In my experience, flight attendants seem to be obsessed with Nashville. I don't blame them; Music City is definitely an addicting place. I never turn down a chance to visit BNA, especially if I can score a long layover at our downtown hotel.
But I've found there's a certain charm to Memphis, too, which seems to be less of a fan favorite among my coworkers. The authenticity of that city strikes a chord in me; it's not necessarily the most glamorous place on Earth, but the music is raw and filled with passion. Plus, it has such a rich history. If that weren't enough, the food in Memphis is to die for.
The main character in my book, Callie Schneider, shares my appreciation for this unassuming city in southern Tennessee. She can't resist a night out, which leaves her with a (somewhat familiar) decision to make.
xoxo,
Lisa
***
Blues City Cafe is loud, with dramatic melodies pouring onto the street. There’s a souvenir shop next door with tons of vintage guitars and faded, old concert t-shirts. The store is closed now, but the display case shines brightly, illuminating a large stretch of sidewalk. I pause for a split second, musing at the miscellaneous items with intricate and diverse backstories.
Across the street, a man plays guitar, harmonica, and drums all at once. He has rigged his instruments together so he can use them simultaneously. I glance at the guy, impressed by his musical abilities but even more amazed at his creativity. Fumbling in my purse, I grab my phone to send a photo to Mackenzie. The nighttime backdrop is too dark, though, or maybe I’m too far away. The picture doesn’t turn out. With a shrug, I continue toward Silky O’Sullivan’s.
There’s no line outside the door. Once I’m in the bar, I spot my crew at a table toward the back. Meandering toward them, I notice college flags dangling from the ceiling, representing at least 20 state schools. A gator grins down at me, outlined in bright orange.
I snap a photo of the Gator flag and send it to Mackie. Her response arrives as I reach my coworkers’ table. Ew. That bar looks dumb. I smile at the text. Mack’s a Georgia alum. I don’t bother to show her the bulldog flag hanging right in front of the stage.
“Oh, hey guys,” I say, grabbing the last open seat at the table.
“Callie! What a nice surprise,” Jonah tells me. “Glad you made it.”
“Me too. I was on the fence because I was pretty tired! But I decided to venture out of the hotel room for an hour or two,” I say, glancing around the table. “Where’s Brittany?”
“She has friends in town, so she left us half an hour ago,” the captain tells me. She’s a pretty brunette with reading glasses resting on top of her head. I vaguely remember flying with her before, but I can’t recall when or where. I also have no idea what her name is.
”Gotcha. What did you order, Captain?” I ask, nodding toward her mostly-empty dish. The edge of the plate is lined a couple potato chips.
“Cajun chicken sandwich,” she tells me. “It was great.”
“Let’s get you a menu,” the first officer suggests, flagging down a waiter.
“That’s ok. I know what I want; same thing as last time. I’ll get the brisket salad,” I tell our waiter.
A band ascends the stage, hauling instruments and bulky equipment. The lead singer has shaggy hair down to his shoulders. He looks like he’s in his mid-thirties. The other two guys are a bit younger and more clean-shaven.
I watch the band maneuver around the stage, pressing foot pedals and testing all the microphones. Strangely, it reminds me of the first time I ever sang at open mic night in SF. I was so nervous, even though that bar had about half as many people as O’Sullivans does tonight. I wasn’t worried that my voice would shake or that I’d sing off key; instead, I was terrified that people would find my lyrics boring.
“The last band was really good,” the first officer says, leaning toward me.
Startled, I gasp. Then I shake my head apologetically. “Shit, sorry. I was in my own little world.”
He stares at me for a moment. His dark eyes squint as the corners of his mouth turn upward. “Did you pregame in your room or something?”
“Definitely not. I’m cutting back on booze. It’s my New Year’s Resolution,” I lie. “Just food for me tonight.”
“Well that’s too bad,” Jonah says from across the table. “I was hoping to go bar-hopping.”
“Early night for me,” I say, flicking my wrist. “But you guys have fun. Memphis is a great city.”
The band begins to play, chords slicing through the air with determination. This song has a driving beat. The lead singer croons into the mic. His deep, soulful voice adds complexity to the song. Suddenly, I find myself tapping my foot. Whatever type of music this is, some mix of classic rock and pop and blues, I like it.
My salad arrives as the band wraps up its first song. I hungrily stab a forkful of brisket. Across the table, Jonah’s laughing about something with the captain.
“Where are you guys based?” the first officer asks me.
“San Francisco,” I respond between bites. “But I’m moving to Florida by the end of the month. Switching to the Fort Lauderdale base. How about you two?”
“Chicago,” he says. “Teresa commutes from Indianapolis, but I live there.”
“Teresa! That’s it. I’d forgotten her name. I think I’ve worked with that captain before, maybe a couple years ago,” I muse. “She’s nice, huh?”
He nods. “She’s great. I’ve only been at SkyLine for six months, but she’s by far the best captain I’ve flown with.”
“Just six months? You’re a newbie! Welcome to the circus, man. Do you like it here?”
The band begins a fast song, lights swirling around the stage in sync with the drums. A few tipsy people dance in the middle of the bar. They hold their beers high, swaying to the rhythm of the music while occasionally bumping into each other.
“I love it,” the first officer says. “Worked at a commuter airline for six years, based out of Phoenix. It was okay, but the crews are friendlier at SkyLine. And the trips are so much better. We used to do seven legs a day, then end in some random tiny town in the Pacific Northwest, like Walla Walla.”
“Walla Walla? SkyLine tends to fly to bigger airports,” I say, cracking a smile. “Although I got stuck overnight in Akron, Ohio one time. After we diverted.”
“I bet that was fun.”
“Actually, it was,” I reflect. “I had a good crew and we Ubered to the one part of town with a decent nightlife. Two streets packed with clubs and restaurants. It was cuter than any of us expected, to be honest! Ended up dancing in a dive bar someplace.”
The first officer smiles. “You know, that doesn’t surprise me. Sometimes the least exciting layovers end up creating the best memories.”
“True. But the big cities are really fun, too,” I muse. “One of my first trips here, I had double New York layovers. I stayed out in Manhattan until probably 3am each night and slept two hours. It was worth it.”
“Yep,” the first officer says with a nod. After wrapping up a lively song, the band slows down the tempo. This one’s more bluesy than the previous tunes, heartfelt and melodramatic. It doesn’t have the beat of the earlier pop songs. Because of this, the people who have congregated in front of the stage to dance return to their bar stools, ordering another round. I glance at their cocktails and pint glasses, slightly envious of everyone who gets to drink freely. Alcohol has tasted terrible since I found out I was pregnant.
Tonight, however, I’d kill for a double shot of vodka. With this atmosphere, it just feels right.
“So what’s your name?” I ask, returning my focus to the pilot beside me. “Sorry. We all introduced ourselves on the plane, but I forgot…”
“Shawn,” he tells me. “I didn’t forget your name, Callie.”
I swallow the last few bites of salad, cleaning my plate. “It’s easier to just call you guys ‘captain’ and ‘F.O.’ We switch pilots so often, and I can’t keep track of the name changes.”
“That’s one thing I miss about the commuter airline,” Shawn notes. “We kept the same crew all three days.”
In some ways, that could be dangerous, I muse, recalling the times I’d ended up in a pilot’s hotel room without necessarily meaning to. It had only happened once or twice, but I’d ducked out of there as soon as possible. Having to engage in small talk the next day would’ve been painful; instead, we’d flown to opposite corners of the country. Thankfully.
“I like switching it up,” I inform Shawn. “Keeps things interesting, ya know?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, I can see that.”
Across the table, Jonah jumps to his feet. “Who wants to dance with me?”
The band is finished playing; as they grab their equipment and exit the stage, hip-hop music blares through speakers. People return to the dance floor.
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
Jonah frowns. “C’mon, Callie. You’re going to make me dance alone?”
“Teresa will go with you,” I say, volunteering the captain. She laughs and shakes her head. “Ok then, Shawn will dance.”
“The hell I will,” Shawn scoffs, taking another swig of beer. “I’m not drunk enough for that.”
“We can fix that. Let’s get you another IPA,” I suggest, flagging down the waiter.
***
I pull Jonah toward me, shouting that I want a selfie to send to my best friend, Mackenzie. The music is loud, drowning out most of what I say. Jonah doesn’t care, though. He laughs and wraps his arm around my shoulder like we have known each other for decades.
“Get my good angle!” he demands, tilting his chin downward.
We stop dancing long enough to smile for three photos. The forward flash blinds us, a burst of light in this dark bar. Around us, people continue dancing, oblivious to the fact that they’re in the background of our shot.
“I like the second one,” Jonah says as he thumbs through the pictures. “Add me on Snapchat."
"You got it." I tell him. I send him the photo and then text it to Mackie, too. “Hey, I think I’ll head back soon. It’s past my bedtime.”
“Be safe! I’m going to go make friends,” Jonah tells me. Before I can say anything, he disappears into the crowd. The music speeds up, bringing more and more people to this crowded dance floor.
Looks fun! Love you, Cal. Off to bed… Mackie texts me. Nite.
I look around, attempting to spot Teresa and Shawn. Our table is completely empty; the waiter is clearing away plates and pint glasses.
Maybe they went back to the hotel, I think. Checking my phone, I realize I’ve missed my midnight curfew by half an hour. I grab my jacket, preparing to walk back to the hotel.
“Callie,” someone says behind me.
I turn around to find Shawn in front of the bar, finishing his drink. He sets the empty cup on the counter and smiles at me. “How was dancing?”
I shrug. “I got a ton of compliments.”
He nods. “I bet you did.”
“I thought you and Teresa left already,” I tell him.
“Teresa called it a night when you and Jonah got up to dance. She was tired. You heading back to the hotel now?” he asks, nodding toward the jacket in my hand.
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ll come with you,” Shawn volunteers. “It’s too late for you to walk back alone.”
I snort. It’s barely midnight; I’ve walked home later than this in San Francisco too many times to count. In the freezing cold. While tipsy.
Shawn and I walk up Beale Street, quiet for the first few steps. There are tons of street vendors and local musicians; it doesn’t feel like midnight, with all these folks filling up the street. We pass a juggler and a contortionist.
“Where are you guys heading tomorrow?” Shawn asks me, breaking the silence.
“Three flights to Santa Fe. You?”
“Two flights back to base,” Shawn says as we reach the hotel. “I’m still recovering from the holidays. Pretty sure if I had to work another day, I’d fall asleep in the cockpit.”
“Like you’ve never done that before,” I chuckle. The lobby is quiet and calm, basically the opposite of what we just saw on Beale Street. There’s a cooler of water infused with lemons and strawberries. We each fill a plastic cup before heading toward the elevator.
“It was brutal,” Shawn assures me once we’ve chugged our fruity water. “Holidays are a shitstorm when you’re battling your ex over visitation.”
“Divorced?” I guess. “Coupla kids?”
Shawn presses the “up” button and we wait for an elevator car. “Yes and yes. My girl’s two, my boy is seven.”
“Is it hard to be gone so much?”
He nods. “Thank god I don’t have to commute to Phoenix anymore. I missed weeks at a time, back then. I would come home and my boy had grown like three inches taller.”
“I can imagine,” I say as the elevator doors swing open, even though I can’t imagine it at all. “You live in Chicago, right?”
“North side. In a city called Wilmette,” Shawn says. “Go Cubs.”
I laugh. “I’m a Giants fan now. It’s a requirement, if you live in SF. Back in the day, though, I went to every Red Sox game. My parents are obsessed.”
Shawn sighs. “Nobody’s perfect…”
I elbow him in the ribs, pressing the button for the seventh floor. Shawn hits a different button, illuminating the oversized “9.”
“Come watch a movie with me,” he says as we shoot upward, each floor lighting up as we pass it. “I’ll find something on my iPad.”
I pause. “Shawn, I gotta go to sleep…”
He reaches for my arm, turning me until I face him. “Just an hour. I won’t keep you up late.”
“Can everyone please stop hitting on me?” I murmur, shifting my gaze down to my feet. “Seriously. I’ve been single for the last four years and now, when I’m in literally the worst spot of my entire life, everyone decides they want me.”
Shawn lifts an eyebrow. “Look, we don’t have to do anything. I’m not an asshole, I just want to hang out. It’s still early.”
The elevator stops abruptly. Doors fling open.
“This is my floor,” I tell Shawn. I sigh, then wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder. The doors slide shut while we are standing like this. “Well fuck...”
“Now you have to come up,” he says with a shrug. The elevator begins its trek to the ninth floor.
I pry myself from Shawn’s shoulder. “Look, I’m kinda dating someone. And it would be nice to wake up in the morning not feeling like the worst human on earth.”
Shawn nods. “Ok. I understand. I’m not trying to interfere, Callie.”
We reach his floor, and he tentatively steps off the elevator.
“Goodnight, First Officer,” I say with a wave and a weak smile.
He tilts his head to the side, standing two feet in front of the elevator doors. “Goodnight, Flight Attendant.”
The doors close and I return to the seventh floor. Inside my hotel room, I lean against the counter for a minute before washing my face. I stare at myself, at the image of a person approaching thirty and still struggling to make choices that aren’t self-destructive.
Then I change clothes and slide into bed.
