FIVE TIMES LUCKY
CHAPTER 1
THE AIRLINER GAINED and lost altitude with such astonishing force that a barefoot boy returning from the lavatory was thrown to the aisle carpet, then lifted momentarily weightless into BunnyLee’s lap, crushing her in-flight magazine. The boy’s forehead whacked against her shoulder and his dirty foot stirred the orange juice she was savoring.
“Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” BunnyLee asked.
Hands from every direction helped guide the frightened boy to his parents’ row.
BunnyLee focused on steadying what remained of the trembling liquid. She wasn’t going to drink it now.
The engines labored to recover lost altitude. Their hum turned giddy when the plane seesawed through another free-fall. The fuselage twisted and overhead luggage compartments popped open.
A pair of small antique drums she’d carefully stowed above slipped out of their yakskin bag and walloped her arm, splashed what was left of the juice onto her sarong, then bounced down the aisle toward the back of the plane in a topsy-turvy deeply resonant rhythm.
She exchanged worried looks with a half-dozen strangers.
Over the PA, the pilot apologized for the unforeseen turbulence. A flight attendant followed with an invitation to all who felt the need to avail themselves of one of the airline industry’s few remaining cost-free amenities—the Air Sickness Bags or ASBs for short as he thereafter referred to them, “using both hands whenever possible! In the unlikely event of a water landing…” the steward continued.
None of this seemed like business as usual. The overnight flight originating in Bangkok was still an hour west of Los Angeles out over the mighty Pacific. The thought of relying on a seat cushion as a flotation device in that vast, storm-roiled, undulating ocean below seemed preposterous.
The girl in the seat next to BunnyLee, whose headphones leaked Goth heavy metal for the past sixteen hours and who was not shy about singing along loudly and off-key, spoke to BunnyLee for the first time.
“We are all going to die.”
BunnyLee was not ready to die! She was still in her twenties. Her life was a harvest basket of ripe, juicy, un-tasted fruit. There were ten thousand dreams yet unrealized—wrongs she meant to right, places she intended to visit, career paths unexplored, people unmet, love untendered.
Notably, fame was no longer the top of that list. It had sunk near the bottom among other passing interests like conquering Everest and leech farming. She was older now, more sensible.
Religion was still the big unanswered question. BunnyLee was open to cosmic notions. She wanted to believe in something transcendent. Something she could hold on to in times of need. Like now!
She had no Higher Being to turn to.
Those antique drums packed as a wedding gift were artifacts from an era when cultures were lavish with religious ceremony. Bumming around Southeast Asia, BunnyLee admired what remained of those ancient traditions; they confirmed to the faithful that individuals were a part of something bigger. She sought out the pageantry and delighted in the ritualism. She was specifically drawn to the Hindu female deities. Their colorful wardrobe informed the way she was dressed today in a green and beige silk wrap-around and woven sandals—not exactly plane crash attire.
The unforeseen turbulence was getting worse. People were praying. A man was sobbing.
BunnyLee’s mother would be saying the Twenty-Third Psalm, placing her fate in the hands of her Shepherd. BunnyLee had never felt that connection. Up until now BunnyLee had gotten through the rough patches in life simply by feeling lucky. In fact, a shaman priest at the Bayan Temple in Cambodia artfully measured her chakra with sticks and declared, “You are five times lucky!”
She cast a wide net in her reading, cherry-picking ideas. She knew she was not alone in her reasoned doubt. When she read that Kierkegaard, the earliest Existentialist, wrote: “I must find a truth that is true for me…the idea from which I can live or die,” BunnyLee felt that this was what she was searching for, too.
The clock was ticking on eternal salvation.
“Do you think they recycle these Air Sickness Bags?” the girl next to her asked.
BunnyLee gave her a quick glance to see if she was kidding. Either way, she was impressed by the young teenager’s environmentalist spunk. Traveling halfway around the world added significantly to one’s lifetime carbon footprint. The fact that BunnyLee could embark on such a journey simply to be a bridesmaid at her friend Heather’s wedding did portend ominous consequences for the future habitability of the planet. Today’s turbulence was the foretold result of worldwide political dithering. And BunnyLee had neglected to factor the environmental impact of a world filling up with used nausea bags, one of which could possibly be hers. She clearly wasn’t doing her part to save the world from global warming.
“It says here on the bottom that the bag’s made of 100% recycled material,” BunnyLee said, adding a measure of hope to the subject of salvation.
“Well, I doubt these were made out of used bags!” the Goth girl said. She either had the world’s driest sense of humor or, more likely, the prospect of crashing had unhinged her.
BunnyLee dared not turn her head to check. The jarring motions of the plane could surely wrench her neck.
“The Buddhists believe in a form of metaphysical recycling,” BunnyLee said to buck the girl up. “Something like the soul never dying, but rather, being forever recycled through different forms of existence.” This struck BunnyLee as a comforting thought.
“Yeah, but if they don’t actually recycle the used bags, then the cycle ends here!”
The plane took a sudden dip, straining their seat belts and then, just as gracelessly, regained altitude. The girl grabbed BunnyLee’s arm and dug in.
“We’re all going to die!”
“I know, you said that, but…that really hurts!”
Her seatmate wouldn’t let go. “I don’t want to die alone!”
“Okay, just not the fingernails!”
BunnyLee placed her hand over the girl’s. Together they waited for the flight to reach its unforeseeable end. There were people who would miss BunnyLee when she was gone and she sorrowfully bid them all a happy life.
The girl chose to use her Air Sickness Bag after all and BunnyLee noted how using only one hand instead of two contributed greatly to the sloppy results. She gave the girl a tissue to wipe her nose ring and black tunic.
“The Existentialists believe that life begins at the other side of despair,” BunnyLee said, guessing that alienation was a subject more in line with a withdrawn teenager’s angst-ridden outlook, “where nausea gives way to elation.”
The girl didn’t respond, so BunnyLee dropped it. Just as well. She too was experiencing the dizziness of nausea. She focused her mind on quelling the urge. She held the paper bag open with both hands just in case.
During a break in the action, the flight attendant came through with a giant trash bag to collect the used ASBs. He offered replacements for those spendthrifts onboard who weren’t content with just one.
“Do they recycle these bags?” the Goth girl asked.
The man looked at BunnyLee for a reaction.
“What an interesting question! I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, doubtful. But if you’d like, I can bring you a suggestion form to fill out. Those I know are one hundred percent recycled.”
“But does anyone read them before they’re recycled?”
“Whoops, there you’ve got me again. I’m wanting to say yes, but…”
When the wheels finally hit the tarmac, there was a cheer from the passengers. BunnyLee was buoyed with collective relief. It was definitely a feeling of elation, too soon to tell whether the Dizziness of Nausea had changed her in any fundamental existential way. But her faith in luck was restored. She felt lucky to be alive. They were all lucky to be alive.
She heard her drums finding their way back to her. Beat by beat, people tapped the taut skins as they handed them forward a makeshift ceremony in the celebration of living. She raised her hand to identify herself as their owner. Others raised their hands to point the way and it became a gesture of kinship. Intricate drum duos brought smiles to the faces of these fellow travelers, as did the rhythmless riffs. In this every-man-for-himself modern world, here was evidence that they were all in it together.
Once out of the plane, there was no time to dawdle. BunnyLee left the harrowing experience behind and joined an increasing number of people from a dozen jumbo jets disembarking simultaneously from all over the world. BunnyLee quickened her pace. She was anxious about getting to the hotel in time for a last-minute fitting before tonight’s rehearsal dinner. Others no doubt had tight schedules, too. So much for unanimity. An unspoken race among the fit sprang up to outdistance the tired, hungry and huddled masses into America.
The immigration hall was teeming. She settled into the line of other returning citizens. She took a deep breath to slow her pulse. She was just so happy to be on firm ground! She balanced her shoulder bag on her rolling carry-on and relaxed her shoulders.
The line did not appear to be moving. The kiosks were down. She checked her watch. Another deep breath. She had come so far and jumped over so many hurdles to get here in time.
She didn’t want to disappoint Heather by being late.
A man in a crisp dark suit with what looked like a security earpiece motioned to her in line.
“Me?” BunnyLee looked around to see if there was some mistake. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Courtesy Service.”
He unhooked the rope for BunnyLee to step out of the queue and re-hooked it behind her.
“VIP Treatment,” one of her fellow travelers whispered to a companion, “for celebrities.”
BunnyLee was escorted to the front. She wondered who it was she was being mistaken for. She handed her passport to the
immigration officer. Things were looking up.
“Love yer smile, Ms.…Welles!” the officer said.
“Huh? Really? Thanks!”
Minutes later she handed her declaration form to the Customs Officer, who winked at her.
“Operators are standing by!” the woman said in a sultry tone. It sounded like the punchline of a trending joke that BunnyLee clearly was not in on.
Through the sliding door and into the Southern California daylight with her checked bag in tow, BunnyLee felt invigorated. She waved off a porter.
“Nice teeth!’ the man said as she passed.
“Thanks!”
She wondered again who it might be that everyone thought she was. She texted Heather, “Cleared customs in record time!” Obviously, fame had its perks.
She closed her eyes in the back seat of the Lyft. It was midnight back home. The physical stress of being squeezed on a plane for nineteen hours with its roller coaster finale, coupled with the financial squeeze to her pocketbook, took their toll on her normally sunny disposition. The cost of her bridesmaid dress was more than some of her students in Thailand earned in a year. She’d had to take a leave of absence for the duration of the summer term—another financial hit. She fought back a growing feeling of desperation with the sunnier realization that the hard part of the trip was now behind her. It was time to enjoy herself.
Heather had sweetened the deal by offering BunnyLee her apartment for two weeks while the newlyweds honeymooned in Mexico and she’d thrown in the use of her car while they were away. Heather was BunnyLee’s roommate from college, and events like weddings were once-in-a-lifetime events. Presumably.
Anyway, she couldn’t say no to being there for Heather. BunnyLee looked forward to seeing a gang of friends from her acting days at UCLA. Even an old boyfriend, Ted, would be there and she was O.K. with that. He achieved a measure of success as a stand-up comedian and she was happy for him. In those college days BunnyLee was the one cast in the lead roles. She was the one everyone said had the best chance of making it big.
She felt a pang of regret for having walked away from it all.
She reassured herself she was a better person for all her travels. Her journey was not just a journey to foreign lands; it was a philosophical journey, a journey of self-discovery. She wondered whether this might translate into her being a better actor. Not that she planned to tread the boards again.
“You could even go to some auditions while you’re here,” Heather had written. “You know, just for the fun of it!”
“Maybe,” BunnyLee replied. She’d never found auditions to be fun.
The car was off the highway, headed up Wilshire Boulevard, inching along where the road merged with Santa Monica Boulevard. The driver, a Pakistani, his hair wrapped in a headscarf, studied her in his rearview mirror. He held up his phone for a selfie that included BunnyLee over his right shoulder.
“Smile!”
He pointed up at a billboard and he took a picture of that, too. BunnyLee slid across the seat and lowered her window for a better view as they crept along.
From her acute angle she could see a billboard promoting The Wrestling Jumbo Slam Pay-Per-View coming up next month in Las Vegas featuring a guy named the Dust Devil. Next, coming into view, was a billboard with a huge close-up of a woman’s face, a blonde woman, young, one of those pretty faces that advertisers often chose for its fetching smile. There was a knowing look that belied a hidden secret, like the woman posing knew something that other people didn’t know. Like she knew the way to a better smile because the name of the product was Love Your Smile!
BunnyLee didn’t get what was so remarkable about either ad until the driver said in his precise style of English.
“Is you, right?”
BunnyLee looked again. It did look like her.
“Operators are standing by, right?” he said.
There was that single dimple in the poster woman’s left cheek that gave her that uneven, enigmatic, crooked smile.
“Omigod!” It was definitely her.
“Over there, too. Big sign!”
A well-dressed man jaywalking through the slow-moving cars in front of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel gave BunnyLee a double-take. BunnyLee rolled her window back up.
She counted six more billboards before they turned onto Coldwater Canyon. And there she was on the sides of every city bus.
BunnyLee sent Heather a follow up text, “WTF?!!!”
Heather responded, “Love your smile!
[CONTINUED]
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