Up in the Air by Walter Kirn Read Free Book Online Page B

second husband who went to Sandstone for forging savings bonds on a color copier. And only lately, in the last two years, a kind of peace for Julie, a new purpose, rehabilitating injured animals on a Humane Society rescue farm. She even has a degree now—Licensed Vet Tech—and though she’s still thin, her eyes go where she points them, which I feel is progress.
    Now this wedding. This Keith. I give her two years before she’s in a hospital.
    “Excuse me.”
    The stock expert looks.
    “One question, sir. I know who you are and I know I shouldn’t ask this—”
    “Be my guest. I’m used to it by now.”
    “If you were to buy a single issue tomorrow—a blue chip, as a gift, for the long term, for someone who can’t really handle her own affairs—what would it be?”
    “The recipient’s a minor?”
    “Basically. Actually, she’s thirty-one.”
    “But flaky?”
    “At a fairly high level. Yes.”
    “Female, I’m guessing?”
    “Extremely female.”
    “Right.” The expert swabs his tongue across his gold mine. He’s thinking, he’s taking me seriously. Bless him. There’s grace in Airworld. I meet it all the time.
    “I’d recommend General Electric, but I can’t. Their media holdings offend me morally. A long-term investment should elevate its owner. That puts me in the minority, but so be it. This isn’t well known, but I count among my clients the American Lutheran Church. That calls for standards.”
    I’m inspired. I truly am. The man’s a giant. And to think that, just now, I have him to myself.
    “I’ll tell you what I told the Lutheran bishops: load up on Chase Manhattan under sixty. Chase is your baby. A house upon a rock.”

    The flight’s only stop is Elko, and knowing Elko, no one will get on or off when we set down. A curious city—Basque restaurants on every corner, a few small casinos, miles of trailer parks, and a Main Street boutique that sells candy panties to prostitutes. I once spent an evening there with a billionaire, 104th on the Forbes 400 list, whose family toy firm I’d been called in to downsize. The man was shopping for a hobby ranch and was eager to visit a brothel, but not alone. He had me hold his wallet in case of trouble and I found myself poking through it while he partied. I felt that a billionaire’s wallet might teach me something. Inside I found an expired driver’s license whose photo convinced me the man had had a face-lift. Also, a credit card. White. Not platinum, white. When I think of Elko I think of that pale card, of what it could buy. Whole states. The desert itself. After the billionaire finished with his girl, we returned to his jet, which had twin sleeping cabins. I heard
him masturbating through the bulkhead, seducing himself in a made-up female voice that sounded like one of those singing-chipmunk records.
    What you don’t want, I remember thinking that night, is to feature in such a man’s dreams. I’m scared of billionaires, though not for the same reasons my father was. If their goal was just world domination, we’d all be safer; the problems arise when they tamper with individuals.
    I turn on my tape again, then click it off. Too many words in one day and I go fuzzy. The flight attendant leans close. I’m sure I know her.
    “Sir?”
    “You’re Denise. Chicago–Los Angeles.”
    “Just reassigned last week.” She quiets her voice. “We’re having difficulties with a passenger. The man in the golf shirt”—she points—“beside the lady there?”
    “Yes?”
    “He’s intoxicated. He’s bothering her. I know you’re enjoying having your own row here . . .”
    “Not at all. Bring her up. I’ll move my things.”
    “She’s flying through to Reno.”
    “Send her up.”
    I form first impressions more quickly than other people. The woman’s sense of space is complicated; her every movement seems to be a choice between precisely two alternatives, one wholly right, the other completely wrong. She pauses, and in her pause