One time, Sam showed up late, still in full Barbra drag, and received several thunderous encores for his a cappella performance medley of Barbra’s hit songs “People,” “The Way We Were,” and Sam’s favorite from the movie Funny Girl, “Don’t Rain on My Parade.” The airline executives weren’t so pleased when they received a letter from a passenger complaining that on her flight, Barbra refused to sing her favorite, “Papa, Can You Hear Me.” Sam was fined and placed on probation. The fine was later reversed when they received letters from the NAACP, Operation Push, and Turner Classic Movies citing allegations of race discrimination, sexual orientation discrimination, and discrimination against the in-flight viewing of classic films—all of which, surprisingly enough, either starred or had their theme songs sung by, you guessed it, Barbra. Ever since, he’s used every opportunity to defy rules and regulations, daring the higher-ups to mutter a word. In his latest act of insubordination, Sam replaced the Transcontinental standard-issue black Hush Puppies with backless clogs, and instead of a low-groomed haircut, Sam sported a blond teacup bob.

Sam dared to be whom and what he aspired to become, a diva. In many ways it made us kindred spirits. Both dreamers. Both seekers. Both having no problem hurling ourselves, caution abandoned, impending crash course ignored, into any situation that we deemed worthy. We were both daredevils. Me for love, and Sam for…Barbra.

“Hey, girls, did you miss me?” he said, eyes gleaming.

“Hey, girls my ass, you’re twenty minutes late!” Gail replied with both hands hugging her hips.

“Is someone speaking to me?” Sam looked around to the left, to the right, and behind him, acting as if Gail was nowhere around. “Hi, Montana, happy holidays! You look fabulous as ever.”

“Sam, you hear me.” Gail grabbed his arm, spinning him around to face her. “I said, you’re twenty minutes late. Don’t make me report you.”

“Gail, beauty takes time. Fashion is a voyage, style is a journey. Some of us prefer to be oven prepared, baked to perfection. Then there are those”—eyeing Gail from head to toe—“who prefer the microwaveable TV dinner look. Present company included.”

Ding Ding! The gloves were on. Round one had begun with hay-makers and shots below the belt.

Fuming, Gail responded, “Why, you little flying flame!” Gail didn’t waste any time. But Sam wasn’t easily flustered.

“Oh, Gail, Gail, Gail. Wait. What is that awful smell? Has the first class menu changed? Are we serving fish today? Oops, I’m sorry, Gail, that must be your new perfume, Jean Paul Halibut.” Grinning and giggling, Sam knocked Gail to the canvas with his first punch.

“Guys, guys, please, it’s almost Thanksgiving,” I interrupted, needing to break this up before the cuts went too deep.

“You calling me a fish?” Gail replied.

“If the worm fits, honey, then hop on the hook and slide!!!”