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They’d become martyrs, rock stars for the new millennium, and they’d succeeded beyond their wildest fantasies. The world was changed forever. Now, post–terrorist attack, cocktails in first class were served in cheap plastic cups. Like anyone could hijack a jet with a fucking tumbler.
    Still, the scotch tasted good. He needed it to taste good. He’d be drinking three or four of these, maybe more, if the little idiot next to him kept yakking away. Francis took another sip and looked over at the young woman like he wasinterested in what she was saying. He saw her lips move: flap, flap, flap.
    Funny, he’d always thought Japanese women were beautiful—next to Thai women, the most exquisite in the world. But not this one. Short and scrunchy featured with adult acne erupting across her forehead like some kind of bacterial archipelago. Big eared, bad breathed, and completely flat chested.
    And, my God, she wouldn’t shut up. She even talked over the captain’s announcements. Francis would never know what altitude they’d be flying at and what speed, he’d never know the temperature to expect when they arrived. Instead, he was treated to discourse on the benefits, both psychological, physiological, and something to do with some kind of sexual chakras, of belly dancing. Francis nodded and sipped his scotch. He smiled to himself as she blabbed on. Bend over and grab your ankles. I’ll open your sex chakra.
    The belly dancing turned out to be the tip of the iceberg. There were conga lessons and contact movement improv, whatever that was. There were Pilates classes, self-hypnosis workshops, and afternoons spent passing out free condoms at the local clinic. All at the behest of something called a life coach.
    Francis watched as her lips kept moving. She was disappointed that she’d have to put all that self-improvement on hold, but she had to make a living. Francis nodded and wondered why he hadn’t read her résumé a little more carefully when he hired her as his production assistant.
    Francis cracked open another tiny bottle of scotch. He made a little promise to himself. If she starts talking to me about my drinking, I’m going to set her on fire.
    But she didn’t. She talked about how excited she was to be working in the film industry. She had studied auteur theory in college and had written several screenplays that her friends said were really good. She couldn’t wait to be on the set watching the magic happen—to actually be a part of it, a member of the creative team. She couldn’t wait to watch the director work with the actors. She wanted to observe and learn because someday
she
was going to be a director. Not a director of corrupt and soulless Hollywood studio product but a director of important independent films. She had things to say, powerful, important, life-affirming observations of humanity. That’s why she was going to Honolulu. She was on her path. She was following her bliss. Her life coach had been a big help.
    Francis didn’t want to burst her bliss bubble. She’d find out soon enough that the only magic that happened was getting done with the day before midnight. Instead of artistic concerns and aesthetic choices, they would spend hours trying to find, and then get permits for, parking spaces for the giant pop-out trailers that the director and stars demanded. It would break her heart to know that the only work with actors she would see would be filling out time cards, making sure that star A didn’t have to work more than eight hours according to his contract and that extras were sent home before any kind of overtime, golden time, or bonus meals had to be paid.
    Any insights into human nature would come at the bar, trying to numb your way through another day.
    He poured his scotch over the ice and picked up a few barbecued almonds from the little dish. He thought about his boyfriend back in L.A. She asked him if he was