Reunited at Last (Rachelle)

        I’m in line in the rental car section of North Carolina’s Norfolk Airport, trying to re-calibrate after my flight here from East Rochester, New York.

         This was the first time I’d been on a plane in thirty-five years, since the trip for my brother-in-law’s destination wedding in Israel, back in the days when I was married to the man I now refer to as “The Crazed Israeli.”

         The trip started off in what can only be described as a World War II crop duster of a plane. Advertised as a “commuter flight,” it taxied travelers between Rochester and Buffalo, New York, in just over fifteen minutes. It seated ten, had a propeller, and passengers could actually see the pilot at his controls in the open cockpit for the entirety of the flight. As we entered the aircraft, the stewardess honest-to-gawd asked each person his or her weight so that, for optimal aerodynamics, she could determine where to seat us.

         I was terrified to fly as it was, but that question sent me over the edge. I was a dance teacher and choreographer at the time and wailed, “I don’t weigh enough to possibly make a difference!”

         After our return from The Land of Milk and Honey, I vowed I would never board an airplane again for the remainder of my life. But even Control Freak Me knows that spending ten hours driving rather than using it to write our story at our rented beach house would be as stupid a use of my time as ever existed.

         So, I put on my Big Girl panties and did what I swore I never would again.

         My seatmate in Business Class is an enormous, veiny-nosed, majestically bearded ginger who’s already drinking as I reach up to stow away my satchel.

         “How’dja do,” he says with a raise of his half-full glass of noxious-smelling, amber-colored spirits.

         The smallest trickle sloshes over the lip of his glass, and he guickly stops it in its tracks with a swipe of his mammoth grizzly bear tongue.

         “Can’t be wastin’ any!” he says and smiles.

         “No, no; gawd forbid,” I say and give him the smile I usually reserve for the mischievous students who always delight me.

         “What’s yer name?” he asks as I take the baronial-sized seat beside him and try to assess my surroundings: call button, hatch for the drop-down oxygen mask, emergency exits.

         “Rachelle,” I tell him.

         He closes his eyes and savors it. “Ra-SHELLLLLLLL,” he says as if it’s a rich chocolate mousse in his mouth. “Ra-SHELLLLLL.”

         I’m already amused by – and grateful for – this shameless man-child ballbuster who’s hopefully going to distract me until we’ve returned to terra firma.

         “A bonny name for a bonny lass,” he says.

         “And yours?” I ask, not even trying to hide my amusement.

         “Slap,” he says and pantomimes cordially tipping his hat.

         “Slap?” I repeat. “Is that a name that works?”

         He tilts his head and asks, “What’s that mean, Lassie?”

         “Well, here in Rochester, there used to be a newspaper columnist who would always share his most recent discoveries of what he termed, ‘names that work.’ For example, there was a local attorney named Michael Law, an ophthalmologist named Dr. Seymore and - everyone’s favorite – a urologist who specialized in vasectomies, whose name was Dr. Stopp.”

         “You’re playing with me, Lass,” he says slitting his pale blue eyes my way.

         “I am absolutely not.” I put up three fingers, Scout’s-Honor style. I wait a beat then ask, “So? Is yours a name that works?”

         “Not so far today,” he says and gives me a wink. “But the day is young.” Then he says, “Betcha wanna ask me my last name, right?”

         I fake-sigh and smirk. “Sure. What’s your last name, Slap?”

         “McKeester,” he says, then adds, “My parents obviously hated me from the minute I arrived.”

         I take this moment to appreciate that, in a classroom situation, he would be the rabble-rouser every fun teacher finds irresistible. Fortunately for him, I am just the fun teacher for this challenge. Game on!

         I feign surprise and exclaim, “McKeester? Omigosh, Slap! I know your sister, Kiss!!” I toss a wicked smile his way.

         He is momentarily stunned then wags a finger at me.

         “Ahhh, yer a plucky one, you are,” he says. “Kiss McKeester. That’s a good one, Lassie. You a stand-up comedian or somethin’?”

         “Close. A teacher.”

         “Ahhh.”

         “And you?” I ask.

         “I’m a professional wrestler,” he tells me.

         I take stock of the enormity of his stature. Even in a sitting position, his height is exceptional. His palms are like two Christmas hams, and each of his fingers is the size of a mallet head. He has shoulders that outsize his own roomy seat and encroach a good four inches into mine. Plus, he has that outrageous personality.

         He interrupts my silent assessment. “With a name like mine,” he says, “being a pro wrestler was pretty much my destiny, don’tcha think, Lassie?”

         I smile and say, “Or you’re one of those people who tells lies to their seatmates on airplanes because they figure they’ll never see them again. There’s always that, right?”

         He gives me a huge smile. “I like you, Lassie. I think I’ve met me match.”

         I smile back and say, “Oh, you should meet my friend, Gretchen. She has her PhD in sassy comebacks! She makes me look like Amateur Hour.”

         He shrugs and says, “Maybe someday I’ll have the pleasure.”

         As the plane begins its ascent, Slap closes his eyes and affixes noise-canceling headphones over his ears. I crack open a fresh novel.

                                    *********************************

         The sun is in non-stop shimmer mode as I make my way down Route 12 toward our rental house. The scent of the ocean drenches my nostrils and fills me with untold joy.

         When at last I pull into the driveway of our beach house, I cannot believe my eyes: bright white, three stories, windows galore and a two-tiered back deck that overlooks the ocean.

         I can already feel creative juices flooding my mind with writing ideas.

         The door clatters open and a high-pitched, “YOU’RE HEEEEEEEEEEEEERE!” pierces the space between us.

         We run toward each other with outstretched arms and smiles that overtake our faces.

         “MY LITTLE LOW-CLASS DIXIE CHICK!!! I scream.

         “MY FROU-FROU LEOPARD YANKEE PRINCESS GIRL!” she screams back, and we hug and hug.

         “Let me give you the grand tour of our digs,” she says.

         First, though she helps me wrestle my two trunks and satchel up the fifteen steps to our front door, grousing all the way:

“Who the hell are you dressing for, Allen?”

“Is the Queen coming for a visit or something?”

“I swear, if I throw out my back doing this, I’ll write ugly things about you in our book!”

It feels so good to be back in the presence of my beloved partner in crime. All is right with the world.