Ihop off the plane at LAX with a dream and my mending heart.
Not exactly a Miley-worthy moment, but I’m manifesting a positive outlook, shoving down the sad shit for the sake of palm trees, hot locals, and my favorite TV game show. Buckley, who?
As I strut through the airport—trying to summon pop star in a music video confidence—I adjust the quarter zip with a wrap component in a bright green mesh-like fabric that I’m wearing. It’s very sporty, and I got a hefty discount on it so I’d stop playing breakup jams over the boutique’s sound system during my shifts. Heartbreak has its perks sometimes, I suppose.
Gwendolyn practically insisted I go. I already had the time off approved and the plane tickets and hotel ended up being nonrefundable, so with the glitz and glam of LA just outside this airport terminal, I couldn’t be readier to forget about my unfeeling ex and the breakup that tore my life asunder.
Los Angeles will rejuvenate me.
It has to.
Who cares that I couldn’t find anyone to take Buckley’s place on my cross-country adventure? Apparently cold-texting old acquaintanceswould you want to appear on a TV game show with meis not the best way to find an audition partner forMadcap Market. Even with the added bait of a free vacation.
I shake away the negative thoughts because I still have one final lifeline: Alexia Morozov, one of my closest college friends.
Technically, she was Buckley’s friend first, but we became tight separately when we took the same gruesome ballet class as an elective our senior year, and she’s an actress, so there is no chance she’s camera shy. As I last heard, she’s just returning from a contract on a rinky-dink cruise ship where she sang Celine Dion covers to overtanned tourists with barely any cell service. She’s agreed to meet up for drinks tonight and I doubt she’s going to say no to me because she lives to be in front of the camera.
We’ll have to fudge our friendship history a bit at the audition.Madcap Marketonly casts couples with fun backstories for the prepared package videos that they show prior to the final competition, but that shouldn’t be hard. Alexia has improv training, and I’m a good yes-man. As proved by how I’m sayingyesto this trip and all the restorative energy it’s going to bring me.
I cling to this surefire hope at baggage claim where the carousel goes around and around with a plethora of overstuffed bags on it. Strangely, I don’t see the navy blue bag with the sparkly Holden James luggage tag on it, though, no matter how hard I look. No matter how much time passes. No matter how impatient I grow.
Turning to the woman in the neon visor next to me, I ask, “Is this the baggage claim for the flight from Newark?”
“Sure is, dearie,” she says. “Lloyd! Lloyd! That’s it. That’s my bag. Grab it for me, will you?” The portly man in the floral shirt beside her struggles to haul the bag over the lip of the conveyor belt. It lands on its wheels with a groan.
“Forget what your luggage looks like, son?” the man asks with a huff, still waiting for his own suitcase to come around.
“No, I just don’t see it.” I’m not a frequent flier—not a frequent traveler, period—so I don’t know how long this usually takes but the man begins growing visibly frustrated beside me as the minutes tick by, which makes my stomach sink.
“Not seeing mine now either,” he says, folding his arms, tone suggesting that I somehow had something to do with the delay. As if I pulled the luggage from the plane’s undercarriage as a fun prank—masterminded an unfortunate meet-cute between me and this married middle-aged man.
“Oh, Lloyd,” the woman says, patting his arm. The gesture is so sweetly reassuring that I have to look away. It’s been a minute since I’ve experienced physical comfort like that. It’s a craving you can’t quit—like chocolate even after you find out you’re lactose intolerant. “It takes them a while to unload all the bags from the plane. This isn’t like Aruba again. Losing your luggage is a fluke. It happens once in a lifetime.”
Forty-five minutes later, I realize I’m having my once-in-a-lifetime moment, today of all days. With Lloyd and his wife long gone, I stand there, alone, sneering at the empty carousel before trudging over to the long line at the customer support counter to fill out a missing luggage form.
As I inch ever closer to the counter, to keep my cool, I list out all the positives about this trip that I can think of:
I get a break from the store.After college graduation, I sent my résumé to anyone who would have it, hoping and praying my communications degree would turn into something fruitful overnight. When the only interview I got was for Gwendolyn’s Lululemon knockoff boutique, I had no choice but to take the $15 an hour position. Then, two days into the job, when Gwendolyn asked, “Holden, youdohave a fitness regimen, right? I can’t have nonfit people working at Fab Fitness Flair. It’s bad for the brand.” For a split second I debated a class action lawsuit, then I signed up to get certified in Cardio Dance Fit.
Oh, there’s that, too.
I get a break from Cardio Dance Fit classes.It’s not Zumba. No. Zumba is for advanced dancers who can afford their steep registration prices and boot camps. I teach Cardio Dance Fit. It’s Zumba’s homely half sister. Instead of hip movements with a Latin flair to contemporary songs, we do step touches and grapevines to songs that are just current enough that you recognize them, but just irrelevant enough that you have absolutely no idea who sings them.
I get to make good on my promise to Mom. Madcap Marketwas the show we shared for over seventeen years. Laughing and pointing and snacking on break-and-bake Pillsbury chocolate chip cookies. We’d strategize like we had an audition coming up, even though I wasn’t old enough to compete yet.
Then, when she was sick and the outcome looked grim, we’d watch episodes I saved to my iPad while she received chemo, and I promised that one day I’d winMadcap Marketfor the both of us. That always made her smile.
Even remembering that now sends a jolt of longing through me. I wish she were here right now. She’d make a game out of us waiting in this lengthy line. She’d force me to laugh by doing a silly voice.
I stuff those memories into my backpack beneath clean underwear and toiletries. No sense dredging that up. Positive outlook. Shoving down sadness. All is okay. Los Angeles will help me forget.
I notice the strong-jawed, blond-haired man standing behind the airline’s desk, waiting expectantly for me to speak. I hadn’t realized it was my turn, and his handsomeness startles me a moment. It’s been a while since I’ve been anywhere besides work, so I’m surprised when my dust-collecting libido clicks on for the first time in quite a while.
“Lost baggage?” he asks in a bored monotone when I’ve clearly taken too long for his liking.
“Yes, I—”
He doesn’t let me finish before he asks for my ID and baggage claim tag and then assaults me with paperwork and a promise that the bag will be delivered to my hotel once it arrives. I want to ask clarifying questions—maybe even ask for his number if I could be so bold—but I’m staring at a multipage document, being handed a pen, and being grunted at by annoyed people behind me, so I smile, say thank you, and step aside to get this over with.
