Jake shrugged. He had already put the entire incident into perspective. "That's a good thing, Helen," he told her.
"What do you mean it's a good thing?" she demanded.
"We were just in a plane that had a mechanical failure," he said. "What are the odds that it would happen to us twice in the same day? They're astronomical! That plane that's coming to get us is pretty much the safest goddamn flight in the world, statistically speaking."
"That does not comfort me," she said.
"It should," he said. "In fact, if you think about it, we're probably safe on commercial airliners for the rest of our lives now. How many people, no matter how much they fly, ever have anything like that happen to them even once? Very few. I'd be willing to bet that no one has ever had it happen twice."
"That's false logic and you know it," she said. "I am not getting on that plane."
Jake took a long sip of his drink, a deep drag of his smoke, trying to think this through. Helen had the stubborn expression on her face and he knew that changing her mind about this would be difficult. "Are you going to stay in Boston forever?" he finally asked her.
She sighed, taking another drag from her smoke, coughing, and then grinding it out in the ashtray. "No," she said. "That's not really feasible, is it?"
"Not really," he agreed.
"Can we at least stay here today?" she asked. "Can you get us another flight tomorrow on a different airline? On a different kind of airplane?"
He nodded. "Sure, we can do that," he said. "Hell, we'll go private. I'll get us a Lear lined up and we'll..."
She was shaking her head violently. "Not private," she said. "Those little Lear jets are even bigger deathtraps than the airliners. Just get us on a 747 or something — anything but a DC-10."
He reached over and took her hand. "Okay," he told her. "I'll start working on it."
It turned out that Helen wasn't the only one unwilling to just jump on another flight as if nothing had happened. Almost half of the passengers elected to stay overnight in Boston instead of continuing on. The airline was very sympathetic. The ticket agents were apologetic and helpful as they refunded the cost of the flight and they even helped Jake book two seats on another airline for mid-morning the next day.
"If you'd like," the smiling agent offered when Jake finished his transaction, "we can book you in one of the rooms at the hotel airport. It'll be on us."
"Thanks," Jake said graciously, "but I'll get my own room."
He did. He called the Boston Hilton and, after a few minutes of conversation and the recitation of his Visa number, secured the Presidential Suite for them. He then asked that they arrange for an immediate limousine pick-up from the airport.
"Of course, sir," the reservation clerk told him. "I'll have one on the way in fifteen minutes."
"Thank you," Jake said. He told her what terminal they would be at and hung up.
Helen, meanwhile, fueled by three more stiff drinks, had pulled herself together enough to collect their luggage and get it to a skycap.
One hour later, they were sitting in their hotel room, looking out at Boston Harbor. They drank the bottle of complimentary wine that had been left in the room and then, overcome by a horniness that was only possible after experiencing a near-death episode, spent the next two hours lustily fucking, sucking, and otherwise pleasuring each other in as many different ways as they could think of. Both agreed afterward — before dropping off into a deep and contented sleep — that it was the best sex they'd ever shared with each other.
Jake woke up around four o'clock that afternoon, feeling out of sorts but otherwise refreshed. He went to the bathroom and urinated and then, still naked, walked into the main sitting room and grabbed a seat on the couch. He turned on the television, flipping through it for a few minutes and finding nothing he wanted to watch. With nothing else to do, he started wondering what they were going to do tonight. He had been to Boston before — every tour he'd ever been a part of had passed through Boston — but he'd never really had time to explore it. Surely there was something to do here, wasn't there?
He started exploring some of the drawers in the room's various furnishings and, inside the desk, found a book entitled: Things To Do in Boston. He opened it up and began flipping through it, checking out the restaurants and the clubs.
An entry for a place called The Firelight Lounge caught his eye. It was touted as Boston's best live music venue, featuring all the up and coming bands from the New England region. It was claimed that the legendary Boston themselves had played there many times prior to making it big. The advertisement promised that the club featured live music every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday night.
"And it's Friday night," Jake said with a smile, finding the idea of going out and catching a live band more appealing by the minute. Sure, they'd probably be a bunch of hackers, but music was still music. And going out and getting tanked in a downtown bar would be just the thing to get Helen's mind off their impending flight tomorrow.
Helen woke up thirty minutes later and was initially resistant to his plans. She didn't want to go out in public. She just wanted to stay in the room, order dinner from room service, and stew in her irrational fear. But finally, after working on her for half an hour or so, she agreed to go out with him.
They got dressed in casual clothes and took a cab to a seafood restaurant downtown. There, they enjoyed live Maine lobster and two bottles of a decent chardonnay. The wine helped mellow Helen out a little bit. She stopped fretting about how they'd almost died and even managed to laugh a few times.
From there, they took another cab to the Fireside Lounge. Upon arrival, they found that the lounge was crowded, so crowded, in fact, that about a hundred people were waiting outside, unable to get in until someone inside decided to leave. Jake saw this and started to climb back into the cab, his intent to ask the cabbie to take them to another night club — surely there had to other places to go in Boston on a Friday night — but before they could make good their escape, the crowd spotted them. Within seconds, the two of them were surrounded by college age men and women asking the typical questions and demanding autographs.
When things quieted down a little, a young, long-haired stoner type asked Jake if he had come to see Brainwash.
Jake had noted the name Brainwash on the club's marquee when they'd pulled up. Other than that, however, he had never heard of them. He told the young stoner as much.
"Oh, dude," the young stoner proclaimed. "You fuckin' gotta check 'em out. They're gnarly."
"Gnarly, huh?" Jake said. "I do kind of like their name."
"Yeah, ain't it bitchin', man?" the young stoner said. "It's even more bitchin' when you know they're all teachers."
"Teachers?" Jake asked.
"Hell yeah, dude," the young stoner said. "You get it? Teachers... Brainwash. They're acknowledging that they're agents of the fuckin' state whose job it is to indoctrinate the youth of America into corporate whores, dude! Isn't that fuckin' tight?"
"Yeah," Jake agreed. "That is pretty fuckin' tight. Do you mean they're actual teachers?"
"Yep," he said. "All five of them. They work for the Providence school district teaching in high schools."
"Marcie teaches in a junior high school," the young stoner's girlfriend interjected. "Remember?"
"Oh yeah," the young stoner said. "That's right. Anyway, they teach school during the school year and practice their fuckin' tunes on the weekends. And then, during the summer, they play the clubs all over New England. People fuckin' love 'em, dude. I've seen 'em four times now and they're bad-ass."
There was general agreement from the crowd at this statement.
"They sound pretty interesting," Jake admitted. "Unfortunately, it doesn't look like we're going to be able to get in."