A Flight from Manila

“I have a new motto: ‘Act first. Questions be damned!’”

I was standing over Brian’s shoulder. “I have an old motto,” I replied. “A fool and his money are soon parted.”

He took a deep breath, moved the cursor to the “send” button, and clicked.

The instant his credit card cleared, his screen refreshed with thumbnail shots of women, headshots, full body shots, demure, provocative, thoughtful, smiling, laughing, on the couch, at the beach, sprawled on a bench in a park, in pants, in shorts, in dresses and skirts, dark haired, blonde, young, younger, screen after screen of images of women from the Philippines that CupidPinay.com promised were close matches to Brian’s profile and were eager to meet him.

“See!” he said.

Eight months later, Brian’s clutching a bouquet of roses, I’ve cut short a meeting with my lawyer to be his wingman and we’re watching waves of humanity in its several shapes and textures flow through the international arrivals gate at Pearson Airport’s Terminal 3. He’s wearing tan chinos, new, and a white short-sleeved shirt with blue pinstripes. It’s a hot September day, the AC is pumping, I’m wishing I’d brought a jacket and he’s got these half-moons of sweat blossoming under his arms. He’s out two grand for the flight and whatever else he’s sent her to fix her car, or to buy her a new computer, or to repair the damage to her roof from the storm that hit last month. And that’s just what he’s told me.

He’s not made of money. She knows he’s on workers’ comp with a fucked up back, retraining as a robotics technician, but to her, I guess that’s good enough, because the poor bastard’s in love and she’s opened the tap.

It’s been an hour since the flight landed, and I’m noticing a few short, brownish people bursting through the automatic doors, but that could be the flight from Lima, I tell him. Brian’s bouncing up on his toes every time the doors slide open with that whooshing sound, like air escaping. 

He’s lost weight, a good thing. He’s been taking better care of himself since this started. He’s joined me at the gym and I asked my trainer to put him on a program that wouldn’t hurt his back. He’s straightened out his apartment, too, and he’s taking this robotics thing seriously. Did really well on his last co-op placement. I’m kiting credit cards and he expects he’ll finally have a decent job waiting for him.

But I figure that will only deepen his disappointment when he realizes this is business for her until the well runs dry. I’ve tried to tell him, or at least to prepare him, but how do you do that to a best friend who’s cast himself as the lead in his own fantasy?

“Remember when you and Tracy started, how that’s all you’d talk about?”, is his answer, which actually makes my point. Just find a woman you hate and buy her a house. But he’s too smitten to make the connection and I’m putting my lawyer’s kids through college and don’t want to talk about it. 

The doors whoosh open and he’s on his toes again. There’s a shriek from somewhere behind us, off to the side an arm waves, people come together, clinging, cheeks moist, and then that big gap-toothed smile thins. He’s flat on his feet once more and he looks over at me, then checks his phone. The flowers still look fresh. He clutches them to his chest, and I imagine the thorns biting through the cloth, but he seems immune to their sting.

I look up at the board. “Lots of international flights landed at the same time,” I say. “They’ll be swamped at Customs and Immigration,” and then there’s an announcement over the PA about a new arrival, Athens, and the crowd stirs and another throng presses in. I look around me. More flowers. Balloons. I should have brought something. I’ll take them to dinner.

The doors slide open and Brian’s back on his toes. He seems to hang there for a moment, and then his lips part and his eyes widen. My hand finds his back. It pushes him forward and I step with him, warmed by the crowd. Kim is plumper than in the photos Brian’s shown me, a bit older, it seems, but the camera flatters, a little round dumpling of a woman, black hair cut shorter than I recall. She scans the crowd. “Brayan,” she calls, and then there’s an instant of recognition when he breaks through. She smiles, big, broad, disarming and true, and when he thrusts the roses forward, I reach out too. I’m standing at his side as she drops the handle of her suitcase, cries his name once more and rushes toward us.