Standby, Chicago

By Rich Walls

The uplifting story of a young man on his first business trip, the blizzard that could strand him through Christmas, and the beautiful girl he falls for on the flight over. STANDBY, CHICAGO is the novel which reminds us that new adventures in life and love are often only a gate away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rich Walls
• Release date: Nov 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9780984794638

Rich Walls

Rich Walls graduated from Villanova University in 2006. He is the author of Standby, Chicago and creator of One Page Love Story. He lives in Hoboken, New Jersey.

Book preview

CUNNING BOOKS

New Jersey

Standby, Chicago

Copyright 2011 © by Rich Walls

All rights reserved. This book cannot be reproduced or redistributed without the written permission of Rich Walls.

The characters and events that lay between the seersucker covers of this book are fictitious. If certain situations seem familiar to you, including, but not limited to, a sudden infatuation for a girl wearing a Dayton sweatshirt or choosing to leave a major end-of-night decision to chance, the author congratulates you but must apologize in advance for not having had you in mind. Instead, he concedes that you likely have your own variety of striped covers, perhaps even ones decorated with the cartoon characters of your youth, from beneath which he is confident that you have dreamt of people and places far more magnificent than could ever be described within these pages. May you meet and reach every one.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover Design by Linseed Projects

Design for Publication by 52 Novels

www.standbychicago.com

Books by Rich Walls

Dedication

DECEMBER 22

DECEMBER 23

DECEMBER 24

DECEMBER 25

DECEMBER 26

About the Author

Standby, Chicago

TO THE THREE C’S

Pack a suit. You’re up.

That was my wake up text from Deacon twelve hours ago. Apparently Kaminsky had spent the night nursing a bad can of tuna, and with Matthews already on his two-week paternity leave, he’d sold our boss on the idea that I should tag along.

I know Deacon likes to enjoy himself, Frank later advised, but he’s one of the best. Mirror him a little, see what you can pick up.

And so I spent the rest of the whirlwind morning cleaning up the two days of work I’d be missing while dodging questions about whether or not I was nervous for my first business trip.

Should I be? I asked.

Yes, everyone agreed.

Do you have any advice then?

Don’t suck, answered our VP of Research.

I’ll try not to, I remember saying at the time. But now that I’m inching down this dementedly square jetway, and towards the screaming tarmac, it feels like sucking is exactly what I’m doing. After all, how many businessmen are too afraid to fly?

Stepping onto the plane, I tap the curved fuselage—an old good luck move. Inside, the thick air tastes like dusty seat cushions and the cabin’s steely kitchenette reminds me of a psychotic children’s puzzle packed to fit a cylinder. To my left, the steward with a Mr. Clean-shaven head smiles.

When I reach my seat, it’s just as I remembered it, only smaller. By the window sits a girl with brown hair raised above a green scarf. Her head is pressed against the window and I want to ask her if she’s by herself, but as soon as she shifts forward I feel a different kind of scared and pull away, feigning interest in the new headrest monitor which looks like an IMAX from point blank range. On it, the Hummingbird logo refreshes itself back and forth with the airline’s unlikely slogan, Fly in Place.

Where you headed? Asks the girl suddenly, breaking my trance.

To Chicag—, I start to say, but she’s crouched down with a phone to her ear. Hearing me, she glances up, trying not to laugh.

Awww, she continues. Wish I could go with you.

I bite my lip and face forward as the last passengers board. A lot of suits, a few families, and five or six white-haired women sporting matching tennis outfits. Except for the women’s club, all of whom look outrageously happy, most everyone else appears the same—tired, annoyed, and altogether displeased at the prospect of flying. Noticeably missing, however, is anyone else looking half as terrified as me.

A full twelve rows up in business class, I spot Deacon dangling a plastic cup filled to the brim with whiskey. He loves this sort of thing. If I had to bet, he’s already on his third drink and we haven’t even left the gate. In his mind, we arrived in Chicago the second the stewardess began serving him. The two-and-a-half hours in between are just his liquid warm-up.

Back in coach, I remember I still have three sips of an iced tea left in my bag for my own warm-up. When I sit up again, there’s a Moby-impersonator hovering over me.

Un-freaking-believable, he says, bulldozing into the middle of our row. Only after he’s sat down does he explain that, This is my seat.

Is it? I deadpan.

His black-framed glasses seem to blink in response.

Can you believe them? He carries on.

Believe who? I ask, searching past him to find the girl pressed as far to the side as possible.

The airlines! He shouts.

I’m alright.

Of course you are. Everyone’s alright, everyone’s great!

Still unsatisfied, he hauls himself up to a half-stance to survey the activity ahead of us. When I merely tilt my head to do the same, he shoots me a nasty look. Up-down-up-down he goes, like a rodent in an exercise video, continuously muttering about These Goddamn airlines.

I wish there was a way to kick him off—then the girl and I could go back to having the row to ourselves. Eventually I could explain that I’ve never flown by myself before, which is true if we don’t count Deacon, and then maybe she could be the one to help get me through this, reassure me that this flight will go as smooth as the slope of her button nose.

I cannot wait to call corporate when we land, mumbles the rodent.

Maybe next time, I think.

Up ahead, passengers have stopped entering, but there’s another argument taking place. Hidden behind her own middle seat, a woman yells at Mr. Clean while the five-hundred pound man beside her tilts halfway across the aisle to avoid her wrath.

We have reserved seats! The woman screeches.

On this plane, Mr. Clean replies. You have reserved seats on this plane. You are on the plane. Your husband is on the plane.

We reserved them together!

And you’ll be together in Chicago.

But that’s not the point!

Ma’am, I—

Oh, hell already! Cuts in the big man. As he shouts, he rolls himself out of his chair, using the opposite armrest to push himself up. Where’s the damn seat?

The moment Mr. Clean points towards us, the rodent bursts his leg out across me and into the aisle. He only makes it halfway to his wife, though, before the big man drives him back again with the threat of hips that bash each of the seatbacks along the way. When they finally arrive at our row together, and the big man discovers he’s been dumped with a middle seat, he fires an all-pro look of disgust towards the rodent whose eyes never leave the floor.

Sensing the obvious, I make the short jump over.

Hope you don’t mind, I say to the girl.

Not at all, she responds as the big man plops down half on top of me. The hit knocks my upper body across her and I meet her eyes a few inches above mine. Hardly embarrassed, she mouths a Hi with a hint of peppermint.

I apologize, interrupts the big man.

No need, I reply, turning back into my now ridiculously thin seat.

I appreciate that, he says, watching the rodent scuttle down the aisle towards his wife. You know, he continues, I once had a lady call the flight attendant and try to whisper in her ear that she was uncomfortable sitting next to me. So I said, ‘Lady, I’m right here. If you’re uncomfortable, why don’t you just tell me?’ I don’t know why people get so damn conscientious about it. I’m big, I get it. Let’s figure out a solution and try to move on.

That’s true, I say, as he begins to fidget. I can’t tell if he’s even sitting in the seat or on the armrest at this point.

Didn’t even thank me, he says after a moment.

Who’s that? The lady?

Either of them. You try and take a situation and make it better. You’ve got all these people here, everyone’s just trying to get where they’re going. Why make it more difficult?

The husband wasn’t much better.

Doesn’t surprise me. Well good for them.

Misery loves company.

You’ve got to move on, though. You can’t let the little things get to you.

For sure.

But do me a favor, when you get married, are you married?

No, not yet, I respond, looking over to see if the girl is following along. Her face is hidden behind her hand, but I swear there’s a smirk on it.

Well, when you do get married, choose someone that can handle a situation. Right there was a woman, or a couple really, who with all things considered, had a situation that wasn’t all that bad, but still couldn’t handle it. Marriage is just a string of situations. You want to find someone that can get through them.

That’s good advice, I say, rolling with the conversation.

I’m very fortunate to have a wife like that. Life is too hard as it is. You can’t carry more burdens than you can handle and expect to make it.

I’m trying to think of something I can add when the plane begins to move. Despite all the distractions, my palms are still liquid. Each bump on the tarmac shakes the wing next to us like a worn diving board. I wonder if it’s waiting for us to go airborne before ripping off.

A younger stewardess starts to work her way up the aisle in order to inspect that our seat belts are fastened and that our tray tables and seatbacks are in their original upright positions. At our row, she stops and asks the big man if he could please fasten his seat belt.

Miss, I’m sitting on it, he responds.

It is federal law, sir.

I understand it’s a federal law. I almost bought an airline once.

Well then you know I’m required to ask you to wear it while we take off. You can remove it in the air.

Miss, I appreciate you trying to help and you’re doing the right thing, but I’m already seated and it’s just not worth the effort. Besides, my belt extender is way the hell up there and even if I had it, I’d have to stand in the aisle to attach it, which is another federal offense while the plane’s taxiing. Let’s please just leave it at that and if it’s still a problem we can figure it out later.

The stewardess’s jaw dips to the right side of her face before she bolts straight down the aisle for help. When she returns with Mr. Clean at her side, he barely looks our way before nodding his head in approval, causing the stewardess’s jaw to unhinge even further to the right.

Always something, says the big man once they’ve both walked away.

Our plane is in line now and out the window I can see other planes taking off one by one, each success bringing the law of averages steadily closer to my inevitable end. Every time we inch forward, the engines thrust beside us, firing the pistons of my nerves along with them.

I remember how my Dad had tried for years to cure my fear of flying. Specifically, the pages of useless statistics he’d first thrown my way about how planes are safer than cars, never quite grasping how little my terror cared for rationality. It wasn’t until we were on the single worst flight of my life, while flying to St. Pete in the middle of a tropical depression, that he finally bettered himself with a more eloquent method.

About halfway through the initial climb up, after witnessing the grown man across from me actually chant three Hail Mary’s into an opened barf bag, my Dad turned to me and said, "You know, of all the flights, the scary ones are my favorite. When it’s stormy like this, and on the way up you’re thinking over and over that there’s no possible way this plane can stay in the air, somehow it does. Even after it’s been beaten so many times in a row, and you’re convinced the only place left to go is down, somehow it stays up, somehow it keeps pushing anyways.

And it will keep pushing, and keep pushing, even right on through the absolute worst, when after having been trapped in darkness for what feels like forever and after having dropped so many times you can’t possibly be sure if you’ve gained altitude or lost it, all of a sudden the clouds will break apart and it’s like you’ve made it to heaven—nothing but the cotton white tips of storm clouds beneath and that first peek at the brilliant yellow sun above.

Sure enough, that day the clouds broke just like he said they would and now the same story races through my mind, like my own sort of prayer that will help me to survive this flight. Blue skies, blue skies, I tell myself, but it’s of little use. The happy ending always resonates more once we’re cruising at 30,000 feet. Until then, I remain convinced that something will eventually give—a wing, the tail—and I’ll find myself in a more literal version of heaven or hell than my Dad’s story ever meant to describe.

We hit the runway with a rolling start and before I even have a chance to relish a last moment of peace, the pilot guns the engines, pressing our backs against the seats. I look over to see if the girl next to me is equally disturbed by our horrific scenario but her only reaction is to turn the next page in the pink-covered book she’s reading.

Cruising faster and faster, the plane bounces like a needle on an old record player and every sudden shift to the left or right feels cataclysmic. The questions of chaos race through my mind. How does an accelerating jet hold straight on a runway? When the wheels eventually leave the pavement, how does the plane not bottom out?

Thank God it’s clear outside, but the December wind still swirls like angry bats, bludgeoning the cabin back and forth. In my head, and possibly aloud, I start to cheer for our Little Engine That Can as it fights its way to the top of this invisible mountain.

Suddenly, the plane banks hard to the right and it’s like someone’s released a trap door beneath our seats. It feels like we might tip into the Hudson. I tell myself that planes can land on the Hudson. I tell myself that a plane has landed on the Hudson. I tell myself there’s a reason they called the first landing a miracle.

The pilot kicks the plane back to level and a moment later flips forty-five degrees the other way. I swear he’s screwing with me. When we catapult to square, I accidentally hit the girl with an elbow. She laughs. I cringe. We drop again.

Shit, groans the big man. I catch him looking down and for a second think he may have actually soiled himself. Dropped my glasses, he says.

The thought of losing cabin pressure almost sounds welcome now. It’s quick and painless.

We climb above a thin cloud. I remember being disappointed as a kid to learn that fog and clouds are essentially the same. I already knew you couldn’t sit on fog.

The engines fire twice more at full force with a lull in between that seems a bit too long. In the midst of worrying and waiting for the end of the second lull, I realize that we’ve flattened out and the seconds that follow are still. We’re no longer gaining altitude or losing. It’s just us and a golden sky. All is well in the world.

When the captain turns the seatbelt sign off, the big man starts to shimmy again. These dang seats, he says. The problem is, they’re engineered by efficiency experts. They tried to tell me I’d need two of them but I said I could make do. Eventually, they’ll decide to throw me down below with the luggage. Probably’ll work out better for all of us. In any event, I apologize if I’m leaning into your space.

You’re fine, I say.

"Well, again, I appreciate that. I did almost buy an airline once. Not a big one like this, but a small regional up near Cape Cod. A shuttle more or less. It’s a fascinating business, but it’s just got so many barriers that no one’s seemed to have been able to figure it all out.

"One second you think maybe you’ve got the miracle answer to pull back fuel

Reviews for Standby, Chicago

[muddyboy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a book about taking risks. Who knows what will happen if you take a chance. The book takes place on an airplane flying to Chicago and in Chicago after they land. The characters all take chances in their relationships with each other but none more so than the protagonist James. If you buy into the characters, which I did, you will be wondering what will happen till the last sentence of the book. It is a romance but not in the Harlequin sense of the word - which is a good thing. The only thing that bothered me was that everyone that "James" met seems to want some pretty deep soul searching conversations with him and I have never found too many strangers willing to do that with me - even in Chicago. The book is overall an engaging entertaining read.

[dpappas_25 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What started out as a regular business trip turned into an experience to never forget. Standby, Chicago follows James Haskins a twenty-two year old on his first business trip to Chicago. His business meeting turns sour but it is okay because James has met Amy. Amy and James click right away and as their relationship sprouts James feels his trip and himself changing.The characters in this book were easy to connect to and likeable. I found myself interested in hearing more about James' past (i.e. his parents' death, Liz) but I know that the book was mainly supposed to highlight the relationship between James and Amy. I found Amy harder to connect to than James because there is little to no background on her in the book. That is not necessarily a bad thing, it is just that I would have liked to have heard more about her. I just loved Claire and Phil and how they welcomed James into their home. I just can't say enough about how I loved the characters in this book.The writing was great, the plot was great, and I loved that this book was based in Chicago. Chicago is my hometown so I loved knowing where the characters were (I also loved the Blackhawks shout-out. Go Hawks!). The way Chicago winter is portrayed is definitely correct.Overall I enjoyed the book and was satisfied with the ending. It is a relatively short book but that doesn't mean that it is lacking in substance. I plan on sharing this with my friends.

[draak_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This story follows James Haskins on his first business trip. On top of being afraid of flying he has to go to Chicago with Deacon, a man who is so annoying you just want to slap him. While on the plane he meets Amy who invites him out to a club once he gets settled. Things go from bad to worse for James and when a storm hits Chicago it leaves him thinking about the past and also the future. This was a quick read. I liked the characters and recommend this book.