The blue upholstered seats with the uneven stitching and pulled threads did little to comfort my soul as the captain announced a 45-minute delay at the routine inspection of the plane revealed a slight dent in some panel -- God knows where. There is going to be hell to pay if I miss my connection in Dallas. I knew the travel agency booked this flight too close. As usual, I kept my mouth shut; wouldn't want to come apart at the seams; the seat cushion is doing a nice job.

I've read Newsweek, Time, and US News and World Report, all canceling one another out and am currently eyeing my neighbors tabloid trash. Mom, once again, will be the victor of the flight. Make sure you pick up readin' for the flight, her words still ringing in my ear, get something newsy, and bring it back and don't get any of those fashion fluff magazines; you know I hate that stuff! Every trip is the same, pick up 3-4 mother-approved magazines on the flight in, haul them in the briefcase for the duration of the trip and return with a handful more for the trip out. You wouldn't want to get caught on the plane with no readin'. I've never figured out how she became the airline's reading police -- but sure enough, with only two flights under her belt in her sixty-something frame, she single-handedly strikes the fear of God in me if I can't make it to the newsstand in time for a flight.

We are still on the ground and the natives are starting to stir. [Seat] 22C is looking pretty pissed: the slight huff gave him away. Oh God, the kid is starting to cry again. We're not even off the ground and the little squirt is bellowing the sound of boredom or something worse. Grandma is humming some sort of funky nursery rhyme I've never heard of before. Stick to the classics, honey! Funny, I don't recall any Little Red Riding Hood stories coming from mom's mouth just a yap now and then about three pigs and the story suspiciously changed each time just like cooking. We wouldn't want to follow a recipe, that would mean consistency. She would rather re-invent the wheel each dinner hour. It was like an evolving meatloaf that never quite molded together, if it fell apart iw was a burger casserole, it if broke off in recognizable chunks it was patties slapped on bread, know to the rest of the world as burgers.

Classics. Why do you want to wear anything but pearls with that dress, black is so slimming and you want to go and mess it up with those big chunky beads of yours. That's what mom would say. Fashion was never my forte', as everyone keeps reminding me; maybe it would help if I stare at the Vogue my plane partner tucked in the seat between us. Well, one thing was drilled into me; I must always dress for air travel thanks to Aunt Betsy. Aunt Betsy, now there's another piece of work. Her high pitch voice, echoing down the hall, "You're wearing that on the plane?! Doesn't anyone dress for travel anymore?! that a fond memory; my first plane trip to a summer school across the country, I'm wearing this two-piece wool suit in the middle of summer going to Washington, DC The two great world travelers also neglected to tell me that I didn't have to get off the plane and personally see to it that my luggage followed me to the next city. But if I got stranded in Chicago on a windy day I was ready, boy was I ready, for the winds of Navorne.

What's taking so long? Miss fashion next to me has labored into an interesting but amusing breathing pattern unrecognizable to the human ear. If I make my move now I can steal her mag. This trip has dwindled down to petty theft. With a sort-of squawk, Captain Nemo comes back on the air. "The part has been replaced and we are ready for take-off." Across the aisle, 22C looks relieved as a matter of fact I think he smirked at me.

"Can you believe that?" Mr. Polo Ralph Lauren remarked, rubbing his hands through his hair...

"Well, I guess it's better they fixed the problem, don't you think?" Wow, that's original. Couldn't I think of anything better to say than that? After Jerry died any unnecessary conversation with strangers (i.e., men) comes out like sludge. "I take it you don't feel well." I am such a moron, way too positive and concerned. How did I pull that one out?

"Well, better than that kid a few seat in front of us he seemed a big squeamish; but I do hate take-offs, the though of getting up to 30,000 feet in about 10 minutes doesn't sit well with my gravitation logic; You know what Newton said about these things don't you? What goes up must come down..."

My worst fear is becoming realized, a chatty scientist. "Really," I tried to sound enthused but it was a stretch, I fear a history of seventeenth century scientific breakthroughs coming on. The Scientific America was a dead giveaway but the plum knit shirt with a man on a horse playing polo with the matching socks captured my attention.

"How do you match that color anyway?" I asked, just to change the subject, demonstrating my fashion prowess.

"Actually, my mom picked these out for me, I thought plum only grew on trees."

Good answer, I thought; shows a twinge of humor; blames color on mother which could be a good or bad thing depending on whether this guy likes fruit.

"Well, that was a good answer, but your matching twisted Italian leather belt to your watch band to your loafers give you away as a man who knows threads, not something your mother picked up for you at the local department store." Here I go again, let's insult the guy some more. Why do I even try? "And don't tell me your mother buys your shoes; my mother is the only person in the world who can buy shoes for another person, and by God, they are going to be sensible walkin' shoes."

"OK, you go me, this really isn't plum, it's eggplant, and my Rolex watch with Italian leather band is a $30 knockoff assembled in Mexico. The shoes do match the belt, but only because the guy at the counter at Macy's put it together... And your story?..."

Why does everyone have to have a story, I thought. Isn't is enough just to converse aimlessly with no begging, middle or end? "I'm a walking fashion mishap. I like primary colors from my kindergarden days, prefer a fruit motif for a print and have been known to mix leopard spots with Zebra stripes. And be okay with the results."

"Really, I would have never guessed through your canary yellow pants with what appears to be some exotic cross between and orange and a kiwi splashed across it the twill, but your navy jacket might be in contrast with the 90-degree heat plus humidity in Washing ton this week.

"You know, if I didn't wear a jacket on the plane, my mother would sense it, and curse the plane trip; trust me you wouldn't want that. The way I see it, as a fashion weather clock Mom is a unique asset for air travel."

"well, I've got a neat weather fashion item, socks that wick away sweat. I don't know where to and don't really care to find out, but they keep my toes cool. Maybe they wick it away the same place Richard Simmons lives."

"I think that large woman heard you say Richard's name in vain."

"Shh... Captain Ahab is beginning to yak again."

"Funny, I thought his name was Nemo."

"Everyone is a comedian."

"Excuse me folks, this is your Captain speaking. We're going to turn on the seatbelt sign for a little while. There appears to be some turbulence up ahead. Just passing through some wind shifts and then we'll turn if off and resume lunch service. Thank you for your patience."

"I think there is really only one pilot and he flies every plane. most likely we have a hologram, I mean it's always the same voice, no accent, no variation in pitch or tone, just one sound, every time. Do you think you have to go to pilot school to learn that technique?" I quipped, searching for conversation.

"Just like you never see an ugly flight attendant. I'm convinced they all went to the same beauty school."

"What about that one that sued the airlines because the put her on a diet?"

"You're right, but she could've been big and beautiful, just not slim enough to fit between the seats."

The woman in front of us turn around again, and she's not appreciating our turn in discussion.

"I'm not saying it's right, ma'am."

"Oh sure, now put on the Southern charm, kicks in when you appear to be in trouble. I've met guys like you before."

Trying to appease the woman, 22C says loudly, "As a matter of fact, I'm on one of those new eat smart and healthy diets, watching that fat intake, it's not as easy as it looks. Want to live to be a hundred and all. I believe in that gene thing." The woman grimaces and turns around.

"Oh that's so scientific," I managed to get out, wondering if this conversation is worthy of sleep deprivation.

"That's my job, to be scientific."

"Really, you mean the Scientific America is more than just an airline magazine to read?" Yeah, like I'm one to talk, my Newsweek reflects more of my mother's preference in reading material than my own.

"Bringing' science to the masses is a noble endeavor. My Name is Gerald, and you are?..."

"Dr. Livingston."

"I presume."

Gee, I haven't heard that one before, are you always this original?"

"Only on the first date, then it's all downhill form there. So what is your specialty Doc, besides fruit fashion?"

"Well, after inventing the color scheme as we know it and perfecting the hue of periwinkle I branched out into the power of fruit, actually I hope to create new colors for Crayola beyond mud brown." Yikes, my attempt at humor is pathetic.

"OK, I'm buying this, now tell me what you really do."

"I'm a social scientist, your natural arch-rival in the wild."

"No way, I pegged you for a molecular biologist and thought the fashion talk was a metaphor for DNA compounds."

"Way. Sorry to disappoint, but all the fashion chat stands on its own."

"I thought all social scientists dressed in anthropology khaki then."

"Ah ha, but I'm not that kind of social scientist, but a political scientist who studies immigrant farm workers."

"It's now all starting to make sense, the fruit connection that is, so do most people catch on to the fruit thing?"

"Only the politically correct ones."

"My turn, now what can of scientist are you, besides a scientific American?"

"Promise you won't laugh?"

"I never promise anything on the first date, but Okay plum boy I'm going to make an exception at 30,000 feet."

Gerald unbuckled the flip of the seat belt and stood up, fumbling with the overhead bin. Why is it that when you meet someone on the plane the moment the stand up its like they become some other person. His lanky frame pulled out a Smithsonian shopping bag in which he yanked out an air and space museum T-shirt on which was printed, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am a rocket scientist."

"You've got to be kidding, are you planning to actually wear that thing?"

"Well, why not, it's true and it think it's kinda cute."

"How long have you been waiting to find that?"

"A while, it not something I want to pull out on the first date mind you. I just carry it around so I can whip it out at any moment and impress people. Is it working?"

"Not really. So what a rocket scientist doing at the air and space museum, or do I have to ask?"

"My first trip to Washington, DC, had to go for the NASA guys back home, if I don't I'm not part of the club. To be part of the right stuff club you have to go see the original stuff."

"Stop, you're killing me with all this nostalgia pilgrimage, so was it a blast or what?"

"You're just afraid I will blow up, aren't you?"

"Think I've heard that one before, you're just blowing me over."

"I quit. Thank God that our size two flight attendant is heading down the aisle for lunch."

Gerald was right, the attendant probably did go to beauty school. Now how am I going to compete with this nave and red pinstripe ensemble sized to accentuate every curve ever developed and so damn friendly.

"Today, we have boxed lunches from our cafe line. Would you like turkey, cheese, or hot pastrami?" she said with a glow that illuminated our row of three.

"Turkeycheesepastrami," we all yipped in cacophony.

"Ever notice how people always wake up when the chuck wagon approaches, its like an international sensor or something." Seat 22A ignores my comment. I find this trick always works, just talk about someone in the reference of the third person and, Viola, they mind their own business. I wouldn't want to compete with the fashion model on my left for Gerald's attention. I don't know why I'm even to bother, except I find the guy hopelessly amusing. Usually no one can keep up with the hash I sling.

The second roach coach meanders down the aisle with another bombshell. "What would you like to drink?"

"Diet Coke," Seat 22A says with a smile.

Great, now if I don't order diet I appear to not care about the eat smart and healthy shit. "Regular Coke." I managed to overcome any twinge of hesitation.

"Same," Gerald remarked. "I lied about the healthy thing, I can't drink that diet stuff. I would have ordered a Cherry 7-Up in honor of your acquittance but I fear they would have it. A clear liquid with carbonation and hint of fruity taste."

"How thoughtful."

"Should I have order H2O and made a better impression."

"Of course not, it's the mere thought of chemical elements that impresses me. Now tell me more of your line of research, I picture you in the middle of some peach orchard taking field notes or something."

"Pretty close, I'm documenting immigrant narratives on life of the farms."

"And what does Miguel say?"

"What you would expect, life is beyond miserable. The worse cases live in what's called a spider hole. After a day's work, a man just digs out a hole in the ground and climbs in to escape the California heat. Not much glory in the peach fields."

"Well, I wasn't expecting you to say peachy. What are you learning about their culture"

"Working from sun-up to sundown is their culture. There is no romantic ballads about Pancho Villa sung at the mythical campfire if that's what you mean. These guys and women as well live a life that is unimaginable for suburbanites like ourselves. The culture does not exist in the fields, there is not enough strength to keep it alive."

"So I take it the political aspect of this work entails documenting this."

"Ideally, after the project is done I would meet with farmers and politicians and follow it through to the end, obviously hoping to spur some kind of social change."

"My work seems pretty insignificant to yours."

"I probably sound fairly melodramatic about the whole thing. I'm sorry I've inherited this shame and blame quality from mom that's not real attractive for light conversation. Okay, enough apologizing. Changing the subject, what does a real scientist thin of Jurassic Park's premise?"

"Totally plausible, particularly in the sequel where the big one escapes and goes trampling down downtown San Diego."

"That's what I thought, too."

"And what's up with Batman, Robin and the newly resurrected Batgirl?"

"I don't know, but it can't be rated PG-13, not one in a batcave with those anatomically correct suits.

"Dr. Livingston, you talked about Batman? This isn't helping. We need to know more than this, can't you remember anything more about the conversation? I know this is hard, but we are running out of time." The man in the dark suit stopped pressing the microphone and leaned over to the other man and whispered, "She I not going to hold on much longer, can't we decrease the morphine. It's making her groggy. Even if she stays awake it will soon be delirious jabber."

"I don't know anymore, I told you already. What the hell is going on?! Where's Gerald?! God the pain!"

"Look, we've told you something happened up there and we don't know what, you've got to remember everything."

"Tell us more about Gerald."

"The ub..."

"We're losing her voice," remarked a sound technician.

"What did you say, please try again."

"...Club?"

"Yeah, the right stuff, NASA or something, I'm so tired I can't, I need to sleep now."

"You can't, this is important Dr. Livingston, please stay with us."

"This is at least better than the Batman/Jurassic Park crap she was spilling a few minutes ago," said Dave Spivey, assistant to General Williams.

"Dave, Call Senator Glenn ASAP; get him on the phone, see if he knows anything about a club. What the hell is this lady talking about?"

The walls felt like they were closing in, why was everything white? There was a sound in the background, making a slight gurgling mechanical noise. Oh my God, it's coming back to me.

"The turbulence; clouds turned dark gray and then silence for a few seconds, people were taking, but no sound at all and then we shot up in the air then came down, Gerald Said, new. Help me, get me out of here! I managed to get out with every once of strength I had."

"We can't, Doctor, you've been exposed we think to radiation. Gerald must have meant nu-clear is he finished the word. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Your plane hit a nuclear test site that wasn't supposed to be testing and not supposed to be here."

"We think Gerald might have been a plant of some kind, but we're not sure, we need your help, you've got to think, there isn't much time left."

"My time?"

"Yes."

"God please, not now." Streams of tears burn down my cheeks. "Gerald?"

"You were the only survivor and we can't find a Gerald on the passenger list, that's why we need to know as much as possible.. You kept saying his name when we found you."

"I need more morphine, my skin feels tight like I can't breathe, I'm burning up in here."

"We need you awake, Dr. Livingston, please hold on."

"God isn't there anything we can do?" General Williams commanded attention when his rough voice dominated any room.

Dr. Lackey was dressed in a white clean suit, pressed the microphone from inside the room. "It's too late. She's gone."

"Shit, how am I going to explain this to the President? 'Oops, flight 237 out of Washington flew right into the remains of a blast that wasn't suppose to exist.' 'We're going down ladies and gentlemen and that means everybody.'

"Dr. Lackey, schedule an autopsy as soon as her body stops pumping out the radiation crap and determine how she survived and everyone else seemed to evaporate," Yelled Williams.

"Yessir."

"Dave, you got Glenn on the phone yet?"

"Putting him through now sir, pick up the receiver, he should be on any second."

"Senator, General Williams here, we've got a situation. I need to know about something called 'the club'."

"The club? In reference to what? Look, I've got to get back to the committee."

"A possible NASA club to do with the right stuff? Is this making any sense to you?"

"No, the movie?"

"We think so. Look, we need to know, there's been a breach and something happened, anything you can tell us would be of help"

"Call the boys in Houston. There is a guy named Gerald there that keeps calling my office and talking about the good old days; brings up the movie a lot; staffers don't know what to do with him. I'll have my secretary look up his messages."

"Sure appreciate it Senator."