A Bit Wicked

We were on a coach lurching back and forth, maybe twenty strangers, driving in and out of towns, threading between hedgerows, suddenly surprised by stone walls close enough to reach out and touch. God, that would have been a bloody mess if you really did, if you ignored the obvious, but it's the obvious that can lead people astray.

We were riding the airport shuttle from Edinburgh to the Glasgow International Airport. A nice looking couple sat across from me. She was on the aisle like me and a man I assumed to be her husband at the window. Her hair fell softly on the collar of a silk blouse. She wore a well designed wool skirt. He wore a suit, not something off the rack, a very carefully tended haircut, slightly greying, and then a watch, possibly Rolex. On the other hand, I felt a little out of place, scruffy, needing a shave, and wearing jeans and dirty hiking boots, which I knew would be a hassle to take off at customs. My backpack was on the overhead shelf. At least my hands were clean, though they boasted the long, fresh scab where I opened it up on a reluctant gate.

I expected to be ignored, but she struck up the conversation. Her husband was looking at papers, snapping them, then muttering. He was clearly angry. Her eyes flicked back to him several times, but she seemed only a little uncomfortable. Maybe he wasn't mad at her.

"Looks like you have been hiking?"

"Yes, had a try at Hadrian's wall and finished with just enough time to catch the shuttle. What about you?"

"Conference, Edinburgh, nothing interesting. Boring as a baked potato. Where are you headed?"

"New York," I said.

"So am I."

"The city," I asked, expecting something posh in Manhattan.

"No, Woodstock." I imagined a big colonial with a drive and carriage house, maybe a pool, probably a BMW or better. Probably had a horse.

"I love Woodstock, well, not the tourists but the hidden stuff. Do you know Opus 40?"

"Never heard of it," she said, "and I've lived there for five years. What's Opus 40?"

"It's a little odd and hard to find. You have to know about it to find it. It's a great stone sculptural park, a crazy thing some artist worked on for 40 years before one of his stones crushed him to death. It's fantastic, a monument to passion and determination. Did you like Edinburgh?"

"Oh, you know, I didn't get to see much. Just a lot of obsession on where napkins go and where to place the silver, the obsession that is my life."

She dismissed her comments with a wave, and I saw the bracelet, silver, a little out of place, I expected better, well maybe more upscale. Still, my hypothesis was formed: entitled, wealthy, and not much interested in the grit and grime of life. The conversation seemed to die right there. She picked up a magazine.

Her husband leaned forward to whisper to a woman in the seat in front of him. The woman in front of him said something I could barely hear, but it was tense. I was ready to ignore them all: the private psychodrama between her husband and the woman in front and the wife obsessed with protocol and appearances. I picked up the book I planned to read.

Her husband said to the woman in front of him, "You'll regret this. As soon as I have WiFi, I'll deal with you." He slammed back in his seat, grabbed the wool tweed overcoat crammed between himself and his wife, rummaged until he found his cell phone, checked it, then shoved it back in the coat and packed it between them. His wife shifted uncomfortably. After a few seconds of fumbling with his shoes, he excused himself, his wife stood up, and he left to the back of the bus, stomping down the aisle in dark thin socks. An expensive black oxford lay on the floor at his seat. I glanced at my hiking boots, still smeared with mud and moss. In a few seconds, he was arguing about WiFi with someone in the back.

His wife leaned over, "He's drunk and angry. I may need to sit with you."

"Won't that just make your husband angrier?"

"Husband?" She laughed, "My god, no. He's her husband and one of my clients. He owns over fifteen restaurants in New York City. My job is to tell him where to put the napkins, that's it, and maybe smile."

She went on to explain that she ran a small research company with five employees, analyzing the layout of restaurants. "I can tell you how much more money you can make if you move the salad bar to that side of the room or place the napkins in a holder." She looked at me with almost a blank look. "Exciting, isn't it? Lucrative, but my god, did I go to school for this. I have a PhD in Sociology, but my analytical skills drive my life. I hope your work is more interesting." She was no longer the composed woman I first noticed.

She continued,”I am tired of being nice. I want to get back to my little cottage, kitchen, and dog, tell my staff to take the week off, and finally get out of these clothes." She looked me in the eye with a bit of a challenge. It was clear she was a force to be reckoned with. "So what do you do. You have enough money to travel but don't have to dress like I do."

"Funny you ask, I also live on my analytical skills, housing issues, working from my little flat, mostly trying to find out what works, you know, surveys, focus groups, maps, a bunch of data: economic, crime, schools and put out a report every several months. I have staff who also work from home when we aren't living in some project, sitting on a bench asking people about their lives, the park, and how to get to the supermarket. Big, glitzy projects pay the bill, and small projects keep us human. I squeeze in time for things like Hadrian's Wall."

The man I now knew was not her husband returned. She let him in. He leaned forward to the woman in front of him. "I won't let you take the car. By the time we're home, the accounts will be empty." The woman in the seat in front was crying. The woman beside me said something comforting to her but was clearly trying to stay out of the man's way.

"Excuse me again," he said, then headed again to the back of the coach.

There was loud talking the be back. The woman next to me leaned over. "Typical controlling husband, a real bastard. I can't stand it that he can do this to her. She's a school teacher, smart. She has been trying to leave for months." 

We were approaching the airport. The woman said, "Can I move over with you?" She rummaged through the pocket in her seat, moved his coat, and picked up some items from the floor. As she settled in beside me, she opened the window. "I need a breath of fresh air," she said. "What time is your flight?"

"10:30"

"We must be on the same flight. They are on an earlier flight and barely have enough time to make it. We have enough time for a drink. Maybe we could talk about something else?"

The coach pulled up at the departure terminal. The man returned to his seat and began fumbling around. I grabbed my pack and tried to reassess the woman who had been sitting beside me. Everything was up for reconsideration. The woman grabbed her suitcase, then we shuffled down the aisle and towards the door.

Suddenly, the man yelled, “Where're my shoes. What have you done with my shoes." His wife was ahead of us, almost to the door. Behind us he was yelling, ”Damn you, you stole my shoes." His wife didn't look back and was gone. At the coach door, I saw him still fumbling to put on his overcoat. A large lady with several bags was in his way. "Move. This is important. Get out of my way."

Once we were off the coach, I looked for the wife, but she was gone. "My name is Gretchen," the woman from across the aisle said as she hooked her arm into mine, almost jerking me forward. "Let's find an out of the way bar, someplace he won't look. I don't want to deal with him. I couldn't keep a straight face."

She encouraged me to run as she laughed. I glanced back at the bus and the man running in his stocking feet but every few steps hopped around as he stepped on something. "The bitch took my shoes."

We ran through the doors into the terminal. ”My name is Jeff," I hope his wife gets away.

"Oh, she might, but it will be tight. Their plane will be boarding in a few minutes, and once he gets to WiFi, plans to block her. Everything is on his phone, and his phone is in his pocket. All his accounts and passwords are on that phone, and it only accepts facial recognition."

We steered past lines of people. I said, ”Once he gets to WiFi, he's back in control."

"Well, I'm not too worried. Not only did I throw his shoes out the window, but his passport and cell phone as well. Just wait until he reaches into his coat pocket for his phone."

She squeezed my arm. "It promises to be a good evening, and you’ll have time to tell me about that crazy guy who lived a life of passion and built Opus 40."

We headed to the back of the food court." I have to admit my analysis of you was completely wrong. Instead of boring, you are a bit wicked."

She laughed. "My dog loves me."