CHARLES NEWMAN
579
problem of this slightly overheated , overdecorated room.
She put the night latch on the door , instructed the desk to cancel
her next morning's appointments on account of illness , left a heavy
tip for the maid who would have to somehow dispose of the swatches,
and after a large dose of antihistamine and the last of Geoffs scotch ,
watched the room close about her, a foot at each blink .
On the plane again . We are patient only at incredible speeds .
Corinne, pale, without makeup, hair tied severely back , on the aisle
this time, the bulkhead seat facing the galley . Beyond , the controls .
Each time the stewardess passes , her elbow brushes Corinne's hair,
and with a couple of bloody marys under her belt , this is all right .
Everybody on the flight is drunk . The cockpit door is open , the navi–
gator is reclining and reading a comic , welded in the curve of his
brown hands . The pilot and co-pilots' heads are bathed in the Carri–
bean light of their incredible instrumentation . A tight-lipped woman
emerges from the forward toilet . Her eyes are also red and wet. Gar–
bage is mounting about them ; discarded newspapers , cups and
napkins , gutted macadamia nut sacks, Corinne 's kleenex . The cold
has gone to her chest. Why do they give you a menu when there 's
no choice, she thinks . Why do they build the shore so close to the
sea? The man next to her is singing something to himself. When
their elbows brush he jerks an unspoken, involuntary apology. Corinne
has no more questions, so she watches the stews . In the toilet, they
exchange their pumps for flats, their slacks for culottes , their jackets
for blouses and apronettes . Their epaulettes and braid are piled in
the corner with sanitary napkins and airsickness bags . They slam
everything, even the tiniest doors in the galley. All the little doors
and windows have made them crass . Girls without grace, but this is
impossible between takeoff and landing, a good plane with no blood
on it. The intercom has been found defective . The primary stew coils
the microphone 's impotence about her wrist, grinding her teeth .
Another holds the yellow scrotum of an oxygen bag above her head ,
blowing on a tube , while yet another reads the prepared text as best
she can without amplification. She knows no one can see her and no
one listens to her, except perhaps one random inspector. To their
everlasting credit, they are laughing at themselves . The eggs are
