Fool for lust

A woman named Rita inspires a flight attendant to woo her halfway around the world -- on standby.

By Elliott Neal Hester

May 25, 1999 | In January 1990, having grown tired of working the sometimes-not-so-friendly skies, I secured a temporary leave of absence, hung up my flight attendant uniform and used my employee discount to buy a one-way ticket to Sydney, Australia. Those were the happiest two years of my life. I spent most days at Bondi Beach, rubbing sunblock lotion on near-naked women who lay sprawled on the sand like survivors of a shipwreck. At night I wrote articles for second-rate magazines and poured drinks from behind the bar at a funky Sydney nightclub.

Intrigued by all the fun I was having, especially the fun at the beach, my good friend Rick came to visit from New York. Like me, Rick was a New York-based flight attendant. Like me, he traveled often and impulsively. Like me, he loved women more than life itself. Armed with about 86 tubes of sunblock lotion, he showed up on my doorstep with a suitcase and a grin.

But Rick never made it to the beach, at least not with me. Immediately upon his arrival, he took a liking to my platonic flatmate, Rita. Rita was a hair designer, a 31-year-old double-divorcie who smoked too much dope and blasted Vivaldi on her stereo before stumbling off to work each morning. She was the proud owner of three passports -- Australian (country of origin), Canadian and British (acquired in marriage from hubbies one and two respectively) -- and was not bashful about the fact that she was looking to own a fourth.

From the beginning I'd felt there was something suspicious about Rita: a certain calculation in the eyes and in the semi-automatic smile she used to get whatever it was she needed at the time. But she had offered to let me share her luxurious apartment, and so I gratefully accepted and kept my mouth shut.

Rick took an immediate liking to Rita and she responded in kind. That first night, the three of us drank Tasmanian beer in the Soho Bar on Victoria Street. Rita told stories about growing up in the Tasmanian rain forest with hippie parents who shunned electricity and lived off the land. Rick and I took turns telling airline tales about wacko passengers and drunken layovers in Barbados. We drank and laughed and drank some more until finally we staggered back to the apartment and fell asleep.

Later that night, I was awakened by strange noises. I crept into the hallway and shot a glance toward the living room. Rick was missing from his designated spot on the sofa. I heard Rita giggle and moan from behind her bedroom door. Then she released a delighted shriek. The sound repeated itself over and over and over as her headboard bumped rhythmically against the bedroom wall. I shook my head and laughed, and went back to bed.

For the remainder of his stay, Rick and Rita were inseparable. They spent long days exploring the city, sampling great restaurants and drinking vodka tonics at the Soho Bar. Each night, the headboard bumps grew louder.

When the time came for Rick to leave, he pried himself away from Rita's bedroom long enough to tell me he was in love. I was sitting at the kitchen table, choking on my very first Vegemite sandwich, when he shared the news. I looked him dead in the eye, spit out a wad of Vegemite and laughed. "It's the long-distance thing," I told him. "You'll get over it."

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