inventing virgins chapter 4

7/31/2019 Inventing Virgins Chapter 4

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authors note:

although many of the noteworthy events

and places described within did take place

and/or do exists. The named characters in the

story are fictional. Their response to and

involvement in the events of 1979 are entirely

fictional. Any resemblance to anyone living or

dead is purely coincidental.


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L.C. moved sideways through First Class of the

American Airlines Dc-10. His oft-forgotten briefcase

noisily clipped at the seats as he passed. His animated


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ascension toward the nose of the plane caused the

stewardess to look up from her preflight preparations.

He confirmed his seat with her, (the right side of

the plane three rows from the front) and with a smile

asked for a preflight martini.

L.C. fell into his seat and tossed his briefcase into

the seat next to the window. The flight appeared to be

light, L.C. was confident no one would end up sitting

there. He dug into his jacket pocket for the familiar feel

of his Marlboro Red Box.

The stewardess moved to pull down the seat tray;

L.C. waved her off and took the drink directly. He lit the

cigarette with one hand, snapping the lighter closed with

some flair and smiled at the young stewardess. He blew


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smoke out the side of his mouth and away from her and

asked, You live in L.A.?

Her southern drawl that she had disguised with

some effort came forward as she announced, Im from

Texas.

The twang of her response sent a frisky shock wave

through L.C. that made him appreciate that he was

already in his seat.

Austin, Texas.

L.C. was in love; he gulped at his drink and

inquired about her time in Los Angeles. Would there be

a lay over? A few hours, a day perhaps?

L.C. knew L.A.


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He knew people that would accommodate them,

no matter how little time they had.

The stewardess smiled. She pivoted lightly on her

front foot while she assessed the sincerity of his inquiry.

He was dressed in black Angel Flight bell-bottoms, his

white shirt was opened at the top, and his hair literally

seemed to be everywhere. With both hands full, he

whipped it from side to side to clear his view. He smiled

in between drags on his cigarette.

With a wink she spun away to return to her

preflight chores. She tossed a cryptic, slightly flirtatious,

absolutely noncommittal remark over her shoulder as she

returned to the front of the plane. L.C. smiled and sank

deeper into his seat.


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Landlocked girls from the Midwest could not

resist Malibu and its ocean front charms. The Ocean had

magical powers most women could not resist.

As predicted, the flight was light, and nobody

would end up next to him. His mind moved back to

business, some completed here in Chicago and some yet

to deal with in L.A.

His secretary had gone on about a houseguest, and

he had to refer to notes he had scribbled on a cocktail

napkin.

L.C.s secretary had devised a system over their

years together. She provided him with only basic

information about issues that he would need to be aware

of but couldnt act on while in the air. The notes were

single words that helped him remember the conversation;


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L.C. always chuckled to himself as she provided detailed

information for a possible emergency water landing, that

information so useful on trips from Chicago to L.A.

L.C. flipped the napkin about in his now empty

hand; a houseguest for the summer would call for some

adjustments. Hed know the Aragons for some time,

sending him their daughter seemed unusual, but he knew

questions would only begat more questions.

He studied the napkin again, the flight information

on the napkin seemed wrong. He studied the numbers

more intently, glancing at his watch, he realized, her

flight was today!

Math was not his strong suit, especially math

involving time, and time zones. His houseguest was

already in the air. She was already on her way to Los


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Angeles! He would only have a few minutes to grab his

own luggage, if that.

L.C. threw the napkin at his briefcase, a primal,

guttural, groan escaped him as he realized Miss Austin

Texas, would not succumb to Malibus Magic, no matter

her availability.

The aircrafts engines climbed another octave as

the plane began to vibrate down the runway. L.C. felt the

familiar tug on his shoulders as the plane increased its

speed. His gut yanked him deeper into his seat as the

plane nudged its nose into the sky. He closed his eyes for

a brief moment, waiting for the pull on his body to

subside.

His visceral response to the aircrafts lazy list to the

port side was a meandering, completely lethargic, effort


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to crawl up through the haze of vodka and tobacco. L.C.

opened his eyes to see the left side of the plane was now

below him. He fought the primordial urge to climb up

and away from the depths of danger. He felt the seatbelt

strain against him. His fellow passengers began to

scream as the plane continued its left-handed roll.

The luggage compartments above him gave way,

expelling their contents across the aisle, bombing the

now hysterical passengers along the length of the plane.

L.C.s own briefcase crawled up into his lap; as he

clutched it, a glimpse of the Chicago skyline suddenly

dropped through his window.

He clawed at the briefcase as though it was the

only thing keeping him alive. The screams from the


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plane were quickly replaced by a sense of clarity, a sense

of wonder, and a realization;

L.C. was about to die.

No plane or pilot could correct this dive, this low to

the ground.

L.C. smiled, let the briefcase fall between his legs,

and raised his arms in deviant jubilation. He had led a

good life, his company had provided good value though

the years, and brought countless joy to literally

thousands of people. His life had been indulgent, too

many women, too much booze, and maybe, just maybe

too much rock & roll.

Maybe.


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L.C. had made dreams come true, had done what

they said could not be done. Arms still raised, he

screamed a laugh toward the awaiting heavens. As

American Airlines Flight #191 completed its dying,

hopeless, arch, into a field just north of OHare

International, the napkin with the details of his

summerhouse guest floated across his face.

L.C. perished without ever meeting Elizabeth

Victoria Aragon.

# # #


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drooped, jet lag swarmed her. She mindlessly tugged at

her trench coat, uncertain if she should take it off or pull

it close.

Los Angeles was bright and warm, as any day of

late, May could be, yet she sat shivering atop her

luggage. The lack of; sleep, espresso and a ride home

had begun to wear on her.

Her companion appeared from using a nearby pay

phone. Elizabeth Victoria Aragon looked up at her and

knew something was wrong.

She crouched next to Elizabeth and placed a finger

across her lips insisting on silence. Her eyes flooded and

she began to cry.


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Elizabeth twisted atop her luggage reaching for her

companions face... She spoke with a thickness of

dehydration and shock, There has been an accident.

She whispered, A crash.

Elizabeths companion looked quickly to see if her

words had been over heard. Elizabeth managed a quick

sardonic thought that crept its way to her face as a smile.

Nobody here understands Portuguese. She stated flatly.

Tell me.

Her companion assured that indeed speaking

Portuguese made them invisible, continued with the

news she had just reveled. He is dead, the man we were

to meet, he is dead. She repeated. His plane crashed, in

Chicago. A short time ago.


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As she finished her sentence, the atmosphere of the

airport changed noticeably, car radios were suddenly

broadcasting the same station, news of the crash rushed

from all available windows and doors. A nearby

American Airlines skycap leaned into his portable radio,

and then ran into the terminal to verify the tragedy.

# # #


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Isaac Bloomfield launched his Cadillac Eldorado

out of the parking lot at Le Dome with a wide

impertinent left hand turn across all four lanes of Sunset

Blvd. The response from the Friday afternoon commute

was as predictable and vociferous as it was venomous.

Isaac drew the map to the airport in his head; he

was an hour away if not more. Although the freeways

could get him there quicker, Isaacs Los Angeles

consisted of streets withnames. San Monica, San

Vicente, Beverly, Los Cienega, and Venice. Numbers

were good for tracking sales (thus money) and little else.


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Driving on anything called the 405 was for the great

unwashed. The time constrained minions that did not

have the good sense to travel with time and style. Who

could possibly see you if you drove so fast and with the

top up?

He continued to pilot the massive bronze

convertible down Sunset Blvd with an entitled disregard

for property or human life. Sunset at this hour was a

jerky stop and go. He passed the Whiskey a-Go-Go at a

testudinal crawl and decided to abandon it with a left on

Doheny Drive. A slightly more residential street, it

offered him some momentum and he merged with traffic

on Santa Monica Blvd feeling as though he had made

some progress.

His protg was dead.


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strut its was along the Blvd. Hope briefly returned.

Rejuvenated, and he felt his sprits rise with each song.

Turning left on Sepulveda Blvd his enthusiasm had

returned and he felt around for a demo tape. Who among

the unknowns could compete with Bad Company? Who

could surprise and delight Isaacs ability to pick winners.

The name Great Buildings was scribbled across the front

of the tape. He exchanged the tapes and the rockabilly

cheerfulness ofHold On To Something sprang from the

speakers with a nave youthfulness that immediately

made Isaac smile. Score one for the unknowns.

He drummed along with the song until he had

decided to pass the tape along to some friends of his.

Isaac swore there was a television theme song within

their music.


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He rummaged around for another demo tape; it

lasted only 6 seconds before he tossed it in the back seat.

It slapped atop the pile of rejects that slipped and slid

about, floating upon one another like the bobbing trash

forever stuck in a marina.

He blindly chose again from the new release

section; SupertrampsBreakfast in America.

Gone Hollywoodtickled its way forward for a few

seconds before it came on bursting with high-pitched

vocals, and sarcastic lyrics. It was the perfect eulogy to

L.C. and how he saw the world. The songs lyrics carried

a heavy, relentless punch and Isaac was forced to

pullover just after Venice Blvd.

He sobbed; great gut wrenching shouts at the

heavens. He lay twisted by despair until theLogical Song


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skipped to the foreground with its melodious curiosity,

its precise harmonies. He gripped the wheel in an effort

to right himself. The song banged on like a British

drinking song, the sax solo untangled him, and he pulled

back into traffic.

Isaac knew he should stop listening to this; this

disemboweling collection that so perfectly, so

unfortunately capsulated this day. Goodbye Stranger,

Breakfast in America, Oh Darling, Take the Long way

Home, and the soul-questioning anthem that was and

remainsLord is it Mine.

Isaac stoically took the emotional pounding. He

drove himself to confront the loss of the day. With

swollen eyes, he steered the car until the final minute of

Lord is it Mine forced him again to pull over. This time


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he could no longer brave the onslaught and pulled the

tape from the deck.

The high-pitched rushing sound of air being

scalped awaken Isaac to the fact that he had completed

his journey to the airport.

# # #

inventing virgins chapter 4

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