The Art World and the World Wide Web

“Well, there are six of us and I just hate being crowded,
and besides what if I want to leave early.” They all nod, knowing
the feeling.
“Just the thought of being trapped somewhere makes me
nervous—does anyone have anything—a little blue, a little yellow?”
“I’ve got Ativan.”
“I’ll take it.”
“We’re going to Miami, it’s not the rain forest, not darkest
Peru, you can get a commercial flight out any time you
want—just call JetBlue,” one of the women says.
And the others look at her horrified, aghast, shocked that
she can even say the words commercial flight so easily, without
pause. Flying private is one of the perks of being who they
are; it’s why they put up with so much. NO airport security.
“Soon that will change, they’re going to have scented
dogs everywhere.”
“It’s not scented dogs, it’s sniffing dogs. Scented dogs
would be like soaps, verbena, vanilla, Matchu Pitchu.”
“Why do you always correct me? That’s just like what my
children do. I’m an old woman—leave me alone.”
“You’re 48, you’re not old.”
And then there is silence.
“Which plane is it? He keeps trading them in. I never
know which one is ours.”
“She calls it trading them in—he calls it fractional ownership,”
one of the women whispers.
“G4, Falcon, Citation, Hawker, Learjet—remember when
they were all ‘Learjets’? Remember when the word ‘Learjet’
used to mean something?”
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