Truth in Advertising Page 0,37

the American Airlines counter at JFK actually asks me.

“Well, Betty,” I say, looking at her nametag, “we’re going to Bhutan, to the Kingdom of Bhutan. Have you heard of it? They have something called the Gross National Happiness. They measure people’s happiness, not just their productivity.”

Betty gives me a fake smile. “Says here you’re going to Cancún.”

“Must be some mistake. Come with me, Betty. Do you have plans for the holiday? We’ll pop over, try some local food, feel the happiness. It’ll be great.”

She types quickly and hands me my boarding pass.

“I’d go, but I’ve got these family plans.” She smiles again. “Gate forty-six. You’re all set. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Betty,” I say.

I make my way to the Admirals Club and wait.

I am one of the only people left, I think—certainly after 9/11—who still enjoy airports. Airports to me—after the near strip search and often less-than-confidence-inspiring security staff—are places of possibility, of new beginnings. You’ve got a ticket on the red-eye to New York. Or do you? What about walking up to the ticket counter at British Airways and buying a ticket to London instead? What about connecting through London for service to Marrakech? What about LAX-Johannesburg, Johannesburg-Mumbai? Imagine waking up in Mumbai! Because it’s possible. Because you can. I’m convinced, possibly by the glossy photos I see and the persuasive copy I read (photos and copy manufactured by my very own colleagues), that in these places—these St. Barths, these Kenyan safaris, these Bali beaches, these happy-obsessed Kingdoms—are the keys, the experiences, the visual and emotional stimuli that would bring happiness. I’m sure of this. And airports are the gateway. Don’t think of a flight delay as a hassle. Think of it as an opportunity.

Have I myself done it? Have I found myself killing time in JFK or OHR or CDG, leafing through a swimsuit issue, drinking a coffee, staring at the crowds, and then changing my trip, my destination, my future? No. Never. Only a crazy person would do that. I’m just saying it’s possible. Because I have these two tickets. These two first-class tickets, and I can go anywhere.

My phone rings.

“Hi,” I say.

“You’re a jerk,” Phoebe says.

“Merry Christmas.”

“That was really sweet,” she says. “Thank you.”

I put a gift on her chair before I left today. A hat and scarf from Barneys. It sounds boring but they’re cashmere and she’s been talking about wanting a new hat.

“Your fashionable warmth is my concern.”

Phoebe says, “Where are you?”

“Airport.”

“You excited about your lonely trip?”

“Lonely? Maybe you’re unaware that most of my relatives are Mexican?”

She says, “You’re an odd man.”

“Where are you?”

“On the Acela to Boston. I just got a beer. I’m wearing my new hat and scarf. I’m very happy.”

Three, four seconds of silence. I think about telling her about Eddie’s call, about my father.

I say, “Okay, then.”

Phoebe says, “You good?”

“Never better.”

“Don’t miss me too much, okay?”

“I’ll try not to.”

I leave the Admirals Club and walk through the airport toward my gate. Businessmen hustle past awkwardly, holding briefcases, garment bags, pulling wheelie suitcases that won’t stay steady. Families camp out eating makeshift dinners. I look for a seat alone but the gates are crowded with holiday travelers. I sit against the corridor wall and watch people pass. The wardrobes of many people strike me as aggressively casual. Teenage girls wear pajama bottoms and UGGs and oversized sweaters, pulling the sleeves down to cover their hands. They walk in pairs, laughing, bad posture, unsure of their bodies. A wave of sadness sweeps over me watching them, and I call home. My phone number growing up in Boston. I have done this a few times over the years. I usually get an answering machine but twice I’ve had to hang up on a real person.

A woman answers. “Hey, did your cell phone die?”

I say nothing, confused for a moment.

She says, “Steve?”

I’m about to hang up when I say, “Is Fin there, please?”

It’s my house. I can picture her, where she’s standing, if the phone is at the same jack. The small kitchen with the windows looking out onto our small backyard. She’s in my house. I should have asked for my mother. A quick word. What time’s dinner? Is Dad home?

“Who?” she says.

“Fin Dolan. He used to live there.”

“No, I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name. You’ve got the wrong number.”

It’s not the blatant, drunken screamer who does the real damage. Give me the father who beats you, who’s always angry, any day of the week. At least I can learn to