It doesn't work every time, because they don't always have what you need, but when they do, it's golden. You're in.
While the alpha male and the alpha female of the pack protect them from outsiders, there's one person whose job is to bring novelty and excitement to the group: Their social secretary. The gay male flight attendant. If he's black, it's even better.
Yes, it's a cliche, but if you grow up black and gay in white circles you have to learn real quickly how to defuse prejudices and read the room.
He's the tallest one of the group. Early thirties. As he walks through the doors with the others, he exchanges a big laugh with the silver-haired captain.
This is good. Real good. It's a team that likes to fly together. One happy family. If one of them is cool with you, they will all be.
Their plan is going to be to go up to their rooms, get changed, then meet back in the hotel bar in a half hour where they're going to decide where to go to dinner. If it was earlier in the day, there would have been a high chance that they would splinter off into different groups — the flight attendants going shopping and the pilots to the beach to read.
This late, they all just want to get a drink, get something to eat, and for a couple of them, possibly get laid.
I just want a ride back to America.
I make my way to the hotel bar, check my appearance in the mirror and make sure that my tan hasn't sweated onto my collar.
I order a Diet Coke because it looks like it might be a hard drink and rehearse my story in my head. The bartender seems pretty disinterested in me as he goes about doing a bottle count.
There's a television in the corner that's playing some talk show with the volume muted all the way down. Thankfully it's not the news.
I take a sip of my drink and watch as the co-pilot — the one with less silver hair — comes into the lounge and takes a seat and checks his phone. Two flight attendants come down a few minutes later, managing to change into suitable evening wear in less time than it takes me to get a tie on straight. These ladies are world travelers.
After the pilot takes his seat, the social secretary enters the room with a bombastic laugh, wondering aloud why he's always the last one down.
The pilot comments that it takes him so long to get his hair just right — which everyone laughs at because he's bald.
I'm hoping the social secretary will take everyone's drink orders and come to the bar where he'll make a sidelong glance at me and strike a conversation.
Instead, it's the pilot. He walks up, gives me a quick nod, places his order then returns to the group.
Damn it.
Now I'm going to have to try a different approach. I can still make this work.
I just need to think of a…
"Hey look!" says the social secretary, "It's that crazy asshole that hijacked the space station!"
Shoot me now.
29
Selfie
My heart stops and I feel all my blood drain from my body. One moment I'm in a bar figuring out how I'm going to use my douchey pick-up artist techniques to infiltrate a group of people — taking me back to my college days — the next, I'm punched in the face by reality as I realize I'm not playing some kind of game.
I gain control of my limbs and step away from the bar, pretending I didn't just get called out. After all, that's what a guy that was Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon would do.
If I run, I look suspicious. If I act casual, it's no big deal.
Out of the corner of my vision I realize they're not looking at me; they're watching the television. The talk show cut over to a news report showing aerial footage of the Unicorn in a clearing in a jungle. The orange parachute is dangling over some trees and the open hatch is facing outwards, towards the camera.
One of the flight attendants, a petite dark-haired woman, is translating the news to her friends.
"They think he may be in the jungle or could have drowned when it first landed. The police got reports that he jumped out over Guanabara Bay."
Well, thanks for unreliable witnesses.
She continues, "But there have been reports that there was a shooting at a football stadium and that he was sighted there."
"He's like the white chupacabra," says the social secretary. Then he looks up and sees me watching them watching the television. "There he is!"
FUUUUUCK.
All eyes turn on me. I'm about to drain other bodily fluids since my blood has already departed.
I manage a weak smile and hold my hands up like chupacabra claws, because that's what Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon would do.
Haha! We're all having fun because that would be absurd!
The group bursts into laughter. I laugh with them like a carefree guy who wasn't almost murdered by a Russian kill team an hour ago.
I let out a sigh then head for the exit, making plans to run for it as soon as nobody is watching.
"You're not going anywhere!" says the social secretary as he bounces up from his chair to intercept me.
I want to run, but that would be bad. I could say that I have an important meeting to get to, but then the conversation I leave behind me will be all about how weird it was that I left as soon as the crazy astronaut was on TV — and didn't that guy look a lot like him?
I have to do the opposite of what people would expect a fugitive to do. I turn around and smile.
The social secretary grabs me by the arm and leads me back to the group. "What's your name?" he asks.
"George," I reply. It's part of my prepared alibi. I had a friend in college, now a pilot doing charters, named George Williams. My assumed identity would be his real one. I know enough about him to pass myself off as George. Also, he's from Toronto, so I can say that I'm Canadian, making me Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon.
"I'm Shawn," he replies, then puts a hand on my shoulder and presents me to the group. "Doesn't that astronaut look like George's whiter, less bald brother?"
This gets a few nods of agreement.
"I think you're better looking," says the older flight attendant.
I make a sheepish grin, trying to be Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon.
The co-pilot shakes his head. "I don't see it."
Thank you, sir. I hope I never have to rely on your acute vision in the cockpit.
"What do you do?" asks the captain.
A minute ago I was going to tell the group that I was a pilot, just like him. Now that David Dixon, fugitive astronaut, is the topic de jour, that seems like the dumbest idea in the world.
"I'm a pilot," says my mouth, deciding to wing it on its own without conversing with my brain on the matter.
"You wouldn't happen to have parked your ride in a jungle, by chance?" asks the co-pilot.
Play it cool, Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon. I jerk a thumb towards the television. "Isn't that crazy?"
"We were diverted for an hour because the bay was the landing zone," says the captain. "Almost had to land in São Paulo."
I'm too terrified to reply. All I can do is grin, which is apparently all Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon can do to keep up his end of a conversation.
Thankfully, Shawn interrupts us, saving me for the moment. Unfortunately, the next words out of his mouth make me feel nauseous.
"Let's all take a selfie with our celebrity friend!"
Oh, lord. I'm seconds away from having a half-dozen people tag and upload my photo to the Internet with a location stamped right on it.
Shawn is directing people before I can even protest.
"Captain Beransky, you over there. Whitcomb, you there. Adele, I'm not even letting you get close to him, you dirty cougar. Serena, I saw you watching him; you stand next to him. Connie, over here, next to me."
Faster than a Russian kill team can draw a bead on me, I'm surrounded by the flight crew and in the dead center of a selfie shot as Shawn sticks his long arm out to capture the moment.