makes a hasty exit after no one listens to his discussion of taxation and political integrity. With the departure of the Congressman, I am the third male. A man pours more bourbon. The talk decreases. I hesitate briefly, but what the hell I’m only young and single once.
After so many nights on the road in so many different hotels encountering so many different situations, everything takes on an ephemeral quality; everything ends with the payment at the cashier’s desk the next morning. What normally would be out of the question for me becomes acceptable in the self-contained world of Mt. Marriott or Holiday Valley. Normal shyness would prevent me from entering a stranger’s hotel room, but on the road there seems to be nothing to lose. Everyone in the hotel sleeps under the same roof for one night and moves on. Loneliness can be overcome only by reaching out for contact: a conversation in the bar, a sharing of dinner, a question in an elevator, a direct invitation, a telephone call to a room, or a helping hand with doors, windows, TVs, locks, or ice machines. The percentages are that if a man spends enough nights in hotels he will meet a woman with whom for that night he will share a bed, giving each a brief escape from boredom and loneliness. Make no mistake: Life in hotels is no continuous orgy. There are months of nights in one’s room, alone. And it is rare than an encounter develops beyond the verbal level. It is very unusual when everything feels right and the loneliness of the road oppresses two strangers equally at the same time.
FOUR
“T HIS IS THE LAST CALL FOR FLIGHT 623 TO CHICAGO , DEPARTING from Gate 54 on the East Concourse.” I hurriedly swallow my orange juice, roll and coffee and head for the gate. The plane ride is full of familiar sounds, sights, superstitions, and annoyances.
Generally, I prefer to sit next to a team member. After a few years of trying to meet and talk with strangers on planes, I began to put more value on being alone while in the air. There are no telephones or interruptions up there. A trip to the West Coast guarantees five uninterrupted hours of splendid solitude. It is different from the loneliness of hotels and terminals, or the yearning for permanence that glimpses of cities and mountains generate. Seated next to a window with a book in hand and the hum of jet engines as backdrop, I enjoy flying. The movement of the plane and the knowledge of changing environments imply that things are being accomplished, while I rest in total comfort. Some of my best moments come on airplane flights. In the off-season, I sometimes fly off somewhere just so I can concentrate during the flight. The fuselage of a jet airplane serves as a mechanical sanctuary for me.
As I get on the plane, all the seats are taken except one—next to a man wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie. I sit down and immediately start to read. The man looks at me between glances out the window and at his
Sports Illustrated
. “Pardon me,” he finally says, “but aren’t you Bill Bradley?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Jack… I went to basketball camp with you fifteen years ago.”
“Yeah, what do you do now?”
“I work for Kimberly Clark, the paper company.”
“How do you like your job?”
“You know, I’ve learned a lot. Once you sell Kotex as a man you can sell anything.”
We talk about the basketball season, players salaries, his family, and his athletic past for ten minutes.
“You still play ball?” I ask.
“Not much, but I help organize teams for our athletic club in Detroit.”
“That must be enjoyable.”
“Yeah, usually things go all right,” he says, “but one of the basketball nights a member invited a friend who invited another friend who was black. Now, you know, I don’t think I have much prejudice. I don’t care if blacks are members, but I know how the guys felt. Thirty percent of our club is Detroit policemen and they hate them. Anyway, I went up to the black guy
After so many nights on the road in so many different hotels encountering so many different situations, everything takes on an ephemeral quality; everything ends with the payment at the cashier’s desk the next morning. What normally would be out of the question for me becomes acceptable in the self-contained world of Mt. Marriott or Holiday Valley. Normal shyness would prevent me from entering a stranger’s hotel room, but on the road there seems to be nothing to lose. Everyone in the hotel sleeps under the same roof for one night and moves on. Loneliness can be overcome only by reaching out for contact: a conversation in the bar, a sharing of dinner, a question in an elevator, a direct invitation, a telephone call to a room, or a helping hand with doors, windows, TVs, locks, or ice machines. The percentages are that if a man spends enough nights in hotels he will meet a woman with whom for that night he will share a bed, giving each a brief escape from boredom and loneliness. Make no mistake: Life in hotels is no continuous orgy. There are months of nights in one’s room, alone. And it is rare than an encounter develops beyond the verbal level. It is very unusual when everything feels right and the loneliness of the road oppresses two strangers equally at the same time.
FOUR
“T HIS IS THE LAST CALL FOR FLIGHT 623 TO CHICAGO , DEPARTING from Gate 54 on the East Concourse.” I hurriedly swallow my orange juice, roll and coffee and head for the gate. The plane ride is full of familiar sounds, sights, superstitions, and annoyances.
Generally, I prefer to sit next to a team member. After a few years of trying to meet and talk with strangers on planes, I began to put more value on being alone while in the air. There are no telephones or interruptions up there. A trip to the West Coast guarantees five uninterrupted hours of splendid solitude. It is different from the loneliness of hotels and terminals, or the yearning for permanence that glimpses of cities and mountains generate. Seated next to a window with a book in hand and the hum of jet engines as backdrop, I enjoy flying. The movement of the plane and the knowledge of changing environments imply that things are being accomplished, while I rest in total comfort. Some of my best moments come on airplane flights. In the off-season, I sometimes fly off somewhere just so I can concentrate during the flight. The fuselage of a jet airplane serves as a mechanical sanctuary for me.
As I get on the plane, all the seats are taken except one—next to a man wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie. I sit down and immediately start to read. The man looks at me between glances out the window and at his
Sports Illustrated
. “Pardon me,” he finally says, “but aren’t you Bill Bradley?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Jack… I went to basketball camp with you fifteen years ago.”
“Yeah, what do you do now?”
“I work for Kimberly Clark, the paper company.”
“How do you like your job?”
“You know, I’ve learned a lot. Once you sell Kotex as a man you can sell anything.”
We talk about the basketball season, players salaries, his family, and his athletic past for ten minutes.
“You still play ball?” I ask.
“Not much, but I help organize teams for our athletic club in Detroit.”
“That must be enjoyable.”
“Yeah, usually things go all right,” he says, “but one of the basketball nights a member invited a friend who invited another friend who was black. Now, you know, I don’t think I have much prejudice. I don’t care if blacks are members, but I know how the guys felt. Thirty percent of our club is Detroit policemen and they hate them. Anyway, I went up to the black guy
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