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holding her breath. I held my breath as well, waiting for her to finish,
which she did with a tiny shudder and sigh that I was confident sounded enough
like airplane frustration or exhaustion to the travelers around us.  Eyes still
closed, a single tear ran down her cheek.  Passion or sadness, I did not
inquire. She shifted around in her seat, adjusting her clothing and melting
into post-orgasm serenity. For about five minutes, she remained quiet, and then
gave me a smile through half-open eyes.
    “You are a very bad influence,” she said in a satiated voice,
maintaining our hushed conversational tone.
    “I am not sure the world is ready for you Anne,” I replied, not
addressing her comment.
    She smiled, adjusted her seat for a final time and closed her
eyes.
    My own breathing was still heavy but gradually returning to
normal.  I looked down at her and thought her face more innocent with her eyes
closed.   I put my hand on hers, hoping for her forgiveness, while through the
window I could see the place of my penance emerging through the clouds.
     

“Romeo and Juliet”
    There is silent music that plays in my mind to the slow-motion
visions of the world around me.  Dire Straits’ “Romeo and Juliet” was playing
as I drove down Montana Boulevard in Santa Monica and made a left turn through
the glare of the sunset onto Ocean.  In the blinding haze I saw the silhouette
of a tall bearded warrior with a shield in one hand and a sword in the other. 
Respectfully, I waited to let him pass through the sunlight until he emerged
into plain view, a homeless man carrying a dirty blue knapsack and shredded
umbrella.
     
    I had met a salesgirl earlier in the day who was working in the
men’s department at Fred Segal.  She had just arrived from New York, chasing
her dream and a little bit more homesick than any beautiful girl deserved.  I
had stopped in to buy some causal clothes and put together the pieces of her
story as she assembled a new West Side wardrobe of black and more black.  I had
arranged to join her for drinks, but then decided against it immediately before
arriving at the restaurant.   I used my cell phone to send regrets through the
hostess. I asked her to explain that I had been called out of town at the last
minute and would make contact upon my return. I then watched from my car as my
stood-up date emerged from the front door, handed her parking slip to the valet
attendant and did her best to conceal her disappointment over a lost evening
with the man we both wished I had been.
     
    Continuing south into Venice, I parked the car and walked out
to the strand just as it was getting dark.   My silent etude was playing louder
as I passed the vendors selling costume jewelry and tuxedo t-shirts. A man on
roller skates playing an electric guitar with a battery amplifier tied to his
back roared past me, and the smell of boardwalk food filled the air.  Passing
strollers stopped to watch a street performer pull a red silk sash from his
throat.  I watched with them for a few seconds and then moved on to a tattoo
shop, where I pretended I was contemplating a Harley eagle while spying on a
teenage boy who was trying to talk his girlfriend inside.
     
    Further down the walkway a couple of fifty-somethings who
looked like they were from the Midwest had paid a mobile piano man to sing
“Crazy” while they danced in the sand. They held each other around their waists
and stared into each others’ eyes as if their love was larger than the ocean in
front of them.  I lingered long enough to see them finish, and threw the piano
player five bucks to let them dance again.  It all fused in a swirl of sea air:
the glitter of the jewelry, the spectators and the illusions, the sweet smell
of cotton candy and the unpainted girlfriend; each an instrument in the private
song of my evening.
     

Chapter Three
    DA Flight #14
New York (LGA) to Miami (MIA)
    Raymond Trevello looked like the man that every boy from