Be All You Can Fake Being

Everything that you will read here is true. If you are a guy you won’t believe it because you don’t think it would work or you don’t want to think it would work. If you are a girl you won’t believe it because you don’t think that it could be possible. Partly because it’s sad, and partly because you think that you’re better than that. You’re not, and that is what this is about.

You’re about to get a story about yourself. A story about your boring, self-conscious, spastic and anal little self. You eat too much pizza and watch stupid movies, but they make you feel good because you spend most of your day in the mile-wide gray area between happy and sad. This is a story about when you stopped being that person, except not actually. You still eat too much pizza and watch the same crappy rom-coms. But every once in a while, when you have your opportunity you are what she wants you to be.  

In every situation you get in and with every person you meet, you have an expectation for that person. Usually it’s average and mundane. You would never impose you own ideal encounter on someone who is bound to disappoint you, as they probably will. You bet the man that the other person is not willing to impose on you. This is what I do every time I am forced to sit next to some random person for hours on a plane or meet a girl or a person who isn’t of any consequence. I think I told this holier-than-now guy I was going to Dublin to join the seminary. I told a middle-aged woman that I was going to become a fifth grade teacher. Satisfied customers.  

Here’s the story.  

I boarded an international flight. I took my seat rather early and pulled out a gentleman’s magazine, a brilliant collection of culture, fashion, sexual advice, and interviews. The kind of piece that makes you look cultured but not homosexual. The flight was disproportionately populated with old people. The smelly kind who probably all wore Depends or at least were geriatric enough to fart for six straight hours and not realize it or give a shit.

A single attractive female boarded and I promised myself that if she sat next to me, I would become one of the guys she always hoped she would meet. I pretended not to notice her, but glanced over my glasses every few seconds until a soft, raspy voice asked, “Is this row 34?” I replied, “Um, maybe. Let me check.” Take note. Nonchalance; who doesn’t actually know what row they are in on a plane? I pull out my ticket stub and confirm for her that it is indeed row 34.

She sat down and pulled out an iPod, but threw it back in her bag. The nonchalance worked, or maybe she had a headache. At this point I haven’t said another word to her. Flipping through the pages of my magazine, I sort of scratch my head a little. “I just bought that suit,” she informed me citing the ad on the next page. “For your tight t-shirt, six foot three boyfriend?” I ask in response. “No, I don’t have one of those. I’m a buyer for Nordstrom.”  I go on to ask what that is and this is what I learn about her: she is obsessed with professional success and has steadily risen to a position of relative power. She is directly on track. I assume that she is like most people and does not want to be stuck. Her main point was that she wanted to retire at 46 so she could “do what she wants.”

It takes her about two hours to tell me the gritty details and finally asks me what I do and why I’m on the plane. “Well, I’m going to med school,” I tell her. She asks why not in the States, and I respond by telling her I just decided to go to medical school six weeks ago and only got into school abroad. I told her I did not know a single person and did not know where I was going to live. I lived my life day-to-day and was studying to become a writer, but decided to stop and go to medical school.  

The stewardess came by to take dinner and drink orders. I got the fish and offered to buy her a drink. She told me she doesn’t take drinks from poor students and offered to buy me one. She ordered white wine, and I ordered “Jack Daniels with three ice cubes.” As we ate, she kept up the conversation and wanted to know what sort of doctor I wanted to be and I told her “a pediatric, internal surgery specialist.” When she asked why I told her, “So I can go to Darfur and help the children.” Over the top, I know, but I am telling you, this is the guy she wanted. Some girls want investment bankers and security, but not this one. She had that. She had her plan and she wanted to meet the wayward and spontaneous, whisky-drinking dreamer.  

Following dinner she ordered another round of drinks and asked if I had to leave a girl behind at home. I took a long sip off my drink. I did not know how to answer, but said I wasn’t sure. I asked her when she would settle for the guy she was dating, and the reply was that she’d married by 29. I told her that was dangerous, and she said she’d be divorced by 36.  

We sort of fell asleep and then it was time to get off the plane. I pulled out her carry-on from the overhead compartment and then got my hiking pack out with “all of my belongings.” She offered me her number, just in case I got into any trouble finding a place or wanted to meet up for a drink later in the week. I shook my head slowly, pretending to consider it and said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find you,” and I walked off the plane and did not look back.

I gave her the guy who got away, which she desperately needed. I was outrageous and a character out of some movie that marries the Kate Hudson character. I gave that girl hope that her cookie-cutter life would take the twist that would make it fulfilling and worth it. If only for a minute or for even indefinitely, that is what we need to give to people.