The Pedestal Magazine > Archives > ISSUE FORTY-FOUR: Feb-Apr (08) > Fiction >Julee Newberger - Fashion and Faith

Friends, colleagues, and spiritual protégés, I deeply regret that I am unable to be with you today at the Alternative Religions: Miracles for a New Millennium conference at the Maui Hotel & Convention Center. My intention this morning was to voyage to Hawaii, spread the gospel of fashion and faith, and look fabulous at the outdoor bar in an orchid bikini with coordinating grass skirt wrap. But alas, the Spirit had other plans for me: a dramatic Nor´easter, a canceled flight, and a near disaster in a 737–all tests I had to endure in order to ascend to the next plateau in my spiritual landscape.

In lieu of my appearance and keynote address, I am recording this audio lecture to explain the Spirit´s reason for diverting me from your tropical paradise and landing me at the Pygmy Palms Truck Stop & Motor Lodge in Jacksonville, Florida.

My journey began this morning in Washington, DC, where I had just a day before given an inspirational lecture to a group of refugees from the Great Sumatran Flood, which devastated miles of Indian Ocean coastline, destroying entire towns and whisking away thousands of inhabitants to the eternal seas. I encouraged the survivors to look beyond their shirtless backs, their bloated tummies, and their painful quests for missing relatives. I reminded them that all people are transient beings and we may call upon the spirits of those who are lost to be our holy shirpas along this climb called life. (I wore a Javanese batik and pearl jewelry for some Indonesian flair.)

Little did I realize at the time that the strange global weather patterns had triggered another phenomenon known as a Nor´easter, so strong that it threatened to close every airport on the East Coast. But, alas, my intention was to get to Maui, and I was confident that the gentle Spirit would clear my path.

Unfortunately, I arrived at the airport in the nation´s capital and found myself face-to-face with a frump of a ticketing agent who informed me that the morning flights were all canceled and the evening flights overbooked.

"Looks like you´re out of luck," she said, and fingered her stringy blond hair.

I informed her that we are never truly out of luck–luck is a manifestation of our intention and its synchronicity with the universe. All human beings are connected, and our true nature and purpose is to comfort one another. I reached into my red leather tote and pulled out a copy of my spiritual guide (available for $29.99 at FashionandFaith.com), which I promptly autographed for her. I also offered her a tip: "I´d suggest some blond highlights on your crown for added volume and a moonstone broach to jazz up that uniform."

She looked at me quizzically for a moment, then sighed and took a few more key strokes. Surely she was on the cusp of becoming a Believer.

"I see some openings later this morning," she said, "but you´ll have to go to Miami first."

"That´s fine."

"Then Albuquerque."

"Okay."

"Then Seattle."

"Book it," I said. The Spirit had a plan for me, and that plan would be revealed later.

In the meantime, I decided to sit quietly at my gate and drink a half-caff soy latte, confident that at barely 7am, I had already spread the Light to a stranger.

For travel, I recommend clothes that layer–for example, my brown crepe scarf with gold metallic fringe that doubles as a belt in warmer weather. This morning, I flipped it over my shoulder like a flying ace as I sat at the gate, and within moments I was approached by a male traveler.

I immediately assessed his look: slick dark hair, suggesting an overly generous application of pomade; ugly plaid tie, hanging two inches above his corpulent waist; brown pants, pleated (and frayed at the hems, no less); an oversized gray sport jacket, coated with the white fur of some domestic pet; and a pair of worn loafers, soles only half-attached and flapping as he walked toward me. I tried to look away, but he extended a calloused hand and I had no choice but to meet his gaze.

As I did so, I found myself mesmerized by a set of brilliant periwinkle eyes–a shade I´d seen before only on the wing of a South American bird while eating peyote with a group of Patagonian shamans.

Boarding announcements echoed through the airport. Travelers wheeled baggage to and fro. But I saw and heard only his figure before me, and his powerful words:

"Nice scarf."

I also noticed a bit of toothpaste crusted in the corner of his mouth.

He was so unassuming, so malleable. I heard my Ego Self whisper: You can work with this. You can remake him in the image of Ralph Lauren or Anderson Cooper.

He introduced himself as Sam, and explained that he was also on his way to Miami. His job entailed a great deal of air travel, which took its toll on a person´s body. Because of this, he carried a small carry-on bag of paraphernalia.

The items included a plastic bracelet for motion sickness, which he placed on his wrist–"You should´ve seen how green I was on my first international flight. Went through two airsick bags"–a package of gas pills–"On the way up, the pressure causes gas to expand where it´s trapped in the body, if you know what I mean"–and wax plugs to prevent the ears from popping. "You can also try chewing gum, or swallowing–or this," he said, holding his nose and puffing out his cheeks. He held his breath and released a short, forceful expiration.

"Thanks for the demonstration," I said, and stroked his plastic bracelet.

We spent the next few hours getting acquainted in a pair of conjoined seats as we waited for our plane to depart.

First, we played I Spy. I stumped him with a pair of patent leather platform Mary Jane´s worn by a flight attendant one gate over. Next, we played Truth or Dare. During the Truth round, I admitted that I have not always been a prophet. I also admitted that I have not always been a blond. By 10am, we´d moved on to shoe size, favorite colors, and how we´d lost our virginity. I found myself disappointed that our flight to Miami was finally called for boarding at 11 o´clock.

"One last thing," Sam said, his periwinkle eyes glistening. "Low humidity in the body of the plane can cause dryness and discomfort to the eyes, throat, and nose. That´s why I carry this...."

He reached into his carry-on bag and pulled out a small bottle of Breathe Right nasal spray. Then he gently tilted my head back and spritzed each of my nostrils with a generous shot of saline.

"Please, let me," I said.

I took the bottle of nasal spray, fingered his thick, pomaded hair, lifted his chin and returned the favor.

I hadn´t felt such a strong connection since I met my first ex-husband, Roger. Roger and I spent ten detestable years together during which he plagiarized my work, inspected my every orifice for signs of adulterous entry, tried to convince me that I was overweight–oh, and by the way, that he´d invented my trademarked Fashion and Faith lecture series himself.

But forgiveness is divine. On, to holier thoughts.

The Spirit seated me across the aisle and three rows back and from Sam. As soon as I settled in, an accommodating flight attendant named Dani descended and pointed out that I was seated next to the emergency exit, which meant that in the unlikely event of an air disaster, I would have to eject the door and help the passengers out of the plane.

"If you´re uncomfortable with that, we can see about relocating you."

She smiled, and I noticed a few bits of waxy lipstick affixed to her bright white teeth.

I assured Dani that this was certainly not too tall an order for someone who had toured the Delhi ghettos with Mother Teresa, hid from the Chinese army while traveling with the Dalai Lama, and escaped from Muslim extremists during a press junket with the Pope. Then I licked my teeth as a signal for her to correct her lipstick.

A few rows ahead, I saw a middle-aged woman take the seat next to Sam. She looked like someone who would benefit from turning off C-Span and opening up a copy of Allure. She wore high-waisted jeans with a collared shirt tucked in (Oh, the horror!), and a pair of dirty white running shoes. I noticed that her bobbed hair resembled an upside-down tulip, that her hands were rough and un-manicured, and–worst of all–that her ring finger was bare.

Before Dani could turn to stroll down the aisle, I tugged on her polyester sleeve. I explained how my intentions to get to Maui to deliver an address to an audience of spiritual protégés had become circuitous at best, and I was feeling disconnected from the divinity within me. My present state might render me helpless during an air disaster. "I wonder if I could trade seats with that dowdy woman in 5A?" I asked.

Dani sashayed down the aisle and exchanged a few words with Sam´s neighbor. The woman shook her head, then turned to Sam and began to chatter.

"I´ll trade seats with you," a man called from a few rows behind me.

I turned to see a man who had the brawny physique and a shaved head reminiscent of a martial arts master. Next to him sat an inquisitive ´tween with greasy hair and thick tortoiseshell glasses. Loudly, she was spelling out airplane vocabulary words, perhaps preparing for a bee. "Fuselage," she pronounced. "F-u-s-e-l-a-g-e. Fuselage."

This kid had already gotten the best of the Master, and we hadn´t even taken off yet. Even I, Ivy Little Podolnik, am not holy enough to endure a three hour flight next to a loquacious pre-teenager.

"Never mind, I´m feeling spiritually recharged," I told Dani, and thanked the Master for his offer.

Disappointed, I tried to steel myself and remember that as a spiritual coach and purveyor of the Light, I knew better than to hope for any particular outcome. Only the Spirit knows why things happen as they do. Whatever the course of events, you must find the opportunity for personal growth.

The Spirit then chose to seat next to me a mountainous woman in a blue floral frock, stained below the neckline, and tattered Birkenstocks that revealed a set of twisted and bulbous toes. Those of us in the aisle seats cringed as she discharged a quiet but redolent stream of gas while she hoisted a musky tote bag into the overhead compartment.

"Hiya," she smiled, and spat the crumby remnants of her last meal on my shoulder.

I smiled politely and resigned myself to buckle up and endure the mild claustrophobia that sometimes descended upon me when seated in the long, humming chamber of a turbo jet. Through the portal window, I examined the wing for fissures or loosened bolts.

All the while, I watched with envy as Sam and the tulip-haired woman got acquainted a few rows ahead.

As the woman next to me breathed heavily, I assessed the apparent competence of my flight attendants: Dani, so thin she must dine on nothing but field greens with lemon wedges for dressing; and Gustavo, her ruddy-faced, pear-shaped partner in flight. Both wore blue uniforms with retro shoulder pads and unfortunately angular lapels.

I reminded myself not to equate a flair for haute couture with the ability to inflate a life vest. I took a few deep breaths in preparation for take-off.

My neighbor squeezed into her seat and caught her breath before glancing at my book, Meditations on Fashion and Faith, resting inconspicuously on my lap.

"Are you a spiritual?" she asked, noticing my photo on the front cover. "I was just about to give up on God," she said, "because God gave up on me and my family long ago."

I was tempted to tell her I was off duty. Even I, Ivy Little Podolnik, need a break from spreading the Light now and then. But I recognized my responsibility–I explained to her that true Believers know that we cannot be wedded to specific outcomes in life. If we do, we will never recover from such disasters as the Great Sumatran Flood or Velcro sneakers. Instead, we must shore up the strength to surrender and trust that the Spirit will land us in the place where we belong.

She crossed her dimpled arms and grumbled, unsatisfied with my sermon.

Although I did not yet have a convert, I resigned myself to remembering that each human being has a capacity for growth, and many of us are no more than a prayer and a Prada bag away from discovering the Light within us.

For the next thirty minutes–from take-off to about 40,000 feet, Mrs. Katz listed a catalog of horrors: "Davey went missing back in ´99... ´Course I still had the other two... ´till they died in the fire... then we lost the farm in a tornado... and my husband ran off with the insurance agent...."

I tried to be of counsel, but found myself preoccupied with the weather. As the plane bumped its way through the turbulent sky, freezing rain battered the jet. Now and then, lightning streaked the sky. It looked as if we were flying directly into the heart of the Nor´easter.

A red seatbelt sign lit up above our seats.

"...then the IRS took everything else...." Mrs. Katz continued.

The Spirit saved me from having to listen any longer by launching a bolt of lightning at the plane. For a brief moment, flames engulfed the wing. They were quickly extinguished by torrents of rain. Black smoke clouded my view through the window.

In an effort to soothe Mrs. Katz with a quote from the Bible, I gripped her arm and said, "As the Good Lord said, Let thy words be few!"

The plane shuddered and dove. Shouts and groans rose from the aisles.

Mrs. Katz shackled my wrist with her clammy hand. "Pray for us," she cried.

I wiped away a few tears, confident that my make-up wouldn´t run. Then I silently thanked the Spirit for inventing tattooed eyeliner.

I tried to recall my last will and testament, in which I identified my burial wardrobe. I had chosen a Tahari suit–but had it been the long-sleeved navy, or the chocolate brown with three-quarter length skirt? In my panic, I couldn´t remember.

Gustavo wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and Dani nibbled on a stubby red-painted fingernail. As the captain called for everyone to be seated, they strapped themselves into seats at the front of the cabin.

All obeyed the captain´s orders, except for Sam, who rose from his seat, took off his lint-covered jacket and tossed aside his eyeglasses. He approached Gustavo and Dani and spoke to them quietly. In the overhead lights I noticed something hard and shiny glinting below his beltline.

It was a gun.

"Everyone remain calm," he announced. "I´m a federal air marshal."

Now it all made sense–the frequent air travel, the bad attire.

His periwinkle eyes searched among the aisles for me. "Ivy," he called, "can you help us find some faith?"

Now I knew the reasons for my diversion from Maui. I had to save this flight. The Spirit was testing me.

At the front of the cabin, I took the microphone in hand. "Friends," I said, projecting my voice above the chaos, "You may recognize me from my appearances on daytime TV –"

A child shrieked in the rear of the cabin. A man in an aisle seat groaned as if trapped in one of the nine circles of hell. The nerdy ´tween called, "What are your credentials?"

I hadn´t been this mortified since the New York Times Book Review dismissed my eclectic brand of faith as "spiritual sausage."

I could not change the outcome of this disaster. The Spirit would spare us, or the Spirit would not. What I had to do was gather all our energy, create a unified, positive force, and help us transcend. In short, we had to gather enough faith to surrender to whatever fate awaited us.

If I could lead the United Nations delegates in a drum circle in Central Park, surely I could calm these people down.

"Friends," I said, "we must try to focus our energy on faith. Let us send all our positive energy to the Spirit."

"We´re gonna die!" the Master yelled.

Row by row, passengers began to wail.

"Miss, I´m a Christian," the tulip-haired woman said, "Can you say something from the Bible?"

"No requests, please," I said.

I tried my hardest to channel the Spirit, but got no response.

The plane dipped again.

I prayed silently, bargaining with the Spirit. What would I give up to bring this baby down safely?

The truth is, in the Great Race called life, faith beats fashion by a good half a mile. I offered up my entire wardrobe, but the turbulence continued.

Okay, I thought, how about the Hamptons bungalow?

The plane hit another air pocket.

Forget the Maui Hotel and Convention Center, I silently told the Spirit. I´ll even spend the night at a long-term stay motel.

The Spirit must have heard me, because the pilot then announced that we would be making an emergency landing in Jacksonville.

Passengers held hands as the plane descended. The tulip-haired woman clung to Sam. After a few tense moments, we skidded and bumped our way down the Jacksonville runway.

The plane shrieked to a stop. Luggage hit the front of the overhead compartments. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

"Everyone stay seated," she shouted. Unfortunately, the red glow of the emergency lights made her pores look large and accented the dark roots of her hair.

She made her way back to my vacant seat in the emergency exit row and signaled me to assist.

Sam stood at the front of the plane, looking commanding. "I´ll see you on the tarmac," he called.

With Gustavo´s help, Dani and I ejected the emergency door. A rubber balloon inflated itself with loud sucks of air and created a slide that extended down to the runway.

Passengers lined up in the aisle waiting for their turn to disembark. I tried to remain calm and stand aside to ensure the Spirit held their hands as they slid down the rubber slide. But at that moment, even I–Ivy Little Podolnik–could not detach from my Ego Self, whose fat, unholy ass I have to drag up the mountain of righteousness on a daily basis. The smoke, the lights, and the wailing overwhelmed me. I heard that Ego voice in my ears, louder than any other, saying: Get me out of this fiery wreck!

Mrs. Katz stood first in line. Behind her stood the tulip-haired woman.

It occurred to me as Mrs. Katz plopped down onto the slide and began to push herself down, that in her godless state, she might be preparing to take a final act–a dive off the rubber ramp, head-first onto the tarmac.

Only I knew her pain. Only I could respond.

In an effort to save Mrs. Katz´s life, I shoved the tulip-haired woman out of the way. She fell sideways and hit her head against the open door of an overhead compartment.

The nerdy ´tween pointed at me. "She´s trying to get out ahead of everyone!" she called.

With a cry of, "He who hesitates is lost," I leapt out the door and onto the slide.

As I reached for Mrs. Katz´s dimpled elbow, I felt my neck constrict and thought for a moment that the Master was trying to strangle me. I choked and tumbled, feeling the burn of the rubber slide across my cheek. Then I looked back to see that my brown crepe scarf had caught on the hinge of the emergency door.



The officials assured me that I would be exonerated from any charges. The in-flight jurisdiction was fuzzy, and the passengers were too traumatized to provide consistent accounts of the assault. The tulip-haired woman had suffered nothing more than a mild concussion and was being tended to by topnotch doctors at a Jacksonville hospital.

As for Mrs. Katz, she will appear on my new cable TV series, Makeovers for the Marginalized, the first episode of which will feature rural homeless women with Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

The airline put up Sam and I just a few doors apart from one another at the Pygmy Palms Truck Stop & Motor Lodge. Last night we had a nightcap and he rubbed some of his aloe lotion into the scarf burns on my neck. He is doing fine, despite the heat rash and an unfortunate outbreak of canker sores.

Some say that stressful situations accelerate the course of relationships artificially. I disagree.

Sam and I are soul mates, and we are moving in together.

We´ve already sold the rights to our story to the Oxygen network.

Perhaps my soul is not yet tall enough to stand among the mountains of Maui. Or perhaps the Spirit determined that I needed to save the souls of those aboard the flight to Miami-via-Jacksonville.

I´ll end this lecture with an excerpt from my audio CD, Tips for Fashionable and Faithful Singles:

Friends, despite our best intentions, we sometimes find ourselves diverted from our course to some strange and unintended destination. The Spirit asks us to accept a different fate. When this happens, one can do little else than slip into something more comfortable, raid the mini-bar, and surrender.

To purchase an audio version of this lecture, or to learn about the upcoming film, The Altitude of Love, visit Fashionandfaith.com.









Julee Newberger is currently learning to meditate. Her fiction has appeared in Wordsrights and Storyglossia. She received and MFA in Creative Writing from American University and fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts. In 2007, she was a winner of the Leonard Lopate Essay Contest sponsored by WNYC.
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