Generations

Stephen Avedon, B.Sc., M. Ed.

The truth of the matter is that I knew Sheila Carrington was out of my class from the first moment I saw her. That was when we were stuck in the waiting area at LAX, made to mark time until our plane, which had been delayed getting in because of bad weather, would open its doors. What I noticed first, of course, was that she looked very trim and blonde and pretty. The other thing I noticed was that she was busy fending off a plump guy in the next seat who was hitting on her.

I could see right away that she was definitely first class.

And first class is where she went when we boarded the plane, too. I didn’t. I was back in steerage, where the seats are constructed for nobody over five feet five and there’s always a line for the toilets. Even when the flying is smooth, which this time it wasn’t.

The captain turned the seat-belt sign off at cruising altitude, but five minutes later he turned it back on again. “Folks,” he said on the horn, his voice deep and, of course, basically Texan, “I really hate to say it but the radar’s telling us that this next little bit of air’s going to be kind of bumpy. So what we have to ask you to do is return to your seats and fasten your belts. Hopefully the turbulence won’t be that long. Then I’m looking for a smooth ride all the way to JFK.”

He didn’t get what he was looking for, though. The sign was off for maybe ten minutes or so over Arizona, and then it was back on all the way over New Mexico. Even when the sign was off the ride wasn’t really smooth.

That didn’t bother me much. I don’t get airsick, and I was watching the movie, anyway. I barely noticed when the stews began to stagger around and slop us our lunch, choice of some kind of chicken or some kind of beef, until all of a sudden the whole damn airplane took a kind of unexpected roller-coaster dip and slide. Somebody’s salad went flying across the aisle and landed in the lap of the lady next to me. So did the stew who was trying to serve it. She caught herself just as she was following the salad into the lady’s lap.

Then it got worse.

I’d never had a ride quite like that. For a pretty long time after that first scary drop, the stews were scurrying around to get their carts locked down and themselves strapped into their seats, and nobody from the cockpit was saying anything to us at all. Meanwhile the plane was flopping this way and that and making unpleasant little squeaky and scrapy noises. When the bouncing around eased off a little we got the captain back on the horn. He was more apologetic than ever. There was nothing in the world to worry about, he told us, but there were rules they had to follow. One of the rules was that when an aircraft had been subjected to that much turbulent stress they were supposed to land and check it out before proceeding, so our first landing wasn’t going to be at JFK but at Kansas City International. When we got there—the passengers clapped like crazy as we touched down—they made us all get off and sit in the waiting area by the gate.

That was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

The thing is, just as I was reaching for a magazine to read, that nice-looking blonde woman from first class plunked herself down into the seat beside me. “May I?” she asked. But she was already there, and anyway there wasn’t any real question about whether she might or might not.

Actually, one of the reasons I’d taken that package tour to Yosemite was that I was sort of hoping to meet some nice, maybe kind of Helen-Hunt-looking, woman to replace the one who’d dumped me at Easter. That hadn’t happened.

It wasn’t entirely because of my good looks and savoir faire that the woman from first class had joined me, though. Mostly she was trying to get away from the plump little fellow I’d noticed with her before, who was in paper products and had a company hotel suite waiting for him in New York ... and had already been refused a fourth Cosmopolitan by the stew, even before the worst of the turbulence hit us. I didn’t care why she picked that seat. I was just happy to have her there.

I stayed happy, too. Even when I learned that she was some kind of Wall Street lawyer, and so really, definitely out of the class of a physics teacher from Brooklyn Technical High School. Putting it in numerical terms, that’s to say about a quarter of a million dollars a year out of my class. Only, because God was being good to me that day, it turned out that her own high school had actually been Brooklyn Tech. She had been majoring in the civil engineering courses, before she changed her mind and decided she was never in this world going to be happy as an engineer and so wound up in Harvard and Harvard Law and the kind of a job that kept flying her all over the place to negotiate merger contracts and IPOs.

She remembered some of her old Tech teachers. I was able to tell her which ones were still there and which ones were retired, and how Mrs. Einborg was still as fat as ever and Miss Kornfeld never did get married, and that the food in the cafeteria was all different now—not so much of the french fries any more, more two-percent milk than Coke—but not really a lot better.

We were there in that airport for nearly three hours. There was plenty of nonstop pissing and moaning from most of the stranded passengers, but those were three very good hours for me. They finally let us get back on the plane—”Good as new, folks, they’ve checked everywhere and there’s no trace of structural damage at all”—and by that time I had her name—”Just call me Sheila”—and she had given me her phone number.

Actually the kind of money Sheila was pulling down didn’t make as much difference as I was afraid it might.

Loaded or not, Sheila was not a high-maintenance date. She didn’t mind that we didn’t go to Twenty-one for lunch and Vail for a skiing weekend. Probably she’d had enough of those things to last her, and anyway there were a lot of things we found to do in New York even on a teacher’s salary. Up to the Cloisters on one Saturday, to the planetarium at the Natural History museum on another. Old movies at MOMA. Swimming at Jones Beach a couple of times in the summer. We went there in her car because it was a Beamer convertible and a lot more comfortable than my old Corolla, but she politely asked me to do the driving and didn’t criticize when I did.

It was a good time. Well, actually it was the best time I’d ever had in my life. The only thing we ever quarreled about was which movie to watch on her industrial-sized television, and we generally settled that by the flip of a coin. When we were in my own place Sheila had no interest in watching the Mets lose their ordained 60 percent of their games, but she was content to let me watch them in one of the two little rooms of my apartment while she curled up in the window of the other, reading one of my physics texts or science magazines. They were recreational reading for her. She still had all of the curiosity about how the universe worked that had made her twelve-year-old self take the entrance exam for Tech. The career had gone a different way, but the interest hadn’t left her. Still fascinated her, in fact. She couldn’t believe what weirdnesses had come along in, say, cosmology since she was in school. Branes? Dark matter? Dark energy, for Christ’s sake? The one that really pulled her cork, though, was the announcement that some of the most distant galaxies weren’t slowing down as they fled away from us, as gravitational attraction should have made them do, but were actually speeding up in the universal expansion. “That,” she told me, “is crap, Steve. It doesn’t make sense. Somebody’s made a pretty stupid mistake.” And then, when I explained to her about all the observational evidence, and how many separate sources it had come from, she sighed. “Oh, hell, hon,” she said. “I don’t get any of this at all. Maybe I should sign up for some night courses at CUNY.”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll tutor you.”

I did, too. I tutored the hell out of her, all that spring and summer and fall and well into the winter. And the only times that were better than the times when we were walking around the Park and talking, or staying up late to watch Jon Stewart on the “Daily Show” and talking, or lingering over a Japanese or Greek or Indian meal—always pretty cheap places, but places where they didn’t mind if we stayed a while, holding hands—the only times that were better than those when we were out of bed, I’m saying, were the times when we were in. That was better than I’d ever had it and, bless her heart, Sheila said it was for her, too.

And then it was Christmas, and we went out to the Island to meet her parents.

That was a little scary. The Carringtons seemed to be happy enough about Sheila and me, though. The only problem I could detect anywhere in the world was still the fact that she made so much more money than I did.

Then it was New Year’s. Not just your average New Year’s, remember, because this was Happy New Millennium time. The year that was coming up was 2001, and everything was going to be different.

I hoped so, anyway. So when the ball dropped and we had done that first formal New Year’s kiss I said, “I wish it could stay this way forever.” And Sheila rubbed her cheek against mine and didn’t say anything, and I said, “I love you, hon.”

She said, “I know.”

I said, “I can’t imagine a life without you in it.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she sat up, wearing the face she always wore when she could see I was stalling about something, and said, “Oh, shut the fuck up, Steve. If you want to ask me something for Christ’s sake go ahead and ask it.”

So I did. I said, “Sheila, will you marry me?”

“Damn straight I will,” she said. “My mom would kill me if I didn’t, anyway.”

So then we kissed some more, and then she sat back, looking almost as pleased with herself as I was with me. “Actually,” she said, patting her hair back into some kind of shape, “it’s probably a good idea for us to get married, because I kind of think I’m pregnant.”