like it was scandalous. “Things are getting crazy there, aren’t they? Two heroes now, just running through the streets all lawless—”
“New York City still has laws,” I said, shrugging. One of them was that I couldn’t bring a gun into their city, which annoyed me to no end because it forced me to rely on shooting bursts of flame at anyone who engaged me at a distance. They were a lot more likely to survive 9mm bullets, frankly, but whatever, I didn’t make the laws and I didn’t get to ignore them anymore, either.
“But, I mean, these people are vigilantes, aren’t they?” he asked, leaning in, which I found even more annoying. His breath smelled of spearmint Tic Tacs, and I feel about spearmint like Taylor Swift feels about Katy Perry.
“They’re giving the NYPD a helping hand,” I said, subtly backing off without making a horrid face. “I suspect if the city of New York decided it really didn’t want citizens helping them out, they’d make them stop.” At the point of a gun, probably, but it’d get done.
“Hmm,” he said, nodding, like I’d given him something to really think about. I could see by his eyes that he was just trying to formulate the next thing he was going to say, though. “I’ve watched some of your exploits, and I gotta say …” he chuckled again, like this was all part of one hilarious joke we were in on together, “your job is so dangerous—putting yourself out there fighting all these bad guys.” He shuddered, like it was twenty degrees in the airplane or something, and giggled like a little boy. “It sounds like the worst job in the world to me.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Worse than manscaper?”
That caught him off guard, and he scratched self-consciously at his chest in such a manner that I mentally cringed. “Well, at least that’s less dangerous,” he said lamely.
“Clearly you’ve never had to shave Chewbacca.”
“Hmmm,” he said, now suddenly preoccupied with his cell phone. He had it out and was typing away with his thumbs like a pro. I took this as a sign that he was done with me, blessedly, and put my head against the bulkhead. I didn’t intend to go to sleep, but I ended up drifting right off with the summer sun shining on my face through the window.
I woke up when the plane touched down, kind of astounded I’d slept through the flight but not at all displeased. I got antsy flying commercial, probably because I wasn’t in control and because I couldn’t feel the wind on my face. Also, I wasn’t the biggest fan of reading since I'd spent years doing it to kill time while trapped in my house, and while I had a few movies loaded on my iPad, I got twitchy watching them on flights. Also, I’d seen everything I had multiple times.
Thanks to being in first class, I was one of the first off the plane, and I drifted through the crowds at LaGuardia, ignoring the temptation to feed at one of the innumerable restaurants around me. I was saving myself for Shake Shack. I carried my bag snug on my shoulder as I left the security area and descended toward the baggage claim, where I was suddenly very regretful that I hadn’t travelled with sunglasses.
About a billion flashbulbs went off as I came down the escalator, blinding me and making me both sorry and grateful for New York handgun restrictions all in one. The paparazzi were waiting for me, with more cameras than I’d believed still existed in the US. Hadn’t everyone switched to phones already?
Apparently not, judging by the strobe light effect of the flashbulbs all around me. I got mobbed as I walked out of the security exit, barely able to see through the crowd to the double doors past the baggage claim and the bright daylight beyond. I heard about a hundred voices shout, “Ms. Nealon!” and I suddenly remembered that my super-peppy seat neighbor had texted right as we were taking off. Maybe it was innocent, or maybe he’d tipped off the jackals that I was coming to town. Either way, I
“New York City still has laws,” I said, shrugging. One of them was that I couldn’t bring a gun into their city, which annoyed me to no end because it forced me to rely on shooting bursts of flame at anyone who engaged me at a distance. They were a lot more likely to survive 9mm bullets, frankly, but whatever, I didn’t make the laws and I didn’t get to ignore them anymore, either.
“But, I mean, these people are vigilantes, aren’t they?” he asked, leaning in, which I found even more annoying. His breath smelled of spearmint Tic Tacs, and I feel about spearmint like Taylor Swift feels about Katy Perry.
“They’re giving the NYPD a helping hand,” I said, subtly backing off without making a horrid face. “I suspect if the city of New York decided it really didn’t want citizens helping them out, they’d make them stop.” At the point of a gun, probably, but it’d get done.
“Hmm,” he said, nodding, like I’d given him something to really think about. I could see by his eyes that he was just trying to formulate the next thing he was going to say, though. “I’ve watched some of your exploits, and I gotta say …” he chuckled again, like this was all part of one hilarious joke we were in on together, “your job is so dangerous—putting yourself out there fighting all these bad guys.” He shuddered, like it was twenty degrees in the airplane or something, and giggled like a little boy. “It sounds like the worst job in the world to me.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Worse than manscaper?”
That caught him off guard, and he scratched self-consciously at his chest in such a manner that I mentally cringed. “Well, at least that’s less dangerous,” he said lamely.
“Clearly you’ve never had to shave Chewbacca.”
“Hmmm,” he said, now suddenly preoccupied with his cell phone. He had it out and was typing away with his thumbs like a pro. I took this as a sign that he was done with me, blessedly, and put my head against the bulkhead. I didn’t intend to go to sleep, but I ended up drifting right off with the summer sun shining on my face through the window.
I woke up when the plane touched down, kind of astounded I’d slept through the flight but not at all displeased. I got antsy flying commercial, probably because I wasn’t in control and because I couldn’t feel the wind on my face. Also, I wasn’t the biggest fan of reading since I'd spent years doing it to kill time while trapped in my house, and while I had a few movies loaded on my iPad, I got twitchy watching them on flights. Also, I’d seen everything I had multiple times.
Thanks to being in first class, I was one of the first off the plane, and I drifted through the crowds at LaGuardia, ignoring the temptation to feed at one of the innumerable restaurants around me. I was saving myself for Shake Shack. I carried my bag snug on my shoulder as I left the security area and descended toward the baggage claim, where I was suddenly very regretful that I hadn’t travelled with sunglasses.
About a billion flashbulbs went off as I came down the escalator, blinding me and making me both sorry and grateful for New York handgun restrictions all in one. The paparazzi were waiting for me, with more cameras than I’d believed still existed in the US. Hadn’t everyone switched to phones already?
Apparently not, judging by the strobe light effect of the flashbulbs all around me. I got mobbed as I walked out of the security exit, barely able to see through the crowd to the double doors past the baggage claim and the bright daylight beyond. I heard about a hundred voices shout, “Ms. Nealon!” and I suddenly remembered that my super-peppy seat neighbor had texted right as we were taking off. Maybe it was innocent, or maybe he’d tipped off the jackals that I was coming to town. Either way, I
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