On the Same Flight with Annette Bening

A long trip to Iran was about to come to an end. I was delighted to be coming home to my family in the U.S. The flight out of Tehran was scheduled for 9:00 AM and I left my friend’s home with whom I was staying at 4:00 AM. They warn you to be at the Ayatollah Khomeini Airport three hours before your departure time. Given the mess of a traffic you will encounter in Tehran, you can never leave home early enough to feel safe that you’ll make your flight. Given all my recent travels overseas I had accumulated enough mileage to upgrade to the first class—a huge relief when you’re traveling long distances.
I got through the security, the check in, and the immigration quickly and headed down to the First Class Lounge. There I had a cup of tea and began reading the morning paper, when a noisy group of people walked in – obviously foreigners given the way the women in the group struggled to keep their head covers on. I ignored them and looked down at the newspaper and saw a picture of Annette Bening and a group of people from the Academy Awards, including Sid Ganis, the president, who had traveled to Iran. The paper said the group was asked to apologize on behalf of the movie industry for the way Hollywood had been portraying Iranians in movies like 300, and The Wrestler. Wow! Annette Bening in Iran, I thought to myself. I looked up and suddenly noticed a cheerful, beautiful, blond lady walking toward the snack bar, happy, carefree and relaxed, talking to the person who was walking along side of her, smiling, moving her arms—great energy for someone who like me must have woken up in the wee hours of the morning to make the damn flight! Wow, the Academy Award wining Annette Bening and Alfre Woodard, one of the most underrated actors of all time! Both their pictures were in the paper in front of me. The ladies checked out the meager snack bar counter, and settled for a cup of coffee. I have to admit, I felt a little giddy being in the same room with an Oscar winning actor, but I decided to rise above my giddiness and pretend like I hadn’t noticed her. I buried my head back in the paper.
The announcement to board came soon after and I headed up to my gate. On the way out I threw an inconspicuous glance toward the Oscar recipient and the underrated actor and walked up the steps. They, of course, didn’t and had no reason to notice a humble individual like me.
In Iran traveling in the first class doesn’t mean much, and they don’t board by rows. I think, and I don’t mean this in a malicious way, we Iranians have an aversion to order, and an acute affinity toward chaos. So when boarding a plane, we all get in the same line, and try to get on at the same time. If someone pushes us or cuts in front of us, we don’t get mad—we just push back and try to get in front of someone else. We’re a pretty peace loving nation in that way.
So anyway, I boarded the plane and sat in my seat and took out the advance reader copy of my debut novel, Rooftops of Tehran, which was due to be released in 2-months. I had been carrying that copy everywhere with me. It was the first copy I had pulled out of an envelop containing a couple of galleys of my book, sent to me by Penguin. My book…. It still sounds surreal when I say it. It had taken me three years to write my book and another three years to find a publisher for it with the help of my ever diligent agents Danielle Egan-Miller, and Joanna McKenzie. We had come so close to selling it on three different occasions – so close, and each time something bizarre had happened and the deal had fallen apart. Those kinds of close calls are devastating to a debut novelist. Yes, that copy was the first copy of my book – the first one I had seen with my title on the cover, with my name… yes, my name on the cover…. So you probably shouldn’t be surprised to learn that I began to cry as soon as I saw an actual printed copy of my book. I wasn’t crying because I was sad or overjoyed; I really couldn’t tell you why I was crying. Some things are just inexplicable. I did pray for no one to ring the bell at that moment though; I would have felt pretty embarrassed if someone had seen me in that state.
The first class wasn’t crowded and people kept walking by. Some looked down curiously at my book, as they waited for the line to move forward, and I wanted to say, yes, this is my book, with my name on the cover. It took me three years to write it and another three to sell it. And yes, this was the first copy I had pulled out of the envelope. I’ve been carrying it everywhere with me. This is the copy that made me cry, and it wasn’t a cry of joy or sadness – I really can’t tell you what kind of a cry that was.
Suddenly, I saw Annette Bening and Sid Ganis board the plane. Wow! They were on my flight.
They sat two rows in front of me, Row 2, seats A and B, Annette by the window and Sid on the aisle. Alfre and a gentleman I didn’t recognize sat one row behind me across the aisle. The plane took off. A few minutes later we ate, as I kept reading my book, and as I looked up once in a while to check out Annette and Sid.
Sid fell asleep as soon as they turned the lights off, and Annette started reading a book.
“It would have been so nice if she was reading my book,” I thought to myself. But how could she be reading my book? It wasn’t even released yet. A thought flashed through my head and I tried fighting it. “Give her the book,” my alter ego kept screaming.
“No,” I screamed back. “This was the first copy.”
“Well, you have another one at home.”
I shook my head. “No, no, no. This copy and I have cried together!”
“Oh, get real.”
“And how would I get it to her anyway?”
“Just write something on it and hand it to her.”
I wrote, “To Annette Bening – one of the greatest (and most beautiful) actors of all time.” I wrote the line on a piece of napkin. I still couldn’t stand the thought of parting with the first copy of my book. “Maybe I shouldn’t say ‘and most beautiful,’” I thought loudly to myself. “What if Warren Beatty didn’t like it?” After all, if I was giving my book to Warren, I wouldn’t say anything about how good looking he was! Suddenly, Annette stood up. Ever so carefully, she stepped over the stretched body of Sid, extra mindful not to wake him up. She walked to the bathroom in front of the plane.
“Write it on the book,” the bad guy inside me screamed.
But it was my first book. I looked at it. Despite all the places it had been with me in the last couple of months, it was still clean and as good as new. “Write in the book,” the voice screamed one more time. Annette came out of the bathroom and opened the overhead compartment, again quiet and careful not to wake up Sid. I quickly scribbled the line on the first page of the book, omitting the “most beautiful” line, and rushed up to her. “Can I help you with your luggage Ms. Bening?”
“Shush…,” she pointed to the almost lifeless body of Sid. “He’s asleep,” she whispered.
The look on her face was not very friendly, and I immediately felt like going back to my seat. A couple of weeks later, I read on the internet that Annette is a very private person. If I knew that I wouldn’t have bothered her, but it was too late. “I’ve written a book,” I mumbled. “Here it is, my book, can you take it?” My voice cracked. I knew that I was screwing up big time. “I mean may I give it to you?” I corrected myself.
“Yes,” she whispered her tone friendly now. A tiny splash of a smile sneaked up to her face. She took the book, and I dashed out toward the bathroom, feeling sicker than I had ever been. I’d given my first book away and in such a clumsy manner. She would never read it. I wouldn’t read a book written by a guy who sounded like me. While in the bathroom, I took an Ambien, and went back to my seat, trying to avoid eye contact with the person in row 2 seat A
I tried to fall asleep, but the damn Ambien was no match for my crowded disturbed mind and for the feeling of melancholy that had suddenly engulfed me.
We landed in London several hours later, and she and her gang walked out of the plane in front of me. In the jet way, she looked back a couple of times but I didn’t have the courage to smile. I don’t know why. I don’t think it was because I had given the first copy of my book away (after all, I had another copy at home, as my alter ego had reminded me so forcefully). To be honest, I don’t know why I was feeling that way– after all there are some things that are inexplicable like the reason you cry the first time you see a printed copy of your book, or when you give it away, in one moment of weakness, to one of the most famous people on the planet, who may never read it.