Rampage in the Republic: Part II

Mar 26, 2012 by

 Editor’s note: It’s been a while since the first installment, if you want to catch up; you can read part one by clicking the link below.

Part 1

 

I was nervous on the plane.  I don’t like to fly.  Everyone says it’s safer than being in a car, but I live in a city, I take cabs, and everyone knows that cabs never get in accidents; it’s one of those irrefutable laws, like gravity.  This brings me back to the main reason I don’t like to be on a plane; maybe flying at 20 thousand feet in a giant tin coffin makes sense to a fucking physics major, but to me its lunacy. 

So I’ve got that going for me.  Topping off that ice cream sundae of fear is my absolute detestation of airports.  You could be a prosecutor for the Spanish inquisition and you still couldn’t make a case for me as to why I’d ever voluntarily walk into one.  I’m not ashamed to admit that I tried to find a way to take a fucking boat to the Dominican.  And I don’t mean a goddamned cruise line either.  You’ll NEVER catch me on one of those buffets of disease and fat people.  It’s where old people go to have sex.  It makes me throw up in my mouth just thinking about it.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out I was on the wrong side of the ocean.  If I was on an island and desperate to get to America; any motherfucker with a car door would make a raft for my dumbass to get there.  That wasn’t the case though, if I wanted to get to the Caribbean via non major transportation, I’d have to be a drug dealer or a deck hand.  The day I get caught in deck shoes is the day I eat a bullet for breakfast.  I tried to get my way with a drug dealer, but apparently I look like a cop, so a fucking plane it is.

I don’t own a lot of suits, but it seemed appropriate to wear one of them for this flight.  I’ve heard you dress for success, and I thought nothing said “I don’t want to die on a plane over the Atlantic” like a three piece suit; and that, dear reader, is success in my book.  Unfortunately, I hadn’t worn this one in a while and I guess I’d put on a few pounds since the last time.  I popped a button on my vest just as the flight attendant pointed me towards my seat.  Her plastic smile faltered just enough for me to notice.

Thank God for first class.  It was a short flight so the amenities weren’t the same as flying international, but it was a whole lot better than the poor schleps in coach.  Barry, my flight attendant, had just finished pouring my second whisky sour and was in the middle of a delightful tale of rabid debauchery; involving his boyfriend, his boyfriend’s stuck up sister, a marmot, and an Iranian cab driver: when she walked in.

Every guy, who’s ever taken public transportation of any kind, has dreamed of having a hot chick sit next to him.  It had never happened to me personally, but that hadn’t stopped me from dreaming about it.  Dreams do apparently come true, because there she was reaching up into the overhead bin to put her carry on away.  When she did, her blouse slid up just enough to reveal a tight caramel colored belly that I was immediately compelled to kiss.  I had not had my third drink yet, so thankfully I managed to refrain.

She sat down next to me and caught Barry’s attention, ordering a whiskey straight up.  She slid in her earbuds as she waited for the drink and started flipping through her iPod.  Just as she settled on a song, she looked over at me, looked away, and then right back; an honest to god double take.

I looked down thinking I must have spilled something on myself; seeing that all clear, I figured I must have something stuck between my teeth, because women like this don’t double take guys like me.

“Do you like to fly?” She said it looking straight at me, but I was still pretty sure she wasn’t talking to me, so I just stared at her.  She smiled, looking quizzically until I finally murmured, “erm, no, no, not really that much. Flying makes me kind of nervous. This is my 2nd drink already, and I’m pretty sure I’ll finish my third before you finish that one in front of you.”  I was proud of myself, stringing so many words together.  To show my self-appreciation I finished off my drink.

“I don’t know… I’m the kind of girl that likes a challenge,” she said with a wink – she actually winked – and downed her drink.  I have to tell you, I like a girl that can drink.  She cooed Barry’s name and he came a’hoppin, pouring two more.  She looked at me again, this time slyly, as she opened up a tin of curiously strong mints that had showed up out of nowhere.  “How about we make this really challenging,” she said as she plucked a mint from her tin and dropped it in her drink. She leaned over to me conspiratorially, and whispered “Valium”, as she dropped one in my drink.

A flight that I had been dreading had suddenly become pretty fucking great.  We drank two more before she dropped another “mint” into our drinks.  I couldn’t believe this was happening.  I was suddenly so grateful and happy for this assignment.  I loved this plane.  It was a nice, comforting, self-fulfilling, plane that loved me right back.  I wasn’t going to the Dominican republic to find an elusive old ball player, I was going to my place of actualization, and this woman, whose name I didn’t even know, was going there with me.  We’d probably get married, on the beach somewhere, in a tasteful little sunset ceremony.  I’d love her till I die.

The pain in my neck is what woke me up, not Barry poking me in the forehead, though he was doing that.  I was confused, stiff and unsure of my surroundings.  “We’re here sir, we have to get off the plane, please gather your bags and exit”.  I couldn’t understand why he was insisting on being so mean, but I knew I had to go.  I realized suddenly that the pain I was feeling wasn’t just in my neck; it was also the absence of my traveling companion.  Like the itch of a phantom limb, her absence was a solid thing in the room.

I went to stand, and a series of events played out with me as the star, but with the control of an observer.  I’d forgotten about the valium.  It had not forgotten me.  At some point, I’m guessing while I slept, someone had removed my bones and organs and filled me with water. As I stood, and leaned forward to stoop out into the aisle, all the liquid – from my toes on up – sloshed forward and propelled me, face first into Barry’s crotch.  Air expelled from his lungs as he collapsed in on himself and fell backwards.  I kept stumbling forward, pell-mell, driving Barry into the seats across the aisle from me, my face still buried.  I attempted to simultaneously slow my forward progression and get my head out of Barry’s crotch, but in the process I rose up and banged my head against the overhead compartment.  Then I fell backwards, slamming the back of my head against the compartments across the aisle, and dropped squarely on my ass.  That’s when I realized my pants were unbuttoned, and unzipped.  I also realized I had a plastic bag filled with pills sitting in my open crotch.

Dimly, from the pit of my whiskey and diazepam haze, I was aware this was a situation and it wasn’t good.  I knew I should think of something clever, but I also thought I should probably zip up my pants. 

Thankfully, I didn’t have to spend too much time trying to figure out what to do first.   Airport security took care of my decision making, and they did a fine job of it.  One of them had me by the belt buckle which kept my pants up, and my body mostly vertical. He was apparently pretty strong because he managed to keep me from falling over while also propelling me down the aisle and out the door.  He seemed like a really nice man.

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