Page 6 of Single-Minded
A sad thought occurs to me. If Michael and I are going to convince his bosses that we’re separated and headed for divorce, the rings are a dead giveaway that we’re full of crap. Pissed, I pull at the rings to take them off, dismayed to find them stuck. My fingers are probably swollen from the flight. Or maybe from this morning’s crack-of-dawn tequila shots. I squirt foul, industrial-smelling hand soap from the dispenser and lather up my hand, tugging again at the lubricated bands. Suddenly, the rings fly from my finger and ricochet off the edge of the sink like they were spring-loaded.
I gasp in horror as my elegant platinum wedding band bounces and then goes airborne, as if in slow motion, landing with a splash and a tinny clink right smack in the airplane toilet. My engagement ring, weighed down by a respectable-size round aquamarine, spins off kilter and sort of skitters across the plastic seat of the toilet before finally dropping to the floor. Oh no, oh no, oh on, oh no…
Peering into the depths of the toilet, I curse Michael as I spot the ring, a glittery island in a chemical blue puddle.
Argh! Now what? There’s no way I’m reaching my hand down a disgusting airplane toilet. No way. Not even with opera-length rubber gloves. Not even with one of those yellow hazmat suits (not that I packed one). No way. I scoop my engagement ring off the bumpy rubber floor and check the tiny sink to make sure it’s plugged. Trying to figure out how I can possibly retrieve my wedding band, I rinse and rerinse my engagement ring with the pungent hand soap, and then slip it back onto my finger for safety. Right hand.
Considering and then quickly dismissing the idea of wrapping my hand in sixty or seventy layers of toilet seat covers, I attempt to check the cabinet above the sink for some kind of stick-like implement, but it’s locked. Why in the hell would anyone lock the cabinet in the airplane bathroom? Is there some international ring of airline toilet-paper thieves? Do they really think some wily criminal mastermind is going to make off with a carry-on stuffed with a couple dozen rolls of that scratchy single-ply, or a refill jug of nuclear waste–scented hand soap?
The claustrophobic airplane bathroom is beginning to close in on me like a stinkier version of the Haunted Mansion at Disney, but I’m terrified to leave before retrieving my wedding band. One flush, and it will all be over.
Pushing the little orange button to signal the flight attendant, I slide the accordion door partially open. An impatient-looking man glares at me irritably.
“So sorry,” I say. “I’m going to need a few minutes. Emergency.”
The flight attendant appears behind him.
“How may I help you?” she asks.
“I’m having a situation,” I say cryptically. It would be disgusting and wrong to ask her to help me with such a foul task. But I know the perfect guy for the job.
5
I tell the flight attendant Michael’s seat number, and poke my head out of the restroom door like a dog hanging his head out of a car window, just to get a little air. This is not a popular move. The line for the toilet has grown exponentially, and the jittery cluster of passengers are visibly and vocally perturbed that I have not yet vacated the stall, like I’m enjoying taunting them by hogging the bathroom or something. Less than a minute later, a worried-looking Michael hurries down the aisle, following the flight attendant toward the bathroom where I’ve barricaded myself.
“What’s going on?” he asks, as he makes his way to the front of the line. “Are you okay?”
“Could I please get three little bottles of tequila? And a couple of pairs of those plastic food service gloves?” I ask the flight attendant. She looks confused, but she must think it’s for medicinal purposes, or emergency in-flight DIY surgery or something, because she disappears behind the curtain.
“My wedding ring fell in the toilet,” I say to Michael. The line of bathroom-goers collectively groans.
“How did that happen?” he asks.
“Do you really want me to give you the play-by-play right now?” I ask, motioning to the line of six or seven people clustered at the back of the plane.
“I guess not,” he says. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to put on those little plastic lunch lady gloves from the flight attendant and fish my ring out of the toilet. Thankyouverymuch.”
The flight attendant returns quickly with the minibottles of Jose Cuervo and the gloves, and hands them to me as I exit the restroom door. I present the gloves and two of the bottles to Michael.
“I’m going back to my seat,” I say, holding open the bathroom door for Michael. “After you get the wedding band out of the toilet with those,” I say, pointing to the plastic gloves, “you can sanitize the ring with the Cuervo.” He looks at me like I’ve completely lost my mind. And maybe I have. I leave him there at the airplane toilet, armed only with little plastic gloves and minibottles of booze, and a stunned look on his face. I crack the top on the third bottle of Jose Cuervo as I saunter down the aisle to my seat, and swig it back.
It burns all the way down, but I feel like an outlaw.
6
Michael returns from the bathroom looking like he’s just delivered the pope’s girlfriend’s demon baby with his bare hands or something. He drops the wedding band, ensconced in a wad of scratchy tissues, into my hand, and takes his seat next to me. I slip it onto my ring finger on my right hand, pull my sleep mask over my eyes, and enjoy the buzz of tequila. When I get home, I’m going to boil the ring for a half an hour and throw away the pot.
From LaGuardia, we rent a car and make the two-and-a-half-hour drive from New York to ESPN’s home office in Bristol, Connecticut.
My phone starts ringing the second we got off the plane. Samantha, my other best girlfriend. She’s a high-strung lunatic who owns the most popular yoga studio in town. I never go. She’s too intense.
“Ohmygod. Darcy just told me. Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m on my way to ESPN to save Michael’s job,” I answer. “We’re in the car.”
“So that’s a no?” she asks.
