Tarpaulin Sky Joanna Ruocco
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“I think so,” says the stewardess. “Don’t tell anyone, but this is a shitty airline. I mean to work for. No extras.” “What about pilot meth?” I say. “Have you heard of that? It’s legal? No jitters. Better than for truckers because it’s more prestigious? You have to go to special school? Flight school?” “I’ve thought about it,” says the stewardess. “Flight school.” She has a shiny auburn ponytail and green eyes. One of her eyes is a little off-kilter. It’s angled towards her ear. “I got shot in the head, though” says the stewardess. “Outside the Hammerstein Ballroom. As a teenager. I’m okay, but I get mini-seizures.” “What about auto-pilot?” I say. “Like how mini?” “A few seconds,” says the stewardess. “I’m also bad with depth. 3-D. Distance and objects.” “Did they have to shave your head?” I say. “Yeah,” says the stewardess. “You know what’s weird? When my hair grew back, my hairline was a half-inch lower. And I think a slightly different color.” “That happens when you’re pregnant,” I tell her. “Which one of us would you say is more successful,” asks Margaret. I’m wearing travel clothes, no harsh seams or bunching, this really breathable, cute pink tracksuit. Margaret is wearing a white sports jacket and skin-tight trouser shorts. She sits up straighter and sticks out her chest. “Are you leading with your breasts?” I say, politely. “Because we are going the same speed? Do you think your breasts will get somewhere faster?” “I used to think that if I were in an elevator at the top floor of a skyscraper and the elevator cable snapped so the elevator went