Джордан Шор - The Search

George Stanton and Trisha Boyle had enjoyed a fine meal together and were now occupying a table in the center of the hotel bar. George felt he was overdressed for the occasion. He regretted wearing the suit vest, as it made him look pretentious. George felt he was on display, and that he came off as a strange foreigner with a much younger wife. However, to his delight, Trisha Boyle was at least an inch shorter than he. George hardly ever had the pleasure of feeling tall in the presence of others. Trisha Boyle had insisted the two of them were to have a drink together—at the expense of Fare Airlines.

At first, he thought her behavior was inappropriate, as she seemed so happy and enthusiastic in this time of grief and concern. But on the other hand, why should people who lose their lives in plane crashes matter more than, for example, the people who perish in traffic accidents—which happens every day.

Not to mention all the people who die each year from the indirect cause of poverty. How many homeless people had lost their lives in the US this past year? George wondered if the only reason people felt empathy toward the victims of a plane crash was because they could identify with the situation and were glad their planes weren’t the ones that had crashed. In that case, the extraordinary empathy toward aviation victims was merely a concern for one’s own safety and welfare.

George pretended to look at the drink menu, but he wasn’t contemplating what drink to order. He knew what to order, and he knew his choice would provoke the much more energetic Trisha Boyle.

“So, what are you having, George?”

“I’ll just have a glass of water.”

“What…” Trisha mumbled and looked as if she was about to cry.

George began to feel guilty. He felt he’d somehow wronged Trisha Boyle, who currently stared back at him with sad puppy eyes. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

Trisha’s shoulders dropped. “Is it against your religion?”

George was puzzled by the question, and he wondered how the attentive Trisha Boyle could ever consider him as a religious person.

“No, it’s against my better judgment.”

“Screw that. You’re having a drink, mister.”

She got up and left the table before he had any chance to object. Seeing her order drinks at the bar (and apparently, engaging in small talk with the bartender) made him ask himself his reason for still being single.

Is it because I don’t drink alcohol? Is that why I’m still single?

Trisha returned shortly after with two cocktails in her hands. The sight of the forest green liquid made George frown.

“What are we having?”

“It’s a Fallen Angel,” Trisha said with far too much enthusiasm.

“What’s in it?”

“Alcohol.”

“And?”

“And some green stuff. I don’t know. I just liked the name. Would you have preferred if I’d gotten you a Black Russian? Have you ever had a Black Russian, George?”

George thought his co-worker had a cunning smile on her face, so he made sure to say as little as possible.

“You ever had Sex on the Beach?” Trisha asked him with the same smile.

“It makes you wonder who came up with all those names, huh?” he asked.

Drunk people , George was just about to add.

“Fun people,” Trisha said, beating him to the punch.

Trisha got her cell phone from her purse, and began typing rapidly.

About ten minutes later (and after too many sips of the sour green liquid), George reflected on what part he’d played in the exchange with Trisha Boyle. Against all odds, she hadn’t spoken a single word since she took out her cell phone. For a brief second, George actually thought of leaving, and wondered if she’d even notice. But just then, she suddenly looked at him.

“How does my hair look?” Trisha asked him.

Well, since you’re the one who brought it up, your haircut kind of reminds me of a Lego man. Did an actual hairdresser put you up to this?

“Your hair looks fine,” he lied.

Trisha extended her arm and appeared to be taking a photo of herself; holding the cocktail glass close to her mouth. Then, she resumed typing, only to suddenly stop.

“You want me to tag you?”

George was very familiar with that particular question. “I don’t have a profile.”

“Of course, you don’t… You’re a strange man, George.”

George didn’t appreciate being called strange. He was, however, used to being referred to as boring, but that didn’t bother him at all. His father was a strange man. Was he turning into his father? Was that how people saw him? George felt the sudden urge to defend himself.

“I don’t need a profile.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Nobody needs…” Trisha’s comment trailed off, and she shook her head slightly. “Why don’t you have a profile, George?”

George still felt the urge to defend himself.

“I guess I don’t have self-esteem issues,” he said, flat out lying to her face. The truth was he didn’t have a profile, because he hardly had any friends.

Trisha put her phone down and looked at him with the same sad, puppy eyes as before. He immediately regretted his comment.

“Why would you say that, George?”

Yeah, why would you say that, George?

George felt as though he’d painted himself into a corner and tried to think of another lie.

“I think people who have low self-esteem are more likely to post on social media,” he said and shrugged.

That’s not even a lie, George. You only made things worse.

“Why would you say that?” Trisha asked, and looked even sadder.

“Well, they seem so eager to let other people know whenever something good happens in their life,” he said. “Like they need the validation from others in order to feel good about themselves.”

Trisha glanced at her phone. “I only use it because I think it’s fun.”

George Stanton made sure to bite down on his tongue.

“Pretty much everyone has a profile these days,” Trisha argued.

Wonder why that is? he thought, and made sure to keep biting down on his tongue. Wait, is that why I’m single? Because I don’t use social media?

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Trisha finally broke the deadlock.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your phone call. But why did you thank Mike so much? Did he give you a raise or something?” Trisha asked with a smile. “Because, if he did, then I totally want one too.”

George felt relieved to see Trisha smile again. “He expressed his concern for my sister, who’s in the hospital… She recently was involved in a traffic accident.”

“What?” The sad, puppy eyes had returned.

“She was hit in a head-on collision when she tried to pass another car.”

“You should have stopped me, George.” She gave him a sad and guilty look.

“It’s just the way I drive, Trisha. It’s not because of the accident,” he said in a soft voice. “Besides, I was going the speed limit.”

Trisha pronounced a chuckle. “Yeah, sure you were.”

“No, I’m serious. I always set the cruise-control to whatever the speed limit is.”

Trisha looked at him as she waited for the punch line.

“I guess, I’m the lunatic, then,” Trisha muttered. “So, what did Mike say?”

“About what?”

“About the celebrity on board the plane.”

“He thought it could just be a coincidence. I imagine, Sharon Stone is quite a common name.” He shrugged.

“Do you believe that, George?”

“No, I think it’s too much of a coincidence that a random passenger just happens to share the same name as the captain’s ex-wife,” he said, and shook his head. “I’m afraid your theory is correct.”