Waiting for the Night Flight

I'm in the Phoenix airport, 11:05 at night, between planes, when I see them sitting across from me in the Concourse Lounge, their long legs splayed awkwardly beneath the bar tables. I recognize them right away or, rather, him, since I don't know the other guy, though by his size, he must be a basketball player, too. Him is Magic Johnson, All-Pro guard for the Los Angeles Lakers, my used-to-be-favorite team. I say "used to be" because I don't live in Los Angeles now. When Marian and I separated a year ago, I moved to Denver. It's a nice city, but the basketball team isn't worth much, so I don't watch the games anymore.

It's that dead time at airports when people don't rush around: There are no more appointments to keep, nothing to do but wait for the night flight and go home. Magic and his friend must be waiting, too, and I think how satisfying it is that he and I should find ourselves together in this space, at this moment, doing the very same thing. Magic is dozing and his friend is staring at Johnny Carson on the bar TV, though the set's too far away to hear anything Johnny says. In the corridor, a custodian moves a waxer back and forth over the same spot. The woman behind the bar puts day-old Danish into the cooler. The only other patron is a salesman like myself--I can recognize one anywhere--who grimaces as he works a crossword puzzle. Nobody but me seems to know or care that Magic Johnson is sitting with us.

Now, ordinarily, I wouldn't do this; but maybe because it's late and there's no one around to watch me make a fool of myself, I get bold and walk over to Magic's table. As I approach, his eyes flicker, then open. He knows what's coming.

"Aren't you Magic Johnson?" I ask. It's dumb, but what else is there?

He studies me, as does his friend.

"You wrong, man," the friend says. "He's not Magic Johnson."

Magic's face is impassive.

"They always mistaking you for Magic Johnson. Ain't that right?"

Magic nods solemnly.

"I used to live in L.A.," I say. I smile, letting them know I know they're kidding me.

"It's such a pain being with you, man," his friend says. "All the time people coming up, asking if you Magic. You ought to get yourself"--he pauses--"a nose job."

With that, Magic breaks into his famous grin, a grin as wide as the moon. Of course it's him.

"Now, nobody ever recognizes me," the friend says with mock petulance. He looks at me. "You know who I am, man?"

"No," I say. "I don't. Look"--I turn to Magic--"I don't want to bother you. I just wanted to say I--my wife and I, we used to watch you play all the time. We watched all the games on TV."

"Used to?" Magic raises his eyebrows.

"I don't live in L.A. anymore. I live in Denver now."

"One shitty team," his friend snorts.

"That's right," I say.

"You want his autograph, man? Give him your autograph, Earvin." Earvin is Magic's real name, I know.

"I don't want an autograph."

"No autograph?" He feigns surprise. "How about mine, then? You still don't know who I am?"

"Sure," I say. "You're Larry Bird."

That cracks them up. "How'd you guess, man?" the friend laughs.

"It's the blond hair." That cracks them up even more.

"Sit down," Magic says. "Hey--it's OK. He's just jivin' you." He waves to a chair. "Sit down."

I sit.

"This is Fuzzy Thornton," Magic says. "He plays, too."

"Between teams, man," Fuzzy says. He leans over and tries to give me some handshake I don't know. We fumble, our fingers never quite meshing.

"Jerry Bruckner," I say.

"Have a beer, Jerry." Magic waves to the woman at the bar and taps his glass. He holds up three fingers.

Incredible, I think. I'm having a beer with Magic Johnson. Marian should see me now.

"Where are you guys coming from?" I ask. It's the off season, so I know they're not between games.

"Vegas," Fuzzy says.

"Going back to L.A. now," Magic adds.

"Can't you do that a little more directly?" I ask.

"Strike," Magic explains. "We've got to go to Phoenix to get to L.A."

"I'm on my way home, too," I say.

"L.A.?" Magic yawns.

"No--Denver. I live in Denver now."

"That's right. You said that." Magic slides lower in his seat and folds his arms. He seems tired or thoughtful, not at all like Fuzzy, who almost vibrates, as if some dark current were running through him.

"My wife and I used to watch all the games," I tell Magic. I'm not just saying that: For several years, Marian and I would get into bed and under the covers to watch Magic dribble the ball regally, unhurriedly down the court. We'd drink beer and eat nachos that she made in the microwave. We'd touch toes and snuggle while Magic found the open man. These are some of the nicest memories I have of Marian and me, yet they're really nothing special--just two tired people lying in bed, drinking beer and watching a basketball game.

"Your wife a fan, too, Jerry?" Magic asks.

She was. While I enjoyed Magic's flashy moves, those soft behind-the-back passes, his fakes to the basket that left defenders dangling helplessly in mid-air, Marian saw something else. "He never makes a teammate look bad," she'd say. "He's so--honest, somehow."

"You were her favorite player," I tell Magic.

And then, for no reason at all, I say, "You know, I used to play basketball, too."

Magic raises his eyebrows again. Fuzzy, who's been chewing on a toothpick, cocks his head. "Did you, now?"

"In college," I say. "At Pitt."

Now, this isn't true at all: I did go to Pitt, but I never played basketball. I don't know why I said that.

"What position you play, Jerry?" Fuzzy asks.

"Guard. I was a guard."

"You look a little short," Magic says.

"It was college," I say. "I was a small guard. But I was quick."

"You don't look so quick, either," Fuzzy says.

"Well, it was a few years ago, you know."

"Pitt." Magic shakes his head.

"We went twenty and ten that year," I say. "It was our best year ever."

"Jerry." Fuzzy takes the toothpick from his mouth. "If you were a guard, then tell me what a one-trap-one play is."

I'm caught, unless he's jiving me. I look at Magic, as if somehow he can help me. He grins.

"Maybe that play came after Jerry played," he says.

And now Fuzzy is grinning, too. "Any pro offers, Jerry?"

"No."

"A lot of quick guys then, huh?"

"Quicker than me," I say.

I'm saved when a teenaged boy, one of a group of three who've been standing outside the lounge looking at us, approaches our table. His face is slack and horselike, and he walks with an unsure slouch. Magic sees him out of the corner of his eye but pretends not to. He's got real court sense, I note admiringly. The boy stands before us, wiping his palms on his shorts. Nobody but me looks at him, and just when I think he's going to be ignored, Magic turns and flashes that enormous grin. The boy takes a step back, as if jolted. He glances nervously at his friends.

"Aren't--aren't you Magic Johnson?" he asks.

Magic nods.

The boy raises his hand in a lame salute. "Well, uh--hi." He laughs nervously, a titter almost, and is embarrassed. His hand falls. He leaves.

"'Hi'? Just 'Hi'?" Fuzzy shakes his head.

"Scared," Magic says.

The boy's friends welcome him back. One of them says something and the boy punches him on the arm.

"A lady in an airport wanted me to autograph her baby's head once," Magic says. "'With what?' I say. 'I'll go buy a pen,' she says. 'Don't go away,' she says. Then she gives me the baby while she runs off to get it!"

"That's so you don't run away," Fuzzy chuckles.

"What happened?" I ask.

"She got it, and I did it."

"The baby's head?" Fuzzy can't believe this.

"I told her I'd sign anything, but she really wanted me to sign the head."

"Strange," Fuzzy murmurs.

"She probably never washed it," I say.

"Yeah, I bet she thought he'd grow up with Magic Johnson on his head." Fuzzy laughs, and then we all do. I feel good. They've forgotten about my basketball lie. Magic waves again to the woman behind the bar and indicates another round of beers. When they come, I try to pay, but Magic insists.

He raises his glass. "To all us ballplayers." He winks at me.

"You and your wife live in Denver now, Jerry?" Fuzzy asks.

"No. She's still in L.A. We're separated."

Fuzzy grins. "You didn't get traded, did you, Jerry?"

"No. No, I didn't."

"I don't mean to get personal, you know."

"We're friends," I say. "We may even get back together," I lie.

"Hey, that's nice," Magic says. "I like (continued on page 162)Night Flight(continued from page 80) that." He raises his glass again. "Here's to that."

We all toast Marian and me.

"These days," Magic says, "nobody stays no place too long. It's all trading and moving, trading and moving. In between, you're just waiting."

"I like moving," Fuzzy says. "I like to be on the go."

Out in the corridor, the custodians are emptying ash cans into large plastic sacks. The teenaged boys have gone.

"Hey, you know what would be wonderful?" I say.

They look at me.

"I don't know if you'd do this, Magic, but--if I called my wife, would you, would you just say hello? You're her favorite player. It would just surprise the hell out of her."

For a moment, Magic looks at me oddly, as if I were a stranger who only now had walked up and sat down with them. Then he says, "Sure, Jerry."

I point to the pay phones in the corridor. "I'll call from over there."

"Just wave when you want me," Magic says.

I feel a tingling in my chest as I press the numbers that used to be mine. The phone rings softly in the house where I used to live. And in this moment, when I don't know whether or not she'll answer, I'm happy. If she isn't there, I'll be disappointed; if she is, then we may have just another tense conversation. But right now, when I'm waiting, it's perfect, the anticipation almost more pleasurable than anything that can follow.

On the fifth ring, a man's voice answers.

"Who's this?" I ask.

"Fred. Who's this?"

"Fred, is Marian there?"

"Who is this?"

"This is Jerry, Fred. Marian's husband."

"Oh--Jerry," he says, as if I'm some old buddy of his. "I'll get Marian." I hear a clunk as he lays the phone down. From far away: "Marian, it's Jerry."

Footsteps. "Jerry?" Her voice is anxious, alert.

"Hey," I say.

"Jesus, where are you? You're not in town, are you?"

"No--I'm at the airport in Phoenix. I'm between planes."

"You sound so close, though." Marian has never understood that if the connection is good, that doesn't necessarily mean you're close.

"I'm waiting for the night flight back to Denver," I say.

"So what's up? Why are you calling?"

"Marian--I hate the way our relationship has become so businesslike. Does everything have to have a reason? Can't I just call up to say hello?"

"Jerry, it's late."

"Who's Fred?"

She hesitates. "A friend."

"A friend? At this hour?"

"It's early."

"You just said it was late." I think of the phones in the bedroom, the kitchen, the den. "Where are you talking from? The bedroom? Good old Fred there with you in bed?"

"Jerry, what business is it of yours?"

"None. None of my business," I say.

"Well, OK."

"Tell me a little more about Fred," I say. "What does Fred do?"

"Jerry----"

"Hey--I'm just interested. He sounds real chipper, real bright."

"He's a nice guy."

"I bet he's got a mustache."

"He does have a mustache," she admits.

"And a nice designer haircut. And probably one of those tastefully thin gold neck chains, right?"

"Yes."

I cluck disapprovingly. "You know, Marian, you should tell Fred that those are going out. I threw mine away a long time ago."

"Why don't you tell him, Jerry?"

"I bet he's a little overweight, too. But in a nice way. He works out, so he carries it OK, right?"

"You know it all, Jerry. Nobody can tell you anything."

"I bet he's a salesman," I say. "He sounds like a salesman. I can recognize a salesman's voice."

"Well, you're wrong, Jerry."

"What does he do, then?"

She hesitates. "He's a typewriter service representative."

"A typewriter repairman?"

"It's very technological these days," Marian says. "It's like computers."

"A typewriter repairman--Jesus, Marian."

"Let's drop this, Jerry, OK?"

"Sure. OK by me."

I wait for her to say something, but she doesn't.

"Hey, listen--the reason I called--guess who I'm having a beer with?"

"I thought you were at the airport."

"I am. I'm in the bar at the airport. But guess who I'm having a beer with."

"I don't know, Jerry."

"Magic Johnson."

"Who?"

"Magic Johnson. You know--the Lakers."

"Magic Johnson? The basketball player?"

"That's what I've been saying, Marian."

"You're kidding me."

"No--really. I've been sitting with him and a friend of his. They're between planes, too."

"Sure."

"They're really nice guys. You wouldn't believe how nice."

"Jerry----"

"It's true. I swear it."

"So what have you all been talking about?"

"Life," I say. "They're very deep guys, actually. They've got deep philosophies."

"Like what?"

"They believe in some eternal truths. God. Love. I--why are you laughing?"

"You're such a bullshitter."

"No, really, I'm serious." I laugh, too. "Look--do you want to hear it from Magic? I'll let you talk to him." I wave to Magic, who says something to Fuzzy and gets up. I'm surprised by how tall he really is. When he sat, his height was disguised, as if he were a compressed spring. But he's at least a head taller than I am.

"Jerry, what kind----"

"I told him all about you, Marian. How you were a fan and all."

"Jerry--"

"I'm going to have him say something to you." I hand the phone to Magic. "Her name's Marian," I whisper.

"Hello? Miriam?"

"Marian," I hiss.

"Hey, sweetheart, how are you?" Magic grins, as if she can see him. "It's me. Earvin Johnson. Jerry tells me you're a big fan."

I'm as excited as a child at Christmas. Magic Johnson talking to my wife!

"Yeah, we just met Jerry here at the bar." He winks at me. "He's a good guy, Jerry." I beam.

"We've just been passing the time here, you know. Waiting around, jiving...." He listens. "Yeah...yeah...well, thanks, sweetheart. Yeah, we're gonna try...."

They talk basketball for a bit. I wish I could listen in and hear what Marian is saying.

"So what do you do, Marian?" I'm filled with love for Magic: He doesn't have to be taking this kind of interest.

"Uh-huh...that's interesting...uh-huh...that's so right. Well--I'm gonna give you back to Jerry now. I--Say what?" Magic glances at me.

What's wrong? Instinctively, I reach for the phone, but then he's saying, "OK, sure. What's his name?" and my hand falls.

"Fred," Magic says. "Hey, buddy." Nods. "Yep, it's really me. I've just been jiving around with Jerry here, you know--Oh--I see. Gotcha." He listens.

"Sure...sure...uh-huh...well, we're gonna try real hard. If we stay healthy, we'll put it all together. You just keep rooting, now, you hear?...OK.... Nice talking to you, Fred...."

"I want to talk to Marian," I whisper harshly.

"Jerry wants to talk to Marian," Magic says. "Miriam? Hey, sweetheart, here's Jerry." He hands me the phone, winks again. I wait until he begins walking back to the lounge.

"Why'd you put Fred on?" I ask.

"I thought it would be nice. What's wrong with that?"

"I didn't call you up for him to talk to Magic."

"Well, sorry."

"Let me talk to Fred."

"No, Jerry."

"No, really, let me talk to him. I just want to ask him something. About what he said to Magic. Come on."

"Jerry wants to talk with you," I hear her say.

"Hey, Jerry!" His voice is bright. A typewriter repairman, for God's sake.

"Fred, I'm going to come and cut off your balls," I say.

He expels a slow, sad breath and is silent for a moment. Then he says, "Big talk, Jerry."

"No, really, Fred, I am." I don't mean this, of course, but it feels good, making him uneasy.

And then Marian's back on the line: "Shut up, Jerry; whatever you're saying, shut up!"

"OK, Marian."

"You've got no right to--to bother me and my--"

"I'm sorry."

"I mean, just who are you, anyway, Jerry? Calling me in the middle of the night--"

"You said it was early--"

"With some bullshit about Magic Johnson--"

"It is! It is Magic Johnson--"

"You don't think of anybody but yourself, do you?"

"Let's calm down," I plead.

"No more about Fred."

"OK, look--we'll talk about something else. What did you say to Magic?"

"What's there to say? I told him I liked watching him play. I told him I hope they win it all this year. What else can you say?"

"It's just the idea, I guess, of talking to him."

She sighs. "Jerry, I've got to go now. It's late, it really is."

I want to tell her it was a gift to her, talking to Magic, but I don't.

"I'm sorry I exploded at Fred," I say. "He's probably a nice guy."

"He is."

"Let me speak to him. I want to apologize."

"Jerry----"

"Please."

"Jerry wants to apologize," I hear her say to Fred.

"Hey, there, Jerry?" And he sounds so cheery, so ready to be forgiving, that I'm infuriated all over again.

"Remember, motherfucker," I hiss and hang up. My heart's beating fast, as if I've been running. When I go back to the table, Fuzzy has a smirk on his face. I don't sit down.

"Thanks," I say to Magic. "It made her day."

"She sounds like a nice lady," Magic says.

"Oh, she is. You talked to Fred, too, right?" Magic nods. "Fred's an old buddy," I say. "A neighbor. He and his wife were over visiting."

Magic nods again and his eyes half close, as if he's really considering this. Fuzzy worries his lips, trying to hold back a smile. I stand there. I can't think of anything else to say.

Fuzzy glances at his watch. "Hey, man"--he taps Magic on the wrist--"we got to go. Time to fly."

Magic throws a five-dollar bill onto the table as a tip. We all shake hands. Fuzzy and I fumble again. He shakes his head.

"You keep dunking, now, you hear?" Magic says. Fuzzy cocks a finger at me, then grins. I watch until they disappear through the security check point at the far end of the terminal.

I sit down at the table, not wanting to drink or watch TV or do anything except sit and wait. I think about Fred and I think about Marian. I get up, sit down--and then, before I can change my mind again, I go over to the phone and call her.

"Hiya, kiddies, hiya, hiya," I say in a Froggy the Gremlin voice. Before she can say anything, I tell her, "I just want you to know that wasn't really Magic Johnson."

She says nothing.

"It was just a guy I met in the bar," I say. "It was all a joke."

"So you're not at an airport----"

"Nope. I'm in Denver."

"Why do you do it, Jerry?"

"I don't know."

She's silent again.

"Tell Fred it wasn't Magic, either," I say.

"He's not here."

"You mean he's not spending the night?"

"Jerry--I told you. He's just a friend."

"A friend," I repeat.

"Yes."

"Well."

"Feel better now?"

"Marian--I'm sorry for what I said to him. At the end."

"What did you say?" she asks sharply.

So he hadn't told her. "Nothing," I say. "Just kidding him."

"You're a real kidder, aren't you, Jerry?"

But I'm listening to the Muzak in the corridor, not to her. I recognize a familiar tune. "That's amazing," I say.

"What?"

"They're playing The Mountain's High. Remember? Dick and Deedee? We used to dance to it in high school." I croon, "'The mountain's high and the valley's so deep----'"

She laughs. "Oh, sure."

"'Can't get across to the other si-i-ide.'"

Three soldiers dragging duffel bags stare at me as they pass by. The bags streak the freshly buffed floor.

"Hey," I say to Marian, "why don't we pretend we're dancing?"

"What?"

"You get up and dance there, and I'll dance here. We'll pretend we're dancing."

"Jerry, come on----"

"Here, I'm doing it." I cradle the phone between neck and shoulder. Extending both arms before me in a mock embrace, I move awkwardly around the phone station, as far as the steel cord allows. I sing, "'I know someday we will meet again but I don't know just where or whe-e-en--'"

"Jerry, stop it!" She sounds almost frightened.

"What?" I ask. "Honey, what----"

"Don't call me honey!" she snaps.

I can hear her breathing over the line.

"I've got to go," she says. "It's late."

"Marian--that really was Magic, you know. I was just kidding when I said it wasn't."

"Jerry, what does it matter?"

"It was him. Really."

"You're such a bullshitter," she says softly. And hangs up.

Back in the lounge, Johnny Carson has said good night, replaced by another talk show on which a woman is listening to a man who seems blind--yes, when they cut to a wide shot, there's a seeing-eye dog by his feet. The woman looks at him intently while he talks, his hands tracing odd patterns in the space between them. I put a dollar on the table, hesitate, then place my own five-dollar bill on top of Magic's. I walk down the corridor to my gate. The plane won't take off for another 20 minutes; only a few other passengers are there.

I sit and close my eyes and imagine Fuzzy and Magic flying over Los Angeles now, as well they might be. I remember how the city looked from above, all the lights spread out and shining like oil through the valleys and hills and canyons, each one of them a home where someone lived. And I think how Marian, probably asleep now, would have a light on to scare away burglars, and so she'd be one of those lights that Magic and Fuzzy could see. If she were awake and looked out her window at just the right moment, she could see them, too, moving through the night. I think how they might see each other, and be that close, and yet neither would know that the other was there. The thought makes me shiver. It's like seeing a face on a passing bus and wondering if it's someone you used to know a long time ago, or like hearing a phone ring in someone's home, maybe your home, and you don't know, you really don't know, if anyone's going to be there to answer it ever again.

"'Guess who I'm having a beer with. Magic Johnson. You know--the Lakers.'"