Baggage Claim: A Novel - Softcover

Talbert, David E.

3.32

314 ratings by Goodreads

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0743247183 ISBN 13: 9780743247184

Publisher: Simon & Schuster, 2003

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Heralded by the press and millions of theatergoers for his eleven wildly popular musical stage plays, five-time NAACP award-winning playwright David E. Talbert leaps onto the publishing scene with his debut novel, a big-hearted story about friendship, family, and the relentless pursuit of love.

Baggage Claim gives you a first-class peek into the wacky world of Montana Moore, a thirty-five-year-old flight attendant with enough baggage from her past relationships to fill an entire Samsonite showroom. Montana is an incurable romantic. A dreamer. The kind of woman who has her head in the clouds while her heart splatters swiftly to the ground.

With her mother having just tied the knot for a record-breaking fourth time and her baby sister, Sheree, rushing to jump the broom, five-time maid of honor Montana is dangerously close to becoming not only the oldest, but the only woman in her entire family never to be married.

Having convinced herself that there's no way in heaven or hell she's showing up at her sister's Christmas Eve engagement party without a prospect of her own, Montana concocts her wildest and most romantically ridiculous plan yet: a thirty-day, thirty-thousand-mile trek in search of a husband.

Will it be Damon Diesel, a young hip-hop producer whose motto is "Making the green scream and the dolla holla!"? Or will she win over the Reverend Curtis P. Merewether, pastor and founder of Greater House of Deliverance, Tabernacle of Praise, Worship, and Miracles? Of course Langston Jefferson Battle III, superattorney turned city councilman, needs a wife now that his sights are set on the United States Congress. Or perhaps her lifelong mate is Quinton Jamison, a multimillionaire textile guru twenty years her senior. Only time -- or the lack of it -- will tell.

Fasten your seat belts, lift your tray tables up, and prepare for takeoff. Our final destination: THE ALTAR!

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About the Author:

Labeled by the press and his many fans as "The People's Playwright," David E. Talbert has written, directed, and produced eleven blockbuster stage plays that have broken box-office attendance records from New York to Los Angeles. His critically acclaimed stage plays include: Mr. Right Now; His Woman, His Wife; He Say, She Say...But What Does God Say?; The Fabric of a Man; and Love Makes Things Happen. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, actress Lyn Talbert.

For more information on the work of David E.

Prologue

Being a flight attendant for the last thirteen years, and looking for Mr. Right for almost as long, there are two things I know a lot about: men and baggage. Given the amount of time and travel spent with both, I've come to the conclusion that there are five kinds of men, like there are five kinds of baggage.

First, there's the overnight bag kind of man. Great for the pick-up-and-go kind of girl. Spontaneous. Alive. Convenient. Never makes a plan because he never has a plan and expects you to drop whatever your plans are at a moment's notice. Most of the time you do, because you can always count on having a good time (or at the very least, some good sex). Problem is, Overnight Bag Man is not very practical. Eventually you're going to need more room for the stuff you've picked up along the way. You'll want him to handle more, but he can't -- even if he wants to -- because he simply doesn't have the capacity.

Then there's the garment bag kind of man. He's accustomed to the finer things in life. Handsome. Articulate. Well groomed. Went to the best schools, eats at the fanciest restaurants, and drives only European cars. Garment Bag Man often hangs framed pictures, articles, and certificates around his house that highlight his favorite person: himself. When it rains, he runs inside for cover. He sleeps with a scarf, and spends more time in the mirror primping than you do. Though Garment Bag Man is extremely fashionable, he isn't too sturdy. He can't cope with the hard knocks, the potholes, or the crash landings that life inevitably brings. At the first sign of wear, or the first rip or tear, Garment Bag Man falls completely apart.

Next is the executive bag kind of man. Briefcase Man. He's the hard-edged, box-shaped piece of luggage that you could drop from a ten-story building and it wouldn't break. Structured. Firm. The kind of man that is unwavering. Willing to fight for or even die for what he believes in. The only problem with Briefcase Man is that he can only fit what he can fit. You must conform to him. He cannot and will not conform to you. It's either his way or the highway, and if it's the highway you chose, he is more than gentlemanly enough to drop you off at the nearest on-ramp.

There's also the classic duffel bag kind of man. Loose fitting. Unstructured. Unfocused and usually arrives unannounced. Not part of the original set, but picked up along the way as needed. Willing to do whatever, whenever, and to whomever as long as it leads him to that which he seeks. Duffel Bag Man will always try to fit more into his schedule than is humanly possible. He thinks he has more game than Michael Jordan, Emmitt Smith, and Barry Bonds put together, and that his game can get him anything he wants and take him anywhere he desires. Because he wasn't part of the original set in the first place, he is easily replaced and quickly forgotten.

And last is the trunk kind of man. Rugged. Weather-proof. Well traveled. A self-made man. The kind of man that's been through a lot and has seen a lot. Carries a lot of stuff, a lot of history: an ex-wife, a dead wife, or a tribe of spoiled and dependent children. Usually older and worn but never tired or torn. An international kind of man. Listens to a lot of jazz. Watches very little television. Always smells good. A self-made man who marches to the beat of his own drum and has little interest in new band members wishing to play a tune of their own

Now, the perfect man is like the perfect set of luggage -- strong, stylish, durable, and dependable. Adjustable, fit to travel, and fit to suit whatever the need at whatever the time. Full of compartments. So many that just when you think you've figured him out, and you've seen all there is to see, he surprises you with a hidden nook or a forbidden cranny.

Unfortunately, I haven't quite managed to find the perfect set of luggage or the perfect man. Only individual pieces. And not even matching ones. Just a bunch of random sizes, shapes, colors, and textures. Never the right pieces for the right purposes for the right predicaments. In fact, I've accumulated so much baggage from my past relationships, I'm starting to think that it's not a man that I need, it's a skycap.

Chapter Five

Wednesday December 4th

Engagement Party Countdown:

20 days, 13 hours to "E-Day"

It was a beautiful late autumn morning. Vibrant shades of golden orange leaves covered the trees outside my window. The sun's piercing rays shone through the glass, bounced off my hardwood floors, ricocheted off my hanging mirror, and finally found its way to my face. My eyes squinted as the pouring light illuminated the room.

A week had passed since my disastrous ordeal with Graham and the double blow of finding out about Sheree's engagement and ensuing party. I had fully digested my Thanksgiving meal but I had not yet fully digested Graham. Thoughts of him still lingered, haunting my body like bad beef. Tired of feeling bad, I was determined that this day would be the first day of the rest of my life.

This would be a day free of yesterday's grief, devoid of yesterday's Graham. Today I would focus on my healing. The key to healing was admitting your pain and taking responsibility for your own actions. Focusing on your own personal role in creating your pain, not on the perpetrator of your pain. Now, it's not like I'm some expert on putting the emotional pieces of one's life back together, but I heard about the process on Oprah. And since her show is the infallible, undeniable, unadulterated gospel of pain and suffering, I figured it's at least worth trying.

Slowly, I lifted my cozy cotton sheets and fluffy down comforter, hopped out of bed, stood in front of the mirror atop my grandmother's refurbished wood dresser and with the courage of an alcoholic at an AA meeting, I admitted my pain.

"I, Montana Moore, am in pain."

So far so good.

"I'm in pain from being too trustworthy, too giving."

I'm pretty good at this.

"I'm in pain for believing that Graham was God's ebony angel and not the low-down, good-for-nothing, snake in the grass, cousin of Satan that he turned out to be!!"

"Meeooowwww!"

I had obviously strayed from my path. That was anger, not healing.

"I'm supposed to be focusing on the part I played. Dealing with my issues. Right, Muggly?"

"Meeooowwww!"

Okay, here goes again. I took a minute to roll my neck from side to side and shrug my shoulders. Then I planted my feet firmly on the ground, gritted my teeth, and once again admitted my pain.

"I, Montana Moore, am in pain. Pain from allowing myself to believe that being married was the single most important event in a woman's life. I am in pain from believing that being single, successful, and a good person wasn't enough. As a result, I allowed myself -- " Taking a deep breath, I continued.

"I allowed myself to -- " Taking another deep breath, noticing Muggly in the corner with her paw over her eyes.

"I allowed myself to be blinded by the conniving, deceitful, treacherous ways of a low-down, black bastard, good-for-nothing, slimy slithering face full of dirt, low to the ground, reptile snake in the grass!!!! I hate him! I hate him! I hate him! I HATE HIM!!!!"

Feathers from my down pillow filled the air. Screeching meows like sirens echoed through the room, as I continued beating the bed with the pillows until I was covered from head to toe like Frosty the Snowman. But I felt good. I felt really good. Oprah was right. But then again, Oprah is always right. I was laughing, crying, and looking ridiculous all at once, but feeling a lot better. Even Muggly looked refreshed.

I was tired of thinking of Graham, so my thoughts moved to Sheree. It was less than a month before her engagement party. Less than a month before I had to face my disgrace and lose the last tattered strand of my already low self-esteem. Okay, Montana, focus on something else. Focus on something good. Something positive.

My brain scrambled and scrambled like a hard drive seeking a file. Finally...it stopped. Work! Focus on work. Work is always a good distraction. A quick and good fix. And with a ten-day schedule of all-day cross-country flights ahead of me, I would have more than enough time to shift my focus. So I began packing, stuffing my bag with enough clothes to keep a person warm in a Russian winter. I showered, watered my plants, hugged Muggly, jumped in a cab, and raced to the airport.

Work. Work. Work. Work was my focus. My cure. No mention of Graham, no thoughts of Sheree. That was my new mantra. Over and over I repeated it as I rushed through the airport waving at agents, winking at vendors. No mention of Graham. No thoughts of Sheree. Finally reaching the plane, I exhaled. My will was strong. My resolve impenetrable.

"Sheree is getting what?!! To who?!" Gail exclaimed, almost in shock as she nearly burnt her arm on a pot of coffee.

Okay, so maybe I wasn't as strong as I thought.

"I don't know, I haven't met him yet and I can't remember his name. It was late when she told me."

"When did all this happen?"

"Last weekend, I guess."

"And you ain't never even met the guy?!"

"No."

"Flight attendants, prepare your doors for departure" rang through the air, as we were about to begin our ascent. We were on a short hop to Detroit, which was more than enough time for Gail to cheer me up, make me laugh, or at the very least, convince me that her life was in much worse condition than mine. I began my announcements knowing full well she wasn't near ready to let it go.

"Welcome aboard Transcontinental Airlines Flight 606 with non-stop service to Detroit's Metro Airport."

"You can't remember your sister's fianc�'s name? How can you not know his name? You're about to be related!" Gail attempted to whisper while covering the intercom.

"Sheree barely knows his name. All she knows is that he drives a car, owns a house, and wants to be an optometrist. And more important, that he's willing to be marr...

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