Numbers Don't Lie by Terry Bisson Page A

said Eastern, the pillows said Pan Am, the barf bags said Braniff, and the peanuts said People Express. It all inspired a sort of confidence. I figured if they were going to get unlucky and go down, they would have done so already.
    Through the window, the dirty water gave way to dirty concrete, and then the wheels hit the runway with that happy yelp so familiar to anyone who has ever watched a movie, even though it’s a sound you never actually hear in real life.
    And this was real life. New York!
    â€œYou can open your eyes,” I said, and Candy did, for the first time since the pilot had pushed the throttles forward in Huntsville. I’d even had to feed her over the Appalachians, since she was afraid that if she opened her eyes to see what was on her tray, she might accidentally look out the window. Luckily, dinner was just peanuts and pretzels (a two-course meal).
    We were cruising into the terminal like a big, fat bus with wings, when Candy finally looked out the window. She even ventured a smile. The plane was limping a little (flat tire?), but this final part of the flight she actually seemed to enjoy. “At least you didn’t hold your breath,” I said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNever mind.”
    Ding! We were already at the gate, and right on time. I started to grope under the seat in front of me for my shoes. Usually there’s plenty of time before everyone starts filing out of the plane, but to my surprise it was already our turn; Candy was pulling at my arm, and impatient-looking passengers, jammed in the aisle behind, were frowning at me.
    I carried my shoes out and put them on in the terminal. They’re loafers. I’m still a lawyer, even though I don’t exactly practice.
    â€œNew York, New York,” I crooned to Candy as we traversed the tunnel to the baggage pickup. It was her first trip to my home town; our first trip together anywhere. She had insisted on wearing her Huntsville Parks Department uniform, so that if there was a crash they wouldn’t have any trouble IDing her body (whoever “they” were), but she would have stood out in the crowd anyway, with her trim good looks.
    Not that New Yorkers aren’t trim. Or good looking. The black clad, serious-looking people racing by on both sides were a pleasant relief after the Kmart pastels and unremitting sunny smiles of the South. I was glad to be home, even if only for a visit. New Yorkers, so alien and menacing to many, looked welcoming and familiar to me.
    In fact, one of them looked very familiar . . .
    â€œStuds!”
    It was Arthur “Studs” Blitz from the old neighborhood. Studs and I had been best friends until high school, when we had gone our separate ways. I had gone to Lincoln High in Coney Island, and he had gone to Carousel, the trade school for airline baggage handlers. It looked like he had done well. His green and black baggage handlers uniform was festooned with medals that clinked and clanked as he bent over an access panel under the baggage carousel, changing a battery in a cellular phone. It seemed a funny place for a phone.
    â€œStuds, it’s me, Irving. Irv!”
    â€œIrv the Perv!” Studs straightened up, dropping the new battery, which rolled away. I stopped it with my foot while we shook hands, rather awkwardly.
    â€œFrom the old neighborhood,” I explained to Candy as I bent down for the battery and handed it to Studs. It was a 5.211-volt AXR. It seemed a funny battery for a phone. “Studs is one of the original Ditmas Playboys.”
    â€œÂ â€˜Playboys’?” Candy was, still is, easily shocked. “ ‘Perv’?”
    â€œThere were only two of us,” I explained. “We built a tree house.”
    â€œA tree house in Brooklyn? But I thought . . .”
    â€œEverybody thinks that!” I said. “Because of that book.”
    â€œWhat book?”
    â€œMovie, then. But in fact, lots of