From the SWINDLER Series of Surreal Crime Meditations: S1E1

Passengers on Flight 1407, scheduled service from Raleigh-Durham to Los Angeles, wait in the corridor to the plane like a clot in an artery.  The jet bridge shudders.  The passengers jolt to attention with a collective gasp.  

A worker in dingy coveralls and a bright orange safety vest apologizes to those waiting to board the flight.  He cites a technical glitch and assures everyone there’s nothing to worry about.  “A little turbulence, that’s all,” he says.  He sells this canned response, assures the crowd that the quake in the jet bridge has probably happened before.  The crowd of passengers laughs with apprehension, nothing to worry about.

Jake Miller barely registers the shake in the corridor.  His attention is elsewhere.  From his time working in sales, he can hear the handy phrase-work followed by canned laughter from a mile away.  He shuffles toward the threshold of the plane.  He hears the PA back at the terminal gate: Zone 2, please line up to board next, now calling Zone 2.  Jake grins to himself.  It’s a bucked-tooth grin, a conspicuous heart-on-your-sleeve type of grin.  He is pleased he had folded his boarding pass in such a way where the gate attendant could not see ZONE 3 in bold black letters.

At this moment, Jake has lifted his status.  So he cut the line, big deal.  Everyone does it.  A minor infraction to avoid the shame of being in Zone 3–an airline untouchable.  For now, he feels like he has outsmarted the system. It’s just like the lessons he’s learned in his sales training classes: confidence: fake it ‘til you make it.

The voice of the sales coach in his head eggs him on: just look like you belong and no one will say anything.  The voice reassures him: just act like you are supposed to be here, this is normal, you’re always in Zone 1.

The voice even comes with a contingency.  It says to him: If someone calls you out, just play it off as a mistake.  Always act as if you deserve priority boarding–diamond, elite, platinum, plus plus.  Only if someone notices do you finish it off with your own canned response: “I’m sorry, I must’ve heard the announcement wrong, but since I’m already here. . .”

While it could be said that most of the world caters to people over six feet tall, airlines do not.  At 6’4”, and flying as much as he had in the past year, Jake knows this all too well.  Jake is tall.  His movements giraffe-like, sloped shoulders, a slight hunch to his posture that suspends any projection of confidence.  The result of so many years hearing awkward questions about high-school basketball.

The shudder on the jet bridge did not startle him.  However, a moment of vertigo now seizes Jake.  He sees the gap between the door of the plane and the tarmac below.  Jake maneuvers his lanky frame through the entryway, stepping over the chasm while ducking beneath the door frame into the Lilliputian environment on board.

Inside, the electrical whirr of the cabin equipment mixes with the hiss of recirculating air.  Jake isn’t afraid of flying, but once he steps on the plane, he feels the world constrict around him.  He looks in the cockpit at the dials and switches and thinks about the job of a pilot, the weight of 200 people basically sitting in your lap.  He thinks about the differences between a pilot and a salesperson.  How the fake it ‘til you make it attitude has no place in a job like this.  A good salesman is more like a batter in baseball–major league material if he can hit 300 out of 1,000 pitches.  Whereas, a pilot showing a similar success rate is dead 700 times over.

Jake shuffles through this narthex into the first class cabin.  A bile of emotion from contempt to envy bubbles up in his esophagus.  He notices how the patrons of first class sit cozy in their overstuffed luxury seats, a complimentary juice, coffee, or early morning champagne already poured and settled on a wide armrest.  THIS is what the Wright Brothers had in mind, he thinks.

Jake appreciates this glimpse of the promised land.  The comfy seats, the legroom, the scrutiny and examination of those passing through–the great unwashed entering the coach section.  Soon, he thought, he would be here himself.  If this deal worked out, maybe he would splurge on a first class ticket for his next trip.  God knows his company was too tight to allow the upgrade.  He was surprised his company didn’t flat out ask him to take a bus the 3,000 miles across the Rockies and Great Plains.  He considered finding another organization to work for, maybe closing this deal would give him the added push to look for another sales job where commissions were reasonable and attainable.  What do the people sitting here do that I am not doing? he thinks to himself.

As he moves through the first class section, he meets a flight attendant.  Plain, shoulder-length brown hair, her name tag simply read KATE.  “Good morning, Kate,” he says cheerily.  His tone sounds forced, unwarranted, too familiar.  Jake adapts his sales training.  He always looks for opportunities to come out of his shell, to show some swagger.  Unfortunately, as he smiles he becomes self conscious about the panels of his buck teeth–as if his lanky frame and loping gait were not enough.

The abrupt and somehow unauthorized use of her name puts Kate on edge.  “Good morning, welcome aboard,” she shoots back with rehearsed precision.  “Thank you for choosing Tempo Airlines today.”  She adds this bit of canned language to fit protocol.  She hopes it cuts off any attempt of flirting.  It was an occupational hazard Kate had grown tired of.

The forced smile she gives him shows some crows feet around the eyes.  The shifting of gears forcing a smile had taken its toll.  A decade ago she whooshed into the flying business with the promise of exotic destinations and now lives in the arc between RDU and LAX and back the next day.

Kate assumes her interaction is complete and continues with her work.  She hangs an elegant men’s jacket on a hanger and stows it in a coat closet reserved for first class passengers.  The dressy sport coat is of obvious quality, a striking sapphire blue.

Unfortunately, Jake did not get the hint.  “Nice jacket, is that Canali?” He asks.

Kate simply shrugs her shoulders, saying nothing, hoping he would sense the dismissal.

Jake senses something, but only uses it to confirm his bias.  He attributes her lack of interest to his position–Zone 3, coach seat.  Soon, things would be different.  Someday he would be sitting in first class.  Until then he would be chasing the high that comes from that level of service.  Is it my teeth or my posture or does she just smell the stench of someone heading for coach class?  Thinking this brought him back to earth.

Jake stands at the partition between the classes.  He passes next to the first class lavatory and notices the veil between the first and coach cabins tied back.  To Jake, the coach cabin looks like a bedlam of adults playing musical chairs compared to the relative calm of the first class section.  Shouldn’t be here, he thinks.  Some planes even have a separate entry for first class passengers.  Then, there are private jets.  Confidence, his time would come.

His mood sours as he judges his fellow passengers:

How hard is it to move expeditiously to your seat, have you never flown before?

How difficult is it to hoist your rollerboard into the overhead bin?

Did you not know how heavy your bag was going to be?

How did you make it this far with a roller board that doesn’t fit in the overhead?

His judgment spares no one, he even calls out the plane’s engineers:

How complex is the task that can’t figure out the cubic feet of logic where each seat would be granted enough overhead bin space for one bag?

Why would there ever be a need to volunteer to check your carry-on plane side?

Thoughts like these baffled Jake.  In Sales and Business, he had learned that your value is in direct proportion to the problems you solve.  The fate of an aircraft manufacturer that could not solve a high-school level math problem of storage area per person concerned him.  This is why he wanted to cut the line to board with Zone 1.  Still, the fundamental nature of the question perplexed him.  Over the past couple of years Jake was traveling more for work.  Peeking behind the romantic nature of air travel showed some wear and tear.  No need to get caught in that pessimism.  The sky’s the limit, right?  Seeing the royalty of first class gave him a benchmark as he made his way into the scrum of the coach cabin.

 He arrives at seat 19 B.  A seat over the wing.  Not quite so dreaded as the seats next to the lavatory in the back of the plane.  He was sure the seats in the rear were reserved for those last-minute stragglers and the poor souls who think they are booking a deal on some up-and-coming travel website.  Those of this ilk unaware that they will reek of shit particles for the rest of the day after the flight.  Jake is sensible, he realizes the air in the plane is recycled but prefers to believe it would be different in the first-class lavatory.  More HEPA filters, perhaps.  Coach seats–maybe this is not what the Wright Brothers had in mind.  Here in North Carolina, the birthplace of aviation, swooping over the sand dunes at Kitty Hawk with reckless abandon, unconcerned with lavatories or first/second class separation.  The sky is NOT the limit.

19 B, the middle seat, looms offensive, taunting his long frame.  He shoves his carry-on under the seat in front of him and waits, his knees jutting at odd angles.  The collateral damage of boarding first was now having to wait for the rest of the passengers to board.  He pulls his laptop from his carry-on, pulls down the tray-table.  He wants to use his time wisely, nail down the last-minute preparations for his deal.

Other passengers furiously type and scroll on their phones.  The looming terror of having to power down for even ten minutes while the plane climbs up to cruising altitude.  Wayward passengers finally settle into their seats.  A frantic, heavy-set traveler huffs and grunts as he heaves his bag into the overhead before it is relegated to the hold below.

Jake looks at him in disgust, haven’t you ever flown before?  He could not fathom why this Zone 3 riff-raff would not offer his bag when the gate attendants called for volunteers.  After he clicks the overhead closed and plops down in his seat, exhausted.  Jake is glad that this rotund man with his heavy breathing was not sitting next to him.  So far, the seats next to him remain empty, there is a relative moment of stasis on the plane.

This calm is punctuated by the sound of Kate’s heels as she walks around and makes final preparations to the cabin.  The calm is broken by an announcement that squawks like a voice from the heavens: “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome aboard flight 1407 service to Los Angeles, we have closed the cabin door and will be pushing back for an on-time departure.  Be sure to have your bags secured in the overhead bin or under the seat in front of you and your seat belts buckled.  Our flight today is approximately three hours, fifty-five minutes.  Should have you on the ground at (crackle of static) local Los Angeles Time.  Current time at our destination is (crackle of static).  Flight attendants, cross check and all-call.”

Apart from the noisy static, Jake cannot believe his luck hearing this.  He smiles his big buck-toothed grin.  First, he was able to sneak into the Zone 1 boarding queue.  Now, he is certain to have the entire row to himself.  A rare first.  It was surely a sign of good luck.  This would give him some peace and quiet.  While in the air, he could spread out and work on his presentation.  He moves from his middle seat over to the window seat for a better view during take off.  Once underway, he would most certainly move to the aisle seat for more legroom.

Jake sets his watch to the local time in Los Angeles, winds it backwards across three time zones.  The watch: a Ferrin Berlain Aviation Chronomaster 300 Series, 42 mm, with a silver dial and Sedna gold hands and markers, is in near perfect condition.  The watch stands out against his otherwise plain outfit.  The watch is not quite an heirloom, but close.  He had only seen his dad wear a Timex or a Citizen brand of watch.

Jake thought about his deadline.  His meeting in Los Angeles was a few hours after he landed and he wanted to make every minute count.  He felt like his presentation was flawless and he would surely nab this deal.  Some fine tuning and rehearsing were all that was left.

The plane takes off without interruption.  Jake peeks up from his Powerpoint at a god’s eye view of green hills receding in the distance below.  He was always mesmerized by the distortion of time and place.  Even though he had flown often over the past couple of years, he could not get past the disorientation of abruptly changing your environment and the circadian geography.  He wondered if the Wright Brothers had anticipated jet lag.

There are two periods in the history of air travel.  These are before 9/11 and after.  Mobility is a component of insurrection, like the gears and springs of a watch.

The plane soars through the air.  Jake busies himself in the droning noise of the pressurized cabin.  His attention drifts out the window and back to his laptop.  He stays seated in the window seat, musing on the land below.  He enjoys having the row all to himself.  The armrest is raised.  His legs are spread wide.  The papers for his presentation pile up on the tray table for the middle seat.

Jake reviews his presentation and mutters his delivery like an incantation or an actor rehearsing his lines.  He punctuates the selling points for emphasis.  He practices a smile–just enough to seem cordial, but not so much that his audience would be distracted by his big teeth.  This might cause them to lose focus.  He was self conscious about that.  He recites the pitch, changes the inflection on words like “game-changer” and “revolutionize.”  He adds hand gestures, pointing his index knuckle in a rhythm he thought had the most impact, like he was slowly shaking dice.

Although the window seat was a bit cramped, sitting there shielded him from the view of other passengers while he rehearsed.  The recital of his presentation made him a bit self conscious.  Now, more than midway through the flight, Jake’s legs longed for a stretch.  He decides to take advantage of his empty row and move to the aisle seat.

Jake reaches to unhook the seat belt when a strange man appears.  The man is a good twenty years older than Jake.  He sports a razor sharp haircut–salt-and-pepper coiffed precisely over silver sideburns.  Like Jake, the mystery man is also tall.  He is dressed in a fresh white shirt that could easily be described as luminous.  The fine fabric looks more like a shroud than a shirt.  A satin herringbone weave with a crisp, perfectly set, collar.  He did not wear a jacket.  The shirt emitted a spectral quality.  The mother-of-pearl buttons gently coaxed the lavender from his silk tie.  More shroud than shirt, the tailoring against his navy slacks looked diaphanous.  As if the material itself was woven from the warp and weft of a dying star.

“Is this seat taken?” The mystery man asks.

Temporarily hypnotized by the textile quality, the question catches Jake off guard.  “Huh, what, I’m sorry?” he mutters.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”  The mysterious man asks in an annoyed staccato as he gestures to the aisle seat.  His face bore a ruddy complexion that looked like too much time; time in the sun, or in the bottle, or both.

Before he even had time to think, Jake’s reaction revolved around a lifetime of training to be polite.  “Sure,” he says as he collects his belongings.  He had spread his things out to the aisle seat in an effort to block anyone from sitting there.  “Um, just let me move my stuff.”

“Thank you.”  The shroud drifts down into this, this throne as if it were the most comfortable seat on the plane.  The buckle to his seatbelt clicks into place.

Jake watches as the brawny stranger relaxes, hears him let out a sigh of relief as he extends his legs into the aisle.  Jake sits there, enraged, the nerve!  He stews in this rage, feeling cheated.  Does he not know the unspoken etiquette of air travel?  Thou shalt not invade a person who has a row of their own!  It all happened so fast, a moment later and Jake would have been seated there.  Jake read deeper into this commandment  and scorned himself for going along with the request.  These unwritten rules are there for a reason, he thought.

It was too late, there was no way he could walk it back.  Don’t make a scene, he thought.  He knew it would come out awkward to say, “sorry, on second thought, I was just about to sit there, so you need to move, OK?  You don’t mind, do you?”  Instead, Jake would save face.

He waited for more than the simple “thank you” doled out by this new row mate.  Jake’s legs started to cramp thinking about this pest.

Like a wound spring, Jake ticks and writhes in his seat.  Shifting against what he feels is an obvious violation of his space.  He feels he is owed some explanation, yet none is given.  He tries to place the focus back on his presentation but is distracted by the dark eyes of the stranger as he rummages through the magazines in the seat-back pocket.

“Ah crap!” The stranger announces, before asking, “is your Sudoku clean?”

Jake’s mouth gapes at the audacity: the nerve of him to plop down in MY seat, in MY row, without even the least bit of small talk!  Now he wants to know if I have a puzzle for him?  Although triggered, he dutifully pulls a magazine through the web of cords dangling from his laptop.  He extends the Skytainment Magazine across the middle seat, “here you go, the puzzle looks clean,” he says.  Then adding with an extended hand, “I’m Jake Miller.”

“Thanks. . . Jake.” Says the older gentleman as he turns to the page and pulls the cap off of his pen.

This enrages Jake to no end.  This lack of social decorum.  The bold-faced refusal to participate in the most minor, yet most major aspect of human civilization.  This is where you tell me your name, Mister. . . Mr. Shroud! Jake thought.  What kind of monster?  No handshake, no name, no reply that should be followed by the universal glue of ‘nice to meet you.’  Mr. Shroud sits in silence.  Jake sits in the grip of menace and acrimony, the handshake he extended drifts back in retreat.  Jake steams as pretends to work on his laptop.

Kate pushes a drink cart at a Sisyphean pace.  Her cravat stands alert at an odd angle like a lopsided antenna.  She stops at row 19, “anything to drink?”

Mr. Shroud doesn’t hesitate, “double bourbon and soda, and whatever my friend here is having.”

Friend? Jake thinks, since when?

“You look lovely in that scarf, by the way,”  Shroud compliments.

The gregarious manner in which he spoke to her surprises Jake.

Is he actually flirting with the flight attendant? He sounds almost genuine.  He thought.

“Thanks.” She blushes but keeps her reply short.  “Part of the uniform.”Kate’s eyes swing to Jake as she combs down the uncomfortable antennae.

Jake stammers, “I’m, uh, I’m not. . . nothing for me, thanks.”

“C’mon now, don’t be silly, it’s on me.”  Mr. Shroud shoots a cold look to Jake as if he’s insulted.  His eyes warm up as they move from Jake back to Kate.  “Just make it two bourbon sodas, doubles, and we’ll figure out the rest,” he says through a smile that she seems to trust.

Kate looks to Jake for confirmation.

“Yeah, sure, bourbon and soda sounds good.”  Jake flashes his buck teeth.

Kate zips the cocktail ingredients together over ice and hands them off to the two gentlemen.  Jake sips from the full cup to avoid it spilling on his presentation.  “Sixteen dollars,” she reports.

Shroud hands over a neatly folded $20 bill.

“I’m sorry, sir, we only take credit cards.”  Kate’s smile becomes slightly strained, her crow’s feet scurry to the ends of her eyes.  Her “sorry” sounds perfunctory, devoid of any feelings of guilt or remorse.  It was a standard, tried-and-true, customer-service apology that typically starts off with “Unfortunately. . .”

Shroud throws his pen on the half-finished Sudoku, “Ugh, I’m such a bonehead.”  A grand display, indeed.  He massages his temples in a gesture between consternation and embarrassment.  “Unfortunately, I didn’t bring a credit card with me today.”  Mr. Shroud delivers this well-rehearsed evergreen with sincerity through a slight pout, head tilted for puppy-dog emphasis.

Kate doesn’t buy it.  Her eyes dart over to Jake who now feels trapped in this wedge of tension.  Jake senses some vague theatrical pressure.  Not wanting to rock the boat, he fumbles for his wallet.

“Here, let me get this round,” he says, nearly spilling the drink on his laptop and presentation notes.

Mr. Shroud interjects, again as if he’s been insulted, “Oh no, absolutely not!  I said it was my treat.”  He turns his attention back to Kate.  “Looks like these are between us, then.”  He extends the twenty dollar bill to her with a smile.

Kate considers this for a moment, looks over her shoulder.

Shroud deftly slides the cash into the pocket of her apron.  “Keep the change.”

“Thank you.  Enjoy.”  She maintains her tone as she hands over a few small bags of pretzels.  She spurs the lock off of the cart and continues pushing the boulder of her destiny down the aisle.

Mr. Shroud dives back into his puzzle as if nothing had happened.  He takes a long pull off of his cocktail.

Jake clears his throat.  “Thank you,” he offers, still confused over the scene.

Shroud looks over, imperceptibly nods and raises his glass.  He dives back into his puzzle.

What’s with this guy?  Jake thinks.  In his mind, he wants to wind up a lecture on proper airline etiquette.  I should give him a piece of my mind!  He tells himself, suddenly feeling indebted to a stranger for a drink he didn’t want.  He feels obligated but worried that the drink will affect his presentation.

Before he can launch into a diatribe on the rules of air travel, Mr. Shroud speaks.  “Thought you could use a break,” he says, his voice a low baritone, “you look like you need to relax a little.”

Finally!  Jake thought, a moment of common courtesy.  The mystery man was finally holding up his end of the conversational bargain.  Jake felt a wave of relief, it’s a start.  From his sales training he had learned that silence was like death to a salesman.  A silent prospect is a disinterested prospect; or worse, the prospect feels sorry for you.

A close cousin of confidence, all of sales is based on assumption.  Assume your prospect cannot live without your product, assume that your product is the best in its class and assume it even solves the problem your prospect has, assume that the prospect is ready to sign on the dotted line.  Assume the close, assume that you look like you belong there. 

“Oh, yeah. . . thanks.  This presentation will be the end of me,” Jake says.  He waves his drink over his laptop and notes.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your–”

Mr. Shroud cuts him off.  “Why’d you offer to pay when I said the drink was on me?”

Hearing this disarmed Jake.  He replies, “I had already taken a sip, didn’t want it to be a problem.”

“Be a problem?”  The stranger mirrored, inquisitive.

“Yeah, you know, they don’t take cash on these flights anymore.”

“That’s not my problem. . . or yours.  We’re still in American airspace aren’t we?  E Pluribus Airspace?  In Flight We Trust, right?  You know, she would’ve comped us the drinks had you not said anything.  The customer is always right, remember?  The Wright Brothers did not sacrifice life and limb for us to pay for drinks with a credit card.”

Jake tries to cipher this logic.  It was an odd start to a conversation.  The conversation felt more like a lecture.  Of course cash is king, but credit is convenience.  Now, he just felt dumb.  Shroud was right, he should not have said anything.  He should have assumed that he deserved the complimentary drink just like he assumed he belonged in Zone 1, just like the people in first-class assume that they belong there.  He had broken a Sales Commandment: Never answer an unasked question.  In this case, volunteering to pay for the drinks.

“I take it you work in sales?”  Shroud stares at him with full attention.  He notes the Request for Proposal and Service Agreement documents Jake had festooned on the middle seat and tray table.

“Yeah, presenting soon after we land.”  Jake looks at his watch, “I’m pitching in about two hours.”

“Nice watch.  So, what business are you in?”

“Thanks.”  He replies, noting the timepiece, “it was my dad’s (or, it’s a Ferrin Berlain).  I work for NoDelay Signage, we install digital signs and software for Arrivals and Departures screens.  Pitching to the Los Angeles Airport.”  Jake positions his laptop to show a slide of the floor plan for the Los Angeles Airport Terminals.  “Here are all of the places where they display flight schedules.”

Shroud nods, “what’s your pitch?”

Jake freezes.  Although he knew every detail of the presentation, he was not expecting to simply string it together for a stranger.  “Well, I have 37 slides detailing–”

“37 slides!”  The stranger in luminous white blurts out, aghast.  “How long is your presentation?  Four days!”

Jake recites from the language in the RFP: “each proposer gets 30-45 minutes to present. . . the rest of the time for follow up questions.  Whole thing shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

The mystery man looks back at his puzzle.  He becomes silent, disinterested, ignoring what he thought was offensive.

Jake’s heart races as he overanalyzes the silence.  Maybe he’s right.  “You think I should change it?”

“I think you should get out of sales, find something else to do,” Shroud says while adding numbers to a row in the Sudoku puzzle.

The words stung.  Jake felt dismissed.  The advice hit hard.  He wasn’t prepared to hear it, but Jake wasn’t going to sit there and let this stranger insult him.  He had spent so much time preparing for this moment in time.  His moment, a break he had been waiting for that could move him to the top of the leaderboard at work.  He had placed so many cold calls over the past couple of years.  He had climbed from the ranks of a junior rep to a full-blown account executive.  The stats on his activity were impressive.  In fact, he tallied the number of minutes he had spent on the phone in the past year.  End to end, it would account for 840 hours or a solid five weeks of smiling, dialing, and hearing the word “no.”  He wasn’t going to let some stranger with a silk tie (who possibly didn’t even have a credit card) give him career advice.

“I appreciate the advice,” Jake says, keeping his cool, “but why should I listen to a guy who’s hustling the flight attendant for a free drink?”

“Drinks,” Mr. Shroud corrects.  “Plural.  I was looking out for you too, remember?”

“So, I’m your accomplice now?  They don’t comp drinks back here in coach class.”

“My accomplice?  Hardly.  And as for my advice, I am simply putting together what I see and what you’ve told me.  I can see you’re working on an RFP.  You know that any request for proposal, especially from an organization as big and regulated as an airport, likely means they already have a vendor in mind.  All this, all your hard work, is just for show, to make it look ‘fair.’  You’ll be lucky if all they do is poach some of your ideas.  Also, listen to yourself.  You’re too eager, you don’t know what you want.  Do you want to close this deal and a hundred more like it just so you can sit in first class?  And lastly, as far as presentations go, if you can’t convince people with 4 to 5 slides, then you don’t know what the guy on the other end of the table wants.  If you don’t know what your prospect wants, you’ll never close.  I don’t care who you are.”

This touched a nerve.  It was the most the man in the white shirt had said since he sat down.  Some fair points, but Jake wasn’t totally sold.  “And what are you, some kind of sales guru?”

“Not quite.  Just a person who sees another salesman running in circles, chasing some ghost of a deal.  Sound about right?  Tell me if I am wrong.  Let me guess, the company you work for tells you to ‘fake it until you make it’, am I right?  Tells you to go the extra mile and say yes to every whim the client asks for when you know you can’t deliver.  Sound familiar?  You are going to show up and throw up like 60 other cookie-cutter presentations.  All of you, shooting in the dark because you don’t know anything about the fear, or the pain that keeps the prospect up at night.  Remember, his job’s on the line, too.  He walks a tightrope between picking a safe bet and what will pass as innovation.”

Jake listens to the rant.  As much as he didn’t like it, Mr. Shroud had some fair points.  But, who speaks like this to someone he’s just met?  He had wanted more of an exchange when the mystery man had sat down.  Now, he hoped Mr. Shroud would just shut up.  Jake could not concede the last word.  But, “sounds like you’ve done this before,” is all he could muster.

“22 years selling government contracts, I think I picked up a technique of two along the way.”

Jake, feeling outgunned, changes the topic. “Why’d you sit here, anyway?”

“My partner was snoring. . . so much for first class.”

“So you thought you’d come back here for Sudoku and dispense advice?”

“And drinks, don’t forget.”  Mr. Shroud’s drink was half-full.  He pulls an airplane-sized bottle of bourbon from his carry-on and tops off before sticking the empty bottle in the seat pocket in front of him.

After Mr. Shroud takes a sip, he continues, “Walk me through it, then.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pretend I am the person you are pitching to.  I’ll give you my honest assessment.”

“I’d rather not.  Still a work in progress.”

“C’mon. . . you must have a few talk tracks you can rattle off.”

Jake wasn’t even sure what a talk track was, just turned his attention back to his laptop.

“Suit yourself,” Shroud said, “but don’t be surprised when they pass on your bid.”

He thought about it.  From his sales training, he had learned that a dose of paranoia was healthy when working on a deal.  Too many things can go wrong, deals blow up all the time.  But, for Jake, this feeling crept further: is he a competitor at another firm trying to trip me up?  He felt he needed the right measure of vigilance, and may have already said too much.

“Well, at least tell me that’s not what you’re wearing to the meeting.”  Shroud continues, “You do have some kind of sport coat or something, right?”

This digs into Jake.  “I don’t.  It’s part of our company culture, we try to keep it casual.”

Although Jake was also wearing a white button-down.  The mystery man scrutinized the Oxford’s basket weave and was unimpressed.  Jake’s khaki pants wrinkled down to dress shoes that could’ve used a polish.  Shroud shakes his head in disapproval.  “This isn’t going to work.  Watch my bag, will you?  I’ll be back in a second.”  He downs the rest of his drink and makes his way up to the first-class section.

Jake watches him stride to first class with confidence.  Jake sits there, puzzled, eager to take over the coveted aisle seat.

Moments later, the mystery man returns with the sapphire colored blazer Jake had eyed earlier that morning while boarding.  “Here, try this on,” he said.  “If the fit is halfway decent, it’s yours.”

“No, I couldn’t.”  Jake protests.

“I insist.  Try it on at least.”

Jake awkwardly steps into the aisle and slips into the jacket.  He was happy to stretch his legs.  Mr. Shroud adjusts the lapels and smooths out the shoulders.  The jacket gleams against Jake’s otherwise dour ensemble.  He raises his arms into a ‘T’, this posture shows off his watch.

“It fits. . . maybe a touch short in the arms, but it’ll do.”  Shroud continues, “at least you have that watch, something else to help you punch above your weight.  Always dress one degree above your audience.  Now you look like you put in a little effort.  And don’t let me hear anymore of that ‘start-up casual’ nonsense.  This is business.”

“Yes, thank you, thank you so much for the jacket.  Are you sure?”

“Of course, don’t mention it.  That reminds me. . . another tip.  Always be in the habit of getting your prospect to say yes to something, train them early on how to say yes.”

The two sit down.  Jake takes off the jacket so as not to wrinkle the luscious fabric.  He drapes his new sport coat, easily worth $700 to $1,000, across the middle seat.

Jake admires his new jacket.  He feels guilty, thinking he had read this guy wrong.  Prejudice in sales is a killer.  His sales training had taught him to find the facts, not to judge books by covers.  Shroud was gruff, perhaps, a little off with the social cues, but there was no mistaking a new sport coat, not to mention the bourbon & soda which started to go down a little easier.  He took a long drink and felt more relaxed.  He believed this new jacket would give him more confidence during his pitch.  As far as his new mentor, maybe Jake had been too quick to judge earlier.  Maybe he could get a few more pointers from this veteran that would help him close his deal.

Jake recites his presentation.  The older gentleman listens in earnest.  He helps Jake craft a tighter, more direct line of questions to go after the business.  Shroud concludes with, “This technique works on anything: software, a new house, or a $2 cheeseburger.”  Jake absorbs the lesson.  He graciously accepts the new strategies.

Mr. Shroud asks, “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the story with the watch?”

“It was my dad’s.” Jake says without a trace of nostalgia.  He models it as if checking the time, “he passed a couple of years ago, I only wear it for special occasions.  I may be counting my chickens before they hatch, though.”

“No, not at all, remember what we talked about: always dress–”

“One degree better than the person you are pitching to.  I know, I remember.  I can’t thank you enough for the tips you’ve given me.”

“What would you take for it?”  Shroud asks, uninterested in Jake’s gratitude.

“Take for what?”

“The watch.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t, it’s not for sale.”

“Oh, c’mon.  I’m not saying I’m going to buy it.  Just curious how much it’s worth.”

“I had it appraised at two thousand.”

“Two thousand!  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jake, not knowing much about watches, sheepishly asks, “Is that high?”

“Are you kidding, that’s a lowball if I’ve ever heard.  Sounds like the guy who appraised it was high on something.  I could get $4,500 for my Rolex and it’s not half as nice as this.  Ferrin Berlain: the brand name alone would have fetched at least six grand.”

Jake did his best to play it cool.  “Well, it doesn’t matter, I’m not selling it.”  He tilts back his cup and chews on the remaining ice cubes.

“May I take a look at it, do you mind?”  Shroud asks.

“No, not at all.”  Jake unclasps the stainless steel band and hands it over.

Mr. Shroud inspects the timepiece, turns on the overhead light to get a better look.  “Good weight, solid.  Two grand sounds like robbery.  Would you like for my partner to take a look at it?  He’s a big watch guy, I bet he’d give you $7,000 for it.”

$7,000!  Jake was not prepared for that number, he crunches the ice from his drink faster.  “That’s a lot. . . I don’t know, I should probably hold on to it.”

“I get it.  No offense, this is probably one of the nicer things you own, right?  I can see why you’re attached.”

“No, I’m not super attached or anything.  To be honest, I mostly look at my phone to tell the time, even when I’m wearing this thing.  Habit I suppose.”

Shroud quips, “young people.”  A quick, forced laugh before he goes back to business, “sentimental value, then?”

“No, not really.  I never even saw my dad wear it.  He had a Citizen and a Timex he wore instead.  Both probably cost him less than $100.  Not sure where he got this, didn’t even know he had it until he died.”

“I see.  Then it wouldn’t hurt to have my partner at least look at it.  Would you mind?  If he says $7,000, I’ll let you talk to him.  If he comes back with $2,000, which I highly doubt, you’ll at least have a second opinion.  Should only take a second.”  Shroud unhooks his seatbelt.

“Hey, wait, hold up.  I can’t just let you walk off with my watch.”

“Oh, c’mon, Jake.  It’ll just be a second. . . What?  Are you afraid that I am going to run off with your watch?  Where am I going to go?  What am I going to do, parachute?  Do you think I am about to jump 29,000 feet to my death for a watch?  I can buy ten of these, I don’t need yours.  I’m just trying to help you out.”

For Jake, the logic seemed to make a point.  It was absurd to think a skydiving bandit was about to steal his watch.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to accuse.  I’m just saying it’s not for sale.”

“You’re a businessman, Jake, you should know everything is for sale.”

Jake laughs, “good point.”

“Why get it appraised if it’s not for sale?  You said yourself it doesn’t have any sentimental value.  C’mon, Jake.  Why the sudden paranoia?  I can’t believe I just gave you the coat off my back and you’re acting like I’m going to rob you. . . Look, if it makes you more comfortable, I’ll leave my bag here, along with your nice new sport coat.  I’ll run up there to first class and have my partner give you a fair and honest appraisal for the watch.  Think about it, you could make seven grand off of this trip on top of the money you bring in when you close your deal.”

Jake mulls this over.  “OK,” he says.  He feels bad for being suspicious.  Why would this guy swipe my watch?  He just gave me a jacket that’s easily $1,000.

“Be right back.”  Mr. Shroud smiles, “Just do me a favor, don’t go rooting around in my bag, OK?”

“Are you serious?” Jake asks.  “You know you can’t say that kind of thing on a plane.”

“Jake, for the love of god. . . Fine.”  Mr. Shroud unzips the bag and pulls out a copy of Fresh Look Men’s Magazine.  The magazine sports a sultry cover photo–a model in a filmy chemise, soaking wet.  “Here you go, since you’re so suspicious of the contents in my bag.  I’m sure it’s not as crass as what you can get on your cell phone these days.  You’ve got to remember I’m an old timer.  I’ve got a few years on you and there’s something to be said about the value of a glossy centerfold.”  He closes his bag and tosses the magazine to Jake, saying, “Unfortunately, Fresh Look Magazine doesn’t include a section with Sudoku puzzles.”

Jake shines his full buck-tooth smile at the crazy old man in the bright white shirt.  Mr. Shroud adjusts the knot on his silk lavender tie with a dramatic flair.  He makes his way up the aisle and with confidence walks beyond the gauzy veil separating first class.

Jake flips through a few pages.  He makes sure to look up and keep an eye on the mystery man who now has his watch.  From his vantage, Jake sees that Shroud is now seated but he cannot see the person seated next to him.  Jake discreetly scans through a few more pages of the men’s magazine.  He embeds the magazine in the presentation documents to not look like such an obvious pariah.  Jake skims an article in the style and fashion section.  The article compares the merits of loafers vs. wingtips in the boardroom.

The captain’s voice squawks across the PA, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Los Angeles International Airport.  We thank you for joining us today.  We’ll be touching down shortly, so please return to your seats, fasten your seatbelts, and put your seats and tray tables to their upright and locked positions.  The cabin crew will come by to pick up any remaining service items.  Again, we’d like to thank you for flying and hope you choose us again.  Sit back, relax, should have you at the gate in about 15-20 minutes.”

Jake looks up to the first class section and watches Mr. Shroud stand.  Then, obscuring his view, Kate appears to collect used cups and pretzel wrappers.  “Trash?” she says, again in her perfunctory tone.

Jake tries to shield the magazine from her sight.  “No.  It’s not mine.  Wait, yes, here you go.”  Jake finally understands what she is asking for.  He hands over the empty cup and the shot-sized bourbon bottle Mr. Shroud had left in the seat pocket.  Kate eyes him suspiciously before she moves on down the aisle.

Jake looks up toward first class again but Mr. Shroud is nowhere to be found.  He swivels his head and cranes his neck to scan the seats and faces.  No sign of a man in his mid-fifties with graying sideburns.  He searches for a few moments, frantic.  He then bolts up from his seat, walks to the first-class lavatory and waits.  The sign to the lavatory reads: Occupied.  He hears the psychotic high-altitude pressure change of the toilet flushing.  He bangs the door.  “Where’s my watch?”

The door opens.  A woman appears.  She is startled by the knock, Jake’s lanky movements, and his erratic demeanor.

“Excuse me?”  She demands, “it says occupied.  What are you doing, can’t you read?”  She finishes him off with, “haven’t you ever flown before?”

Jake doesn’t apologize, he now broaches the veil into first class.

Kate notices the commotion.  She demands Jake take his seat.  “Excuse me, sir!  The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign.  I need you to move to your seat.”

Jake ignores her, barges into first class and stops at the row where he last saw Shroud sitting.  It’s empty.

“Where is he, where’d he go?  Where’s my watch?”  Jake leans into the row and frightens Harold, the man sitting in the window seat.

“Pardon me?”  Harold says.  A silver-white combover and reading glasses perched on his nose frame his surprised expression.

“Your partner, where’d he go, what did you do with my watch?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Harold dismissively.

Kate taps Jake on the shoulder.  She says to him sternly, “Sir, this is not your section.  You need to return to your seat, we can’t have you in first class.  The plane is preparing to land.”  Her cravat is assertive, pointing forward like a pincer while her name tag is poised like a badge to keep the peace.

“I will, when this guy gives me my watch back!”

“Miss, I don’t know what he’s talking about.”  Harold is annoyed.

Jake barks back.  “Yes, you do!  You and your partner are trying to fleece me out of my watch.  So tell me where he is or give me my $7,000!  Don’t try to play me.”

Harold removes his reading glasses.  He reveals a look of anger and disgust.  “My partner?  What are you talking about?  I’m here with my wife.  If you are talking about the guy who came and sat next to me, I don’t know who he was or where he is!”

Jake thinks for a moment.  The scene starts to attract the attention of on-lookers.  If Jake was thinking clearly, he might have noticed the sapphire color of Harold’s pants.  The color is suspiciously the same as his new jacket.  Before he calculates this, the woman from the lavatory whom Jake had startled tries to wedge herself back to her seat.

“Harold, what’s going on?”  She asks her husband.

Harold points his reading glasses at Jake.  “When you were in the bathroom, some rude guy comes and sits next to me.  He asks if anyone had done the Sudoku puzzle in the magazine, asks if he could have it.  I give it to him and tell him my wife would be back any minute, tell him he has to move along.  I had to tell him three times!  He kept acting like he didn’t hear me.  Now, this guy is saying I stole his watch.”

“Sir,” Kate interrupts, trying to maintain order.  She focuses on Jake, “you need to move back to your seat, you’re blocking the aisle.  We are landing and we don’t have time for this.”

Jake squares off with Kate.  “I’m not going anywhere.  You need to calm down and help me find this guy.  Remember?  Bourbon and soda, keep the change?  Him, I know you saw him.”

Another flight attendant and a few muscular passengers now start to crowd around.

Kates uses her best canned language to defuse the situation.  “Now, listen to me.  We’ll figure this out.  Right now I just need you to move back to your seat.”

“No.  You saw him, you poured a drink for him.  Now I need you to help me find my watch!”

Kate does not budge, “I’ve poured a drink for almost everyone on the plane, sir.”

“This is bullshit.  He sits beside me, borrows my watch to have this guy appraise it, and leaves his bag with me to look after.  And now he’s hiding from me.”

Upon hearing this, Kate’s tone changes.  “Bag?  What bag?  Sir, you need to calm down and show me that bag right now.”

“It’s back at my seat, just get out of my way.”

Jake pushes his way past Kate.  He searches the faces in each row looking for Mr. Shroud.  As he pushes past her, he knocks her off balance.  In the instance of time it takes for Kate to regain her balance, Jake feels an onslaught of hands and a couple of knees as the onlookers restrain him to the floor.  The plane fills with gasps from the passengers.  Jake’s ranting is muffled as he is tackled.  Panic swirls in the pressurized air of the cabin as a couple of brawny men drag him back to his, notably empty, row.

***

There is a room in the Los Angeles Airport Police Station suitable for interrogation.  No two-way mirror; but quiet, removed from the hustle and bustle of the airport.  Jake knows exactly where he is.  He knows this from his study of the airport floor plan included in his presentation.  Jake recalls his presentation as he sits handcuffed to a table in the middle of the room.  As a reflex habit, he worries if he will be on time for his pitch.

Outside, from the office adjacent, he can hear an older man shouting.  “The son of a bitch had my blazer.”  He recognizes the voice as Harold’s.

Sergeant Grabe, a barrel-chested man in his late 40’s with a bristled mustache that emphasized his drooping jowls, enters with a clipboard.  His words whistle through the deck brush of thick whiskers.  “Mr. Miller, let me get this straight.  You say that you gave your watch, a watch that cost you $7,000, to a strange man?  A man you say you had never met before.  You gave him the watch because he gave you a jacket, and you didn’t know the jacket was stolen?”

“I didn’t give it to him!  He said he was going to appraise it.”

“$7,000 sounds a bit high?  Where’d you get that kind of watch?”

“It’s a Ferrin Berlain. . . and what does that even have to do with it?”

Sergeant Grabe scribbles on the clipboard, “Ferrin Berlain, got it.  Do you have a name for the guy you say took it?”

“No.  Like I said, he’s my height, dark hair with gray streaks–”

“And you’re saying he left the first class cabin to sit in coach with you?”

“Yes!  Look, I know it sounds crazy.” Jake’s voice cracks, “I don’t belong here, I don’t have time for this.  This is not where I–”

“Mr. Miller, we looked at your laptop.  Do you mind telling me why you have maps and schematic drawings of the airport’s security systems?”

“Like I told you, I’m here to give a presentation to Roy Weidel.  He’s the VP of Operations for the airport.  I work for a company that installs digital signs.  I have told you this eight times now!”

“Yes, and we have reached out to Mr. Weidel and are waiting to hear back from him.”

“What?  No!  Why did you call him?”  Jake springs up, clanging the handcuff.

“You said you knew him.  Given your situation, seems you would be happy to have someone vouch for you. . . unless, you want to change your story.”

Jake slumps back in his chair, defeated.  “I didn’t need him to know. . . how do you think this is going to look?  This is a big mistake, I just want to get my watch back and get out of here.”  Through his dejection, he grasps at one last hope.  “Did you at least find him?  Did you question all of the other passengers?”

Grabe laughs.  “Other passengers?  Mr. Miller, how much have you had to drink?  YOU were the only one causing a scene.  Why would we inconvenience the other passengers?  The flight attendant said she remembers serving you several cocktails.  Is that normal for you to drink before you go on sales calls?”

Jake is some space between furious and forlorn.  “What are you doing about getting my watch back?”

“Your watch should be the least of your worries.  You do realize the commotion you started up there on the plane?  Remember?  You said a strange man gave you a bag to carry, before you assaulted a flight attendant?”

“Assaulted?  What?  No!”  Jake whines, “I was played!  She was probably in on it.”

Grabe has heard enough.  “If your watch is missing, I suggest filing a report with the airline.  We’re not talking about a watch.  We are talking about you scaring the bejesus out of everyone on that plane.  You’re lucky we didn’t call the bomb squad or the FBI.”

“It’s not missing, it’s stolen!”

“You told us you gave it to the man, remember?  A man whose name you never got but was wearing a ‘bright white Charvet herringbone weave dress shirt,’ your words.  A man you said ‘disappeared’ once the plane descended to 10,000 feet.”

Jake speaks in the flat monotone of someone who knows he’s lost, crushed now beneath a grinding stone.  “I let him borrow it so he could have it appraised.”  He realizes how his story must sound.

Another man enters the room.  To Jake, the man is a vague suit and tie with an official-looking lanyard around his neck.  At the end of the lanyard is a laminated photo badge displaying the name Roy Weidel, Vice President, Airport Operations.  He speaks through an indifferent goatee.  “Sergeant Grabe, thank you for calling me in.”

Grabe nods his head.  “This is Jake Miller, says he knows you.”

Weidel inspects Jake, shoots back, curt and to the point.  “No, never seen him.”

“Mr. Weidel, it’s me, Jake from NoDelay Sign Systems, we’ve spoken a few times over the phone. . . I’m supposed to meet with you at 2:30 today to talk about installing the new Arrivals and Departures signs in the airport.”

“Son, I am speaking with about 60 companies about that project, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“Sir, it’s all been a big misunderstanding.  I’m not supposed to be here!”

Weidel digs in.  “Well, help us understand.  You harassed some people in first class, you said you were carrying a strange bag, you shoved a flight attendant.  Hell, you’re probably one of those people who tries to board before your group is called.  So, tell me, where are you supposed to be?”

Sergeant Grabe adds, “we also found these in his seat,” and lays out the RFP documents and airport map along with the copy of Fresh Look Magazine.

Weidel regards the documents with a familiar eye, looks at the magazine with a mix of dismay and curiosity.

“I can explain, it’s not mine, I swear!”  Jake pleads, adding, “oh, I could kill that son of a bitch!” which gets everyone’s attention.

Grabe, cool, takes back the interrogation.  He asks, “what was in the bag?”

“I don’t know, never looked in there, he only left it there for a few seconds before he disappeared.”

“So, you’re saying the dirty clothes in that bag don’t belong to you?”

“Dirty clothes. . .  dirty clothes?”  Jake parrots.

Grabe continues, “I’m confused, is that why you stole that sport coat?  Nothing clean to wear?”

“I didn’t steal it, like the bag, it was given to me!”

“Right, the stranger, bright shirt, purple tie.”

“Yes!  He said I should always dress one degree nicer than the person I’m presenting to.”

Grabe smooths the walrus-like bristles of his mustache.  “I get it, this strange man used a decoy sport coat to steal your watch?  Is that what you’re saying?”

Weidel picks up on the line from Grabe, circles around behind Jake.  “The old ‘decoy sportcoat to nab the watch’ scam, we see it all the time, must be the oldest trick in the book.”

To Jake, embarrassed, angry, afraid, the moment lasts a lifetime.  The walls of the room inch closer and closer.  Weidel completes his circuit around Jake.  He finishes with, “You’re meeting me and didn’t bother to wear a suit?”

Another moment or another lifetime passes before Jake.  A single, exhausted, tear begins to moisten his eye and almost runs free before Grabe announces, “Well, Mr. Miller, since we didn’t find anything in your bag or the bag, and your ID checks out, no priors, and the airline’s not pressing charges on behalf of the flight attendant, we’re going to have to let you go.  You can get your things at baggage claim six.”  Grabe smooths his hands across his tusky whiskers, ensuring every hair in place, before he finishes, “In the future, always listen to the directions of uniformed airline personnel.  And don’t harass people in first class, understood?”

Grabe uncuffs Jake.  Weidel makes his way out of the interrogation room.

“Mr. Weidel, excuse me, wait!”  Jake is frantic, “I’m sorry you had to come down here.  Do you think we could push our meeting, the presentation, back a couple of hours?  I really could use a little more time to prepare.  I’m sure you can understand.”  Jake assumes the deal is still alive.

“Presentation?  Are you kidding me?”  Weidel scoffs, finishes him off with, “I think it’s best if we withdraw your company’s bid.”

“But sir. . .” Jake’s words trail off as Weidel and Grabe depart the room.  Jake collects his laptop.  He shuffles and sorts his presentation papers and stuffs them into the Fresh Look Magazine.  He chokes down another moment of vertigo as he leaves the room.

***

Jake shuffles his way from the bowels of the airport to baggage claim 6.  He makes his way through the terminal.  He is oblivious to the minute by minute updates on the Arrival/Departure screens he passes.  His head throbs from being tackled earlier.  I’m going to get fired, how am I going to tell my boss?  He questions the voice of the sales trainer in his head: confidence, fake it til you make it.  Is this what the strange man in the white shirt meant when he said Jake wasn’t cut out for sales?

Unfortunately, the door to the baggage office was closed.  On the door a hand-scribbled note was taped, Back in 10 minuts.  Jakes looks through the window, sees the bag Mr. Shroud had given him along with his luggage.  Near him the baggage conveyor number 6 sits still, empty.  Other carousels in the area churn and other passengers swarm to collect their luggage.   Jake sits on a bench, waits and stares at the marble floor.

Beside him, an automatic sliding-glass door opens to the street.  Outside, the crowd waits for their rides, moving on to other destinations.

On the curb, Kate hails a cab while talking on her cellphone.  “Sorry, running a little behind. . . Ugh, you would not believe it. . . It was crazy, some guys jumped him to hold him down. . . He just kept yelling ‘my watch, my watch,’ like he had seen a ghost.”

A taxi pulls up.  Kate laughs as she reports the incident to her friend on the phone.  “I’ve really got to get out of this. . . I know, I know, I’ve said it a million times; but this time I mean it, I’m gonna quit, I’ve had it with people!”

She reaches for the taxi but another hand beats her to the door handle.  On the wrist of the hand that opens the door for her is a silver Ferrin Berlain Aviation Chronomaster.

Distracted by her conversation, she had not seen anyone else hailing a cab.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Not at all, I’ll get the next one.”  Mr. Shroud smiles, holds the door, and bows with a sweeping after you gesture.  A true gentleman.

Any spark of recognition that started to appear on Kate’s face was soon wiped clean by the sound of a horn blowing and the cab driver hurrying her along.  Her frazzled cravat now pointing at odd angles.

“Are you sure?” she whispers, still holding her phone to her ear while she heaves her rollerboard and travel bag into the back seat.

“Positive.”  The glow in his shirt picks up the white in his smile.  He closes the door.

Kate disappears into the traffic at Los Angeles Airport.  Mr. Shroud raises his hand to summon another cab.  His new watch slides out of sight into the cuff of his shirt.

End