“Yeah, dude. Totally.”
He extended his hand. “My name’s Brian. I’m also a writer.”
“Oh, dope, man. I’m Flynn.” I shook his hand. “What kind of writing do you do?”
“Actually, I write for television,” he said.
“Like drama?”
“Nah, man, I write comedy. I love it ’cause I just draw inspiration from everyday shit, you know?” He took a sip of his coffee.
“Totally. I feel the same way. Worked on any shows I’ve seen?” I asked.
“Oh, sure, I’ve written for Rick and Morty and Arrested Development, and I’m working on a hilarious show right now called Mixed Feelings. It’s basically Curb Your Enthusiasm, but about a rapper and all the crazy, hilarious shit that goes on behind the scenes in the music industry. The stuff nobody knows about.”
“Sounds like fun, man.”
“What about you?” Brian asked.
“Oh, um, I’m actually working on my first novel. I’m heading to NYC now to meet with a publishing company.”
“No shit, dude. I’m on that same flight!” he said.
“Oh, cool, man,” I replied.
“What seat are you?” He took his ticket out.
“23A.”
“No way, what are the odds? I’m 23C. I pity the poor bastard who has to sit between us.” He laughed.
I had made a buddy in the airport. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad experience after all.
A few minutes later we boarded the plane. Brian and I made it to our seats, only to find 23B was sitting in my seat.
Of course, it was Paris Hilton’s skeleton from security.
“Uh, excuse me,” I said. The woman ignored me and fed her dog a treat.
“Who’s Mommy’s little prince?” she cooed. “You are! You are!” The dog began to lick her on the lips as she kissed the dog back. It was disgusting. Any literary description I could give would never be able to do justice to the horrendous sight.
“Hey, lady!” Brian said. “You’re sitting in my friend’s seat. Get the hell up!”
She turned to us, shocked.
“First of all, I’m supposed to be in first class, but my assistant waited to book the ticket until the last minute. And if I’m going to sit in . . . coach, well, I’ll be doing it in a window seat, thank you very much!”
Ding! The soothing airplane sound blanketed the cabin before a flight attendant made her announcement.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “JetBlue would like to welcome you to this nonstop flight to New York City.”
The announcements continued, and so did the conversation with The Walking Dead’s Paris Hilton.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me, lady?” I said. “That’s my seat. My buddy Brian here has the aisle. I hate to tell you, but, wait, no, actually, I can tell you with great satisfaction . . . you’re in the middle. Now move.”
“No,” she said, staring out the window.
“Dude, this lady is crazy!” Brian whispered to me.
“Listen,” I said to her. “You can’t just—”
“I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT!” she yelled, her eyes growing wide like a villainess. “I deserve this seat!”
At this point, half the plane was staring at us. I wanted to choke the woman out, but I obviously wasn’t going to do that. Brian, on the other hand, looked like he was going to pop.
“Excuse me, what seems to be the problem here?” asked a flight attendant.
“Well, this lady—”
“Nothing is the problem, thank you,” the lady in my seat said.
“Okay,” said the flight attendant, then looked at me. “Well, sir, you’re going to have to take your seat.”
“This lady is in my seat,” I said, then explained the situation.
“Oh,” said the flight attendant, understanding. She turned to the woman and her dog. “Ma’am, you’re going to have to move.”
“No, I was supposed to be in first class!”
The flight attendant was taken aback. “What a bitch,” she said under her breath as she walked toward the front of the plane. A minute later, the captain came back and told the woman she needed to leave or she would be escorted off the plane.
That didn’t go well.
Two officers and a U.S. air marshal burst onto the scene, dragging her down the aisle with her little dog, the entire plane clapping and hollering.
“I will sue this entire airline!” she screamed.
That’s when Brian shouted, “YOU JET BLEW IT!”
The entire plane erupted in laughter. Needless to say, it was a flight I’ll never forget.
• • •
I had a tough time sleeping, my mind racing with anxiety about the upcoming meeting. But I focused on my characters, and I eventually slid into a slumber. Brian and I never exchanged info. I kinda wish we had—he was a cool-ass dude, one of those people you remember till the day you die. I peered out the window, overlooking a rapidly approaching metropolis. Butterflies bounced in my stomach.
Outside the airport, I jumped in a yellow cab and went straight to Midtown Manhattan. The cabbie dropped me off at Forty-Second Street and Fifth Avenue, not far from the publishing company. I’d never been to New York City, and damn, let me tell you, this shit was wild. I had a bum ask me for change and a Real Housewives–looking lady shoulder check me all in a matter of minutes. Pigeons were flapping past my head. Cars were honking at me to get the fuck out of the way. This was about as far from my town as you could get in this country.
For those of you who have yet to experience New York City, for a first-timer it is extremely claustrophobic and insanely dirty—and I mean big black trash bags just sitting on the side of the street—and everything is loud, fast, and relentless. Half the cab drivers don’t know their way around the city and insist you pull up directions on your phone to guide them, but all this aside, I must say it is a beautiful thing to experience. It’s electric. I was happy I had made it!
A few blocks of a walk and I was in front of Darjeeling Publishing’s offices. I checked in, and the next thing I knew, I was being shot up to the thirty-sixth floor in an elevator. Mr. Nortan’s assistant greeted me and ushered me to his office. I sat there nervously, waiting for his arrival.
His office kind of reminded me of what you see in those Wall Street movies, you know? I gazed over the desk in front of me, peering through the windows into the grand abyss of New York City. I’d never been so high up in a building in my life. On the desk there were piles of manuscripts stacked high. Books lined the walls, floor to ceiling. At the center of his desk lay a smaller packet—my twenty-page proposal that had landed me a ticket to the Big Apple. It had red marks all over the page.
“There he is!” Mr. Nortan said with a big smile as he entered the room behind me.
“Hello, Mr. Nortan,” I said, standing to shake his hand.
“Mr. Nortan was my father. Please call me Ed!” he insisted.
“Okay, Ed, sure thing,” I responded.
Ed was a burly man from the South—the accent was clear as day—about fifty years old. He had salt-and-pepper hair that leaned more toward the salt end, and he wore white jeans, cowboy boots, a white blazer, a turquoise undershirt, a bolo tie, and, of course, a white cowboy hat to match. To be honest, he looked like he belonged in Houston, Texas, in the beef business rather than in the publishing industry.