THE SEAT NEXT TO ME IS EMPTY

by Orman Day

Aspirations
1966: Riding the train from L.A. to N.Y.C. with my manuscript on my knee, I hope I'll be a published novelist by the time I'm 21.

Now: Flying from L.A. to N.Y.C. with a bag of cotton balls and a bottle of eardrops on my knee, I hope I'll be a published novelist by the time I'm dead.

Inclement Weather
1970: Thumbing through Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan, I figure it really isn't that cold unless your nose hairs freeze.

1985: I'm drenched, but during a rainy night of Carnaval, I keep warm by dancing the samba and taking sips of rum offered by strangers.

Now: In Ibiza, I look out the sliding glass door of my hotel room and note that it's sprinkling. Instead of putting on my waterproof shoes and warm jacket with a hood, I decide to stay inside and read Newsweek.

Mistaken Identity
1968: People in Mississippi say I look like Paul Newman.

1980: People in India say I look like Richard Dreyfuss.

Now: In an art museum in Barcelona, I can tell people are thinking I look like Pablo Picasso.

Penning Poetry
1968: To a woman I meet in a smoky New Orleans tavern, I write: "Marilyn, did you find your boyfriend in the dark when we held hands..."

1984: In a disco in the Peruvian Andes, I write these words for Nora: "In the ruins of an earthquake, I found a woman who writes poems in the clouds..."

Now: To no woman in particular, I write: "Would you like to play dot-to-dots...on a hand speckled with liver spots?"

Conversations With Religious Figures
1980: In Dharmsala, India, I converse with the Dalai Lama for two hours.

Now: In Kennedy Airport, I converse with Mormon missionaries for two minutes.

Airplane Encounters
1974: On the plane from Nairobi to Europe, I converse with the London-bound daughter of a tea grower. Several hours into the flight, we are kissing. When we go our separate ways in Frankfurt, we're sad.

1980: On the plane from L.A. to Bangkok, I converse with a pretty secretary from Redondo Beach. Several hours into the flight, we are kissing. I've taken a month off from my newspaper job to go to India, and she's going to Bali. She tries to convince me to share a hut with her, but I let reason triumph over passion. When we go our separate ways, we're sad.

Now: On the plane from N.Y. to Europe, the seat next to me is empty. I'm glad.

On the Way Into Town
1985: On the bus into town from the Hong Kong airport, I meet a young Scottish woman who offers to help me explore the city.

Now: On the bus into town from the Barcelona airport, I meet a young Portuguese woman who offers to help me with my bags.

Danger
1968: In Arkansas, a man invites my two sisters and me to spend the night with his family. Later, after visiting a bar, he stands over my slumbering self with a knife. Then, because my sisters are awake, he changes his mind and goes to the kitchen to pour himself yet another drink.

1989: In a motel room in New Zealand, I am awakened at night by a muscular Maori who is rifling my pack. Enraged because of the grief a thief once caused me in Brazil, I spring out of bed and roar at him. He drops my things and sprints away.

Now: While I sit in a mall on Mallorca eating a Cadbury chocolate bar with almonds, a shapely woman bends over to pick up something. Whatever is on the ground, she's having trouble picking it up. I am looking on with interest when her husband--a young bodybuilding type--catches up with her. He notes my ardent gaze and his face reddens. He looks like he wants to crush my glasses and kick me in the kidneys. Drawing on lessons I've learned about submissive behavior in the animal kingdom, I slump forward, let my facial muscles slacken, and gaze into space. He leaves me alone.

Waking Up
1973: I wonder if hyenas and lions are going to wake me up in the morning.

1984: I wonder if gunfire will wake me up in the morning.

Now: I wonder if the maid is going to wake me up in the morning.

Cops
1970: During Mardi Gras, a crowd of hippies gathers around Rich and me when we sing on a New Orleans street corner. Calling it a "dangerous weapon," an officer confiscates my homemade tambourine, which is a piece of wood with a hundred bottle caps nailed onto it. As we walk away, Rich--just back from Vietnam and in no mood to have his freedom trampled--calls the policeman an obscene word. We spend the night in jail.

1985: Chinese security officers--known for executing criminals--catch me trying to hitchhike through an unauthorized area to reach Tibet. They put me in a bus going in the opposite direction.

Now: I catch myself hesitating to cross against the red light.

Note-taking
1969: With a stub of a pencil, I scribble my notes on scraps of paper; when I return, I want to write a work of serious fiction and become an important literary voice.

Now: With my Waterman pen, I scribble my notes on mauve paper; when I return, I want to write a travel article and turn the trip into a tax deduction.

Novelty
1973: At a roadside stop between Cairo and the Sphinx, I introduce bottle-cap flipping to Egyptian kids, who are amazed, surrounded as they are by thousands of bottle caps.

1985: On a bus ride to Belem, I introduce an intoxicated Brazilian woman to waterproof matches by lighting one and holding it out the window in the rain. Now: To the impeccably dressed residents of Barcelona, I introduce a novel fashion statement: a knit sports shirt in the dead of winter.

Smoke
1970: When a hippie van stops for you at the side of a highway, someone's going to pass you a joint.

1974: In a psychedelically painted room filled with the music of Cat Stevens, a half-dozen Moroccans pass around a clay pipe packed with kif. One of them blows smoke at a canary and the canary falls off its perch.

1985: It was a waste of breath, but we vagabonds gather on the porch of our Chinese hotel to try some of the local weed.

Now: Haven't these people heard of a smoke-free environment?

War Zones
1973: During an uneasy truce in the war between Egypt and Israel, I'm one of a small number of tourists in Cairo. At one corner, kids clamor over a captured tank.

1984: I never see another gringo in El Salvador, which is understandable, because the country is in the midst of a civil war. Every time I ride over a bridge in a bus, I hold my breath waiting for an explosion. Young men are literally drafted off the bus into the army. In Peru, I watch machine-gun-toting government soldiers, their faces hidden behind ski masks, lead a man off to be executed.

1987: When I sit down in a cafe in Belfast, I check out the exits in case an IRA bomb explodes.

Now: Basque terrorists? I think I'll skip the Pyrenees.

Death
1968: In Texas, my sisters and I pay our respects at the grave of the bandit Clyde Barrow, recently glorified by the movie Bonnie and Clyde.

1985: Early in the morning just outside Lhasa, I watch as two corpses are carved into small pieces, their bones mixed with barley flour. Then the vultures are called to breakfast.

Now: Visit a necropolis? Forget it. Who wants to be reminded of our final destination?

Aftermath
1970: After I get home from crisscrossing America, I refuse induction into the army because of opposition to the Vietnam War. Within months, I am convicted of a felony and sentenced to probation.

1985: I return from China with hepatitis A, which forces me to lie down for six weeks.

1989: I'm virtually penniless when I get back from a trip to New Zealand, Australia, and Fiji. I fend off poverty by winning $2,000 on "Scrabble," the TV game show.

Now: Two days after returning to work, I heed a call from my colleagues to come to the conference room. Feigning surprise, I am greeted by black balloons, ribald laughter, cake, and gag gifts. I groan with a deep, deep pleasure.

Orman Day is senior manager of public relations at an Orange County hospital. This is his first time in print.