The Man Who Ate the 747 - By Ben Sherwood Page 0,3

suddenly, her strength failed. He slithered through her arms to the ground, and she threw herself down on him. She squished her mouth against his, face contorted, kissing with all her might.

Ten feet away, J.J. reluctantly pressed the red button in front of him. The chronometer froze:

30:44:56.

He rose to his feet, an ache in his stomach, and announced: “No record.”

The crowd gasped.

It was close, a mere 4 seconds, but rules were rules. He felt awful for the two kissers, crumpled in a heap. He couldn’t bear to look them in the eyes. There was no wiggle room when it came to world records. Too much was at stake.

“Impossible!” a spectator screamed. Doctors rushed forward to treat the toppled man. One medic pressed an oxygen mask to his face; another listened for the murmuring of his heart. The woman stood over her partner, weeping, as cameramen angled for pictures.

J.J. closed his rule book, slipped it in his well-worn calfskin briefcase. His limbs cracked as he stood; it had been a long 31 hours. He straightened his blazer and grabbed his roll-on from under the table. Careful to avoid contact with the losers, he tried to slip into the crowd.

“Just a few questions,” a journalist said, two steps behind.

“I’m sorry,” J.J. said. “My limousine is waiting. I’m late for my plane.”

“When will you hold another kissing competition?”

“Please contact headquarters. The Review Committee will answer you.”

He turned the corner and disappeared down the Rue Saint-Louis en l’Ile. He walked quickly, the roll-on bumping wildly behind him. He wanted to get away from the failure, fast. The kissers with no record. The reporters with no story. What would he tell his boss? Another defeat. After several blocks, when he was sure no one was in pursuit, he hailed a taxi. Headquarters didn’t pay for limousines.

“Charles de Gaulle, please,” he said to the driver. “Flight leaves in 40 minutes.”

“Oui, monsieur. No problem.” The driver pulled into traffic. He checked out his passenger in the rearview mirror, with a look of puzzlement in his eyes. “You are from The Book of Records, yes? I saw you last night on television at the kissing competition.”

J.J. smiled. It happened now and then; with all the TV appearances, someone recognized him in the street. And, inevitably, the first question …

“What is the longest taxi ride ever?” the man asked.

“Roundtrip from London to Capetown, South Africa,” J.J. said. “Broke the meter. 21,691 miles. Cost $62,908.”

“I should be so lucky.”

They zipped along the Rue de la Paix in light traffic.

“Where are you from?” the driver asked.

“New York,” J.J. said. “Greatest place on earth.”

The driver scoffed. “Incorrect. Paris is the greatest. The food, women, life.”

“Yeah, yeah, everyone says that. But New York is the greatest.”

“No, monsieur,” the driver said. “In New York, everyone lives on top of other people. How do you say? Like the sardines?”

“Oh, no. We have beautiful homes with lots of space.”

The driver made a small sound of protest—pffff—then turned up the radio.

J.J. closed his eyes. New York or Paris? He regretted the argument. Everywhere, always, people wanted to debate the world’s best and worst, especially when they recognized his blue blazer with the gold insignia.

Yes, he had considered spending the weekend in Paris. He knew a divorcée named Héléne who ran a bistro on the Rue de Buci. She fed him exquisite meals and offered her warm back against his at night. She whispered in his ear that she needed nothing in return, but the look in her eyes, the farewell hugs that lasted too long, left him feeling hopelessly sad.

Now he just wanted to get home.

He thought again of Emily’s indictment a few years ago, that he knew nothing about love. He took it as a challenge. He was a relentless researcher and set out to learn everything about the subject. He read classics and pulp romances, crammed Shakespeare and Shelley, studied Mars and Venus, memorized the complete works of Deepak Chopra, delved into anthropology, biochemistry, and psychology from Freud to Dr. Ruth.

He dated too, giving and receiving a fair share of pleasure and disappointment. In the end, true love seemed as remote as Messier 31, a rotating spiral nebula in the Great Galaxy in Andromeda, the farthest object visible to the naked eye, 2.31 million light-years from earth.

But J.J. had learned one thing from experience, repeatedly and for sure. Casual intimacies on the road always ended with someone hurting. So this time, he did not call Héléne.

Sticking around in Paris for the weekend also meant consoling