. I'm thinking I'll return him to the breeder. I don't have any business owning pets."

"I'm sorry. Hard lesson."

"How'd your meeting go?"

"No casualties. Your thing?"

"They raised a hundred K. The b.i.t.c.h gave a speech about Medicare. Big thrill. I goofed on the food, though. There's half a cow left over."

The light of the c.o.ke machine rouges Alex's face. Down the hall, a door cracks open and a hand reaches out with a menu. We hush our voices. The building slips deeper and deeper into its dreams as my eyes slide down to Alex's bare toes, curling and uncurling as we chat. She polished them once, but the color has chipped away except for a few red flecks around the cuticles. It's a look I remember from high school and I like it.

It seems obvious, suddenly, what's going to happen between us; the only question is how. To move from the hallway straight to one of our rooms would be to forget we're grown-ups, not college kids. We have standards, guidelines, rules of thumb. If we want to maintain our self-respect as wary, wounded, thirtyish survivors, we'll have to go somewhere else and then come back here.

We agree on a plan that only seems spontaneous; in fact, it's as structured as a NASA countdown, designed to land us in bed by one o'clock so we can make our early-morning flights. We'll dress, meet up in the lobby, and cross the street to the Gold Rush Casino. We pad off down the hallway to our rooms for a quick gargle and splash of soapy water. I can almost hear the guests' sedatives kicking in as I pa.s.s their doors.

I wear my boots. For once, they're on my side. The angle of the heels and soles aligns my spine and firms my chest and shoulders. The problem is my khakis. They've lost their shape. I'm a hasty packer and hard on clothes; I roll them into tubes instead of folding them.

Alex dresses mannishly and simply in jeans and a V-neck black T-s.h.i.+rt. And a watch. I know the maker-I outcounseled four men there-and I'm sorry she wasted her money. It's ISM's fault. To help the company move its wares upmarket, we urged it to license the prestigious name of a dead European industrial designer. The inferior guts of the timepieces, which are sold alongside Rolexes and Guccis in airport duty-free shops, didn't change, but their prices quadrupled. Poor Alex fell for it.

We link arms. The street is still crowded with hopeful oldies toting buckets of change and plastic drink cups. The important thing is to stay casual, stay light. We're repeating ourselves-we've played this scene with others, and always with the same melancholy outcome-but we don't have to draw attention to the fact, nor do we have to deny it. We'll come through this. We stop on the sidewalk in front of the casino and count out our stake: four hundred dollars in twenties, all of which we agree to put at risk.

The c.r.a.ps tables are packed. We try roulette. A band plays in a corner-a cover combo specializing in stodgy cla.s.sic rock. I buy two hundred dollars worth of chips for each of us and note our different styles in stacking them. Alex divides hers into four piles, while I build a tower.

"Red?"

"Whatever you like. Just don't bet a single number," I say.

Ten minutes later she's richer, though not by much, and I'm on my way to doubling my buy-in. Make no mistake: good luck is always significant and earning is no subst.i.tute for winning. We've made the right choice in coming out tonight; the wheel confirms it. I raise my average wager and hazard a high-odds corner bet, which hits.

A c.o.c.ktail waitress arrives with our free drinks, two light beers, and I tip her with a chip. This always feels good, for some reason. Mr. Big.

"I have a confession," Alex says.

"You're married."

"I know you. We've met before. I heard you speak."

I look at her, keeping one eye on the wheel. To make the ball go where it needs to I have to coach it.

"Three years ago. At a seminar in Texas. You talked on career development, remember? I think the event was called Prepare for Power."

It's black-I've won again. "I've done a few of those. They keep me upbeat for my real job. Shafting people."

"I went with a girlfriend. She dragged me. You were good. I was a mess at the time, completely drained. I'd just broken up with a famous businessman who'd done a real number on my self-esteem. I sat at the back of the room because I'm shy, but I felt like you were talking to me personally. The line I remember was 'Change before they change you.' Autonomy, right? It's all about autonomy."

I never give the same speech twice, so I don't recall. I'm flattered, though. My fingertips warm as I restack my chips.

"You just dropped into a seminar one day? No reason? Just curious?"

"Total happenstance. We're winning, aren't we?"

"I'm going to double up."

All my good luck has begun to flow together-I've met an admirer and won a bundle-which probably means it's time that I cashed out. The odds are a funny thing. When they run with me, especially after they haven't for a while, I can feel like I'm finally getting what I'm worth and that chance has nothing to do with it. It's justice. The universe is paying up at last. Moralists like my mother and big sister would view this as a dangerous delusion, but I'm part pagan-I believe in breakthroughs, in bursts of astrological beneficence. Things rise and fall, but at times they rise and rise.

"After we got off the plane today," says Alex, "I asked myself why I didn't say I knew you. It's a character weakness. I like to hide and watch. In Texas you came off as pretty c.o.c.ky, so maybe I was hoping you'd screw up."

"It sounds like you had it out for me."

"Not really. It's just hard to admit that this stranger who gave some talk that struck me as sort of corny at the time and intellectually below my level actually set me straight and helped me grow."

"You're laying it on pretty thick. Fort Worth, you said?"

"You didn't gaze out on the audience and notice me?"

"I keep my face in my notes when I speak publicly. I'd rather not see the a.s.sa.s.sin's muzzle flash."

"a.s.sa.s.sin?"

"I wasn't frank with you today. My main occupation is Career Transitions. You're smart, so you can interpret. Terminations."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know that was a field. How much have you won? Can we stop now?"

"One more spin."

"You're pretty into this, aren't you?"

Should I not be? To prove I can walk away, I slide my chips-all of them-onto red. And red it is. Alex follows me to the cas.h.i.+er's cage, where the casino turns plastic into paper so later it can be turned back into plastic. The clerk counts out ten one-hundred-dollar bills, still stiff from the mint. We're rich. Where now? The bar.

The drinkers, instead of looking at one another, stare down at the video poker monitors whose screens form the resting place for their drinks and coasters. Their eyegla.s.ses flicker as their cards are played. The band plays "Radar Love," stroking its guitars with all the pa.s.sion of jailbirds shoveling gravel while wearing leg-irons.

"That was incredible," Alex says. "It practically seemed illegal, what you did there."

She's off balance now. That was the point of my big bet, which would have been just as effective had I lost. We're not in control, my sweet. It's all a hunch.

"So how precisely did I help you grow?"

"You convinced me to go into business for myself. Plus, you sort of set me on a path. I had a strange childhood, not traumatic, exactly, but hurtful, uncertain. My father had two families. We knew this. He drove a truck. It happens sometimes. When he was gone, my mother fooled around, spent time in the bars. The arrangement worked for both of them. The problem was me. They had four lives between them, and I was always switching back and forth. A few times my dad even took me to Missouri, where his other kids lived. Their mother was a secretary, so they had more money than I did, and they were Catholic. I had to learn to blend, to mold myself."

"Sounds like it. What a mess."

"I pulled it off, though. I split myself into quarters. I adapted. Then suddenly I'm eighteen and on my own and my special talent isn't relevant. I'm expected to be consistent, and I'm just not."

"Someone usurped my ident.i.ty," I say.

"Pardon?"

"Usurped. It means 'steal.' "

"I went to college."

"My question is: if they charge things to my credit card, who gets the miles? I'll bet they go to waste."

"I was telling you something. I hadn't finished yet."

"I made an a.s.sociation. Go ahead."

Alex pushes away her beer. "I'm angry now."

"I thought I was amplifying a point you'd made."

"Listen, can we get going? Flight at six."