musicians I’d interviewed since then, but I was afraid that Creem still thought of me as some flaky girl who lucked out.
And I mean really lucked out.
I left the restroom, my brain trying to remember what the French word for toilets was (la toilettes? W.C.?), and headed for my gate. The flight to Paris left in an hour, and I had been warned that these international flights boarded really early. By the time I reached the gate, I was sweating up a storm and my shoulder was feeling carved in by the strap on my messenger bag. Served me right for trying to cram too much stuff into it. I definitely didn’t need a whole tub of Vaseline on the plane for the dry air.
At the gate, the first class section was already having their tickets taken by trim, well-groomed women in pale blue skirt suits and jaunty hats. Their teeth seemed impossibly white, like something out of a Colgate commercial, and they had this aura of grace about them. Were all French women like this? I looked down at my corduroy bell-bottoms with frayed ends and my polyester tank top I had scooped up at the Salvation Army. I didn’t stand a chance if any of these chic French chicks decided to go for Sage.
“Excuse me,” I heard a southern accent drawl. “Are you Dawn Emerson?”
I brought my cloudy head out of my hate bubble for French flight attendants and looked beside me. There was a tall dude—like as tall as Sage, if not taller—standing beside me and looking me over. He was built like a brick house—not fat, but just large…broad shoulders, really wide chest. He was wearing a denim shirt with sharp points and embroidery, the kind that cowboys wear, and jeans with a massive bronze belt buckle. A cigarette hung lazily from his full lips, and his eyes were a bright emerald green and hooded in that way that you couldn’t tell if he was stoned or just naturally relaxed. His hair was an orange brown, and a few freckles were scattered across his nose and grooved forehead. I couldn’t tell how old he was really, maybe my age, maybe late twenties, and I just blinked as I tried to bring everything up to speed.
“I’m Dawn,” I said slowly, instinctively offering the man my hand. He eyed it, smiled to himself, then sandwiched my outstretched hand between both of his and gave it two quick and hard pumps.
“Max,” he said, still grinning. It was a nice smile, though it had a condescending jackass tinge to it. “I’m your photographer. They did tell you about me, didn’t they? Creem , I mean.”
I nodded, feeling stupid. “Of course. Sorry. I just got off the plane from Seattle, and I’m not sure how I’m dealing with five hours of sleep, let alone the time change.”
“You haven’t traveled to the East Coast before, have you little lamb?”
If he wasn’t so darn cute and if that accent wasn’t so darn infectious, I would have frowned my proud feminist eyebrows at his “little lamb” endearment. “No, first time.”
“Shucks,” he said, scratching at his ginger sideburns and giving me a sly glance. “Looks like we have a novice on our hands. Well, little lamb, I promise I’ll be gentle with you.”
“Too bad I can’t say the same,” I retorted, straightening up. It wasn’t that Max was hitting on me, but I didn’t want him thinking I was some naïve little flower, either. Or a lamb.
He grinned and nodded at the perfectly poised airline crew. “We’ll be boarding next. Got us seats in the smoking section.”
I looked down at my ticket. Back of the plane, he was right. I was too sleep-deprived to notice that before. I didn’t know if I could handle another flight, let alone one with this Max fellow blowing smoke in my face, but I guess I had no choice.
We got on the plane, shuffling past the refined people in first class, and made our way to the very back. The air back here stunk, despite the fact that the whole airplane shared the same air. I felt like the cool kid sitting at the back of the bus, especially as Max sat down
And I mean really lucked out.
I left the restroom, my brain trying to remember what the French word for toilets was (la toilettes? W.C.?), and headed for my gate. The flight to Paris left in an hour, and I had been warned that these international flights boarded really early. By the time I reached the gate, I was sweating up a storm and my shoulder was feeling carved in by the strap on my messenger bag. Served me right for trying to cram too much stuff into it. I definitely didn’t need a whole tub of Vaseline on the plane for the dry air.
At the gate, the first class section was already having their tickets taken by trim, well-groomed women in pale blue skirt suits and jaunty hats. Their teeth seemed impossibly white, like something out of a Colgate commercial, and they had this aura of grace about them. Were all French women like this? I looked down at my corduroy bell-bottoms with frayed ends and my polyester tank top I had scooped up at the Salvation Army. I didn’t stand a chance if any of these chic French chicks decided to go for Sage.
“Excuse me,” I heard a southern accent drawl. “Are you Dawn Emerson?”
I brought my cloudy head out of my hate bubble for French flight attendants and looked beside me. There was a tall dude—like as tall as Sage, if not taller—standing beside me and looking me over. He was built like a brick house—not fat, but just large…broad shoulders, really wide chest. He was wearing a denim shirt with sharp points and embroidery, the kind that cowboys wear, and jeans with a massive bronze belt buckle. A cigarette hung lazily from his full lips, and his eyes were a bright emerald green and hooded in that way that you couldn’t tell if he was stoned or just naturally relaxed. His hair was an orange brown, and a few freckles were scattered across his nose and grooved forehead. I couldn’t tell how old he was really, maybe my age, maybe late twenties, and I just blinked as I tried to bring everything up to speed.
“I’m Dawn,” I said slowly, instinctively offering the man my hand. He eyed it, smiled to himself, then sandwiched my outstretched hand between both of his and gave it two quick and hard pumps.
“Max,” he said, still grinning. It was a nice smile, though it had a condescending jackass tinge to it. “I’m your photographer. They did tell you about me, didn’t they? Creem , I mean.”
I nodded, feeling stupid. “Of course. Sorry. I just got off the plane from Seattle, and I’m not sure how I’m dealing with five hours of sleep, let alone the time change.”
“You haven’t traveled to the East Coast before, have you little lamb?”
If he wasn’t so darn cute and if that accent wasn’t so darn infectious, I would have frowned my proud feminist eyebrows at his “little lamb” endearment. “No, first time.”
“Shucks,” he said, scratching at his ginger sideburns and giving me a sly glance. “Looks like we have a novice on our hands. Well, little lamb, I promise I’ll be gentle with you.”
“Too bad I can’t say the same,” I retorted, straightening up. It wasn’t that Max was hitting on me, but I didn’t want him thinking I was some naïve little flower, either. Or a lamb.
He grinned and nodded at the perfectly poised airline crew. “We’ll be boarding next. Got us seats in the smoking section.”
I looked down at my ticket. Back of the plane, he was right. I was too sleep-deprived to notice that before. I didn’t know if I could handle another flight, let alone one with this Max fellow blowing smoke in my face, but I guess I had no choice.
We got on the plane, shuffling past the refined people in first class, and made our way to the very back. The air back here stunk, despite the fact that the whole airplane shared the same air. I felt like the cool kid sitting at the back of the bus, especially as Max sat down
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