So you’ll recall the way I nearly charmed the pants off the lady friend of this paste face at the Princeton Charter Club. Let me just say here that I never really had anything against this weasel, save for the fact that he looked like the kind of guy that would pay someone to tell you he never did a day’s work in his life. And the fact that he was glaring at me, thinking I was after his woman. The Morrison Man is not a predator. He is a highly evolved form of man, a cross between Homo sapiens and a diesel-powered chainsaw. And he can’t help it if women fall into his orbit. But I digress.
We’d just finished dessert and I was wowing the guests with impossi-gami. That’s where I fold sheets of paper into perfect, solid spheres. I learned it in the mystic Orient from the sister of a Buddhist monk. She showed me all four stages of Enlightenment, if you know what I mean.
The weasel was intent on giving me the heave-ho. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”
I looked at his woman. “The Morrison Man doesn’t catch planes. He hails them.” Then I winked. I saw her hand go to her back. I shook my head. Now was not the time. She stopped.
“It’s my private jet,” I said. Not taking my eyes off her. “And it’s a two-seater.” I punctuated the sentence by sticking a cannoli between my lips, lighting it, and taking a long, seductive drag.
“I’ve never been on a private jet before,” she said.
You know how the rest goes. This and that. Blah blah please stay blah blah our lives are better now because of you blah blah. I politely declined. Then I held out my arm.
“The jet’s all warmed up.” (Morrison Man uses double entendre like nunchuks.) “Let’s go.”
She rushed to my side and told the weasel she’d be back. I shrugged and said, “C’est la guerre,” which is French for “you may not want to wait up”.
So we took off and somewhere over the Alps the jet started having engine trouble. Remember, this was the Morrison Man’s jet. It wouldn’t go down without permission. I wasn’t worried. In times of danger, I do three things:
1) Assess the situation
I caught a downward draft and banked the beast into it. She let out a resistant growl and then relented, floating on down like the graceful bird she was. The plane did pretty well too.
She settled onto the southeast ridge of a mountain, about 4,000 feet up. I recognized it as the Weisshorn, from when I used to host cocktail parties up here. (Think I’m kidding? What if I told you I found a tiny drink umbrella in the snow?)
“What do we do now,” she said.
“First thing,” I said, “is we figure out how to keep warm.”
Her eyes lit up. “Perhaps we should set the plane on fire.”
“Perhaps,” I said, reaching under my seat and bringing out two wine glasses and a 1992 Petrus.
To be continued.