Free Are You Going to Kiss Me Now? by Sloane Tanen

My assistant called.”
    “Yes, but we received the request twenty minutes before take-off.”
    “Are you incompetent? Is it that hard to make fried chicken?” Milan asked.
    “We simply can’t accommodate last minute requests.”
    “He got his hippie platter,” Milan said, pointing in Cisco’s general direction.
    “Mr. Parker’s people requested a vegetarian meal days ago.”
    “Well, what’s the point of a private plane if I can’t get fried chicken if I want fried chicken? I work so hard, and all I want is a goddamn plate of fried chicken, and you’d think I was asking for foie gras.” She pronounced foie gras “fwas grass.”
    Eve helium-laughed.
    “What are you cackling at?” Milan turned, startled by the horrific sound of Eve’s laughter.
    “It’s foie gras ,” Eve corrected in a perfect French accent. She smiled radiantly, revealing slightly too-small teeth.
    Milan’s face turned pink, but she didn’t say anything.
    “Just get me some cereal…or pudding.”
    “Would you like All-Bran or Grape-Nuts?’
    “I’d like Apple Jacks.”
    “We don’t have Apple Jacks, Ms. Amberson,” the stewardess replied wearily.
    Milan looked at her like she had an IQ of forty-five. Then she started digging through her crazy, huge handbag and finally pulled out two small boxes of Kellogg’s cereal. I kid you not. She held them in front of Erin as if to say, this is what the word cereal means. One was Froot Loops and the other was Frosted Flakes. And I thought the latex glove was odd.
    “ Cereal ,” she said, tossing the Frosted Flakes at stewardess Erin. “I’ll have these in a bowl, assuming you have one of those.”
    Erin nodded and walked away to prepare Milan’s Frosted Flakes. That Milan actually got away with speaking to people like that was astonishing.
    Milan ate the cereal and then asked for a bowl of ice cream. Unfortunately, that was the last we heard from her. She was out cold.
    Chaz Richards and I both had the goat cheese mixed salad and the spaghetti Bolognese, which was absolutely delicious. I was careful to watch Eve pull out her table so that I would look like I knew what I was doing when the stewardess came over to me. We all got tablecloths, real silverware, and hot nuts. My Coke was filled with big ice cubes and served in a real glass. No plastic here.
    There was a huge selection of movies and TV shows. Considering it was Joe’s plane, I guess it wasn’t surprising that Small Secrets , the musical psychic show my mom always talked about, was among the choices. I decided it was now or never. I couldn’t figure out how to use the personal video player, and I knew embarrassment wasn’t a good enough reason to be bored for the next seventeen hours. I asked the stewardess to help me set it up. Chaz gave me a look, but I didn’t care. If he thought I was buying him as a world-class jet setter, he was crazy. I saw him fumbling with it too.
    The opening credits to Small Secrets were like a bad Saturday Night Live skit about inbreeding. People were basically river-dancing in kerchiefs and denim overalls. Surreal was the only way to describe it. That people ever took this crap seriously is just crackers. Thank God I wasn’t alive in the ’70s. I watched in disbelief as the cast members, including a twenty-five-year-old version of Joe Baronstein, “swung their partners round and round.” I cringed. I mean, this show was a hit? My mom lusted after this guy? This guy was flying our plane?

I Love You, Joe Baronstein
    By the time we got to Johannesburg, I’d watched the boxed set of Small Secrets: Seasons Two, Three, and Four two times and was feeling like Joe Baronstein was qualified to do anything—dance, act, sing, fly, perform surgery…whatever. I even downloaded the fantastic soundtrack on to my Droid. Joe worked a fiddle like nobody’s business. It was like hillbilly rock. I was digging it. When he came out of the cockpit after landing I clapped impulsively. Everyone turned to