“Fuckin’ cunts,” he said, taking my unwillingness to answer as an affirmative. “Hey, man, you goin’ to Paradise too?”
I nodded, wondering where in the hell else he thought the plane was going to drop me off. Pit stop in the middle of the Atlantic, anyone?
“Where you stayin’?”
“Seacoast Majestic,” I whispered hoarsely.
“No fuckin’ way,” he said, grinning. That was when I noticed he’d slicked his hair back in the bathroom and removed his brown leather jacket. Now he was wearing a plain white t-shirt and a silver Rolex with a black face. In that split second, I wondered how a guy like that afforded a watch that was probably worth more than the shitty Acura I drove back home. “I got a room there myself.”
Brilliant.
“Maybe you wanna meet me for a drink later? A couple of single blokes on the prowl ought to do quite good with the ladies, eh? Better than drinking alone, I always say.”
From my seat, I watched Megan Fox adjusting herself in her aisle seat four rows ahead of me and considered his offer for a second. He was right. I did my best work with a wingman, and despite my present condition, I was still bound and determined to find the sweetest piece of ass Paradise Isle had to offer and fuck it until the wee hours of the morning. “Maybe.”
“You got a number or something?”
With one hand, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. I had a wrinkled business card tucked inside. It said Officer Daniel T. Drunk, Jr., Kansas City Police Department. I flipped it over to show him that my personal cell number was written on the back and handed it to him.
“Crikey. You’re a cop?”
“Yep.”
He pursed his lips and nodded his head a bit. “Well, good onya, mate.” He leaned over, putting the brunt of his weight on his right elbow rest, and then flicked a hand against his chest. “Name’s Jimmie.”
“What were you doing in Atlanta?” I asked him, not really caring, but feeling pressured to make conversation and wishing he’d fall back asleep again so I could try and do the same.
He nodded. “Right. Well, you see, I have a friend who needed a little help. Just finished up, and now I’m headin’ out for a little R&R. You know? What’s got you headin’ to a remote island all alone?”
I looked at him. My face was somber. Was this douche canoe really gonna make me say it out loud? Nah. Saying it out loud would be like admitting that aliens existed. Who knew if that shit was real or not, but whatever you did, you just didn’t say it aloud. It’s like it made it official or something. I wasn’t in the mood. “Just a trip I booked. No reason,” I grunted, salty that this guy wasn’t getting the hint.
“No lady waitin’ for you there?”
I shook my head and then leaned it back against the headrest and closed my eyes. That had to work.
“Right. Well, we’ll have a drink and maybe we can change that. What do you say?”
I reached down and plugged the plane’s cheaper-than-shit earbuds into my ears. With my eyes closed and buds in, I couldn’t tell whether Jimmie was talking or sleeping. I liked it that way.
6
When I woke up, people were already disembarking the plane. Jimmie was the one to wake me up, giving me a little nudge before rifling through the overhead compartment.
“Eh, mate, we made it,” he said when I pulled the earbuds out of my ears.
Glittery streams of sunlight edged in through the window across the aisle, reflecting off a serene surface that I could only imagine to be the ocean. I sure as shit wasn’t in Kansas City anymore.
I wiped the crusty edges of my mouth and sat up. Not only were my legs stiff from being jammed into such a tight confined space, a side effect of being six foot four, but my neck was also stiff from the jacked-up way in which I’d slept. Swallowing instantly reminded me about the ninja femme fatale on the flight and brought me back to my current situation.
I had just landed on Paradise Isle for my honeymoon.
Alone.
I groaned as I unfolded myself from my seat and stood up. First thing, my head hit the overhead with a thunk. “Doh,” I groaned, ducking. I reached for my head. My hair felt like wet dog fur against my fingers and my head felt like ass, a remnant of my hangover. Yeah, I was feeling good.
The line to disembark went fast as most of the people were already off the plane by the time I was even awake. Jimmie went ahead of me, giving me a backwards glance once and a thumbs-up. “See ya later, mate,” he said, slinging his leather jacket over a shoulder.
Damn, a nap had done that man good. I wished I’d woken up as cheerful.
The sweltering ocean air filled the cabin. Like heat pouring from a four-hundred-degree preheated oven, it steamed up the windows and raked my face with its tenacious claws.
Fuck, that heat felt good.
I wanted more of it. I wanted to strip down naked. Tear off the repulsive clothing my cheating fiancée had dressed me in, lay my white ass down on some blisteringly hot sand somewhere, and numb my aches, pains, and feelings with a couple gallons of margaritas.
As I grabbed my suitcase from the overhead compartment, a cute flight attendant stopped to smile at me. “Thank you for flying Delta, sir. Have a great time on Paradise Isle!”
Her chipper, upbeat attitude brought new light to my situation. I was on fucking Paradise Isle. Yes, I felt like something a dog’s ass shat out after ingesting dairy products, and yes, I probably looked about as appealing at the current moment, but in general, I was a good-looking guy with nothing else to do but go have some fun. After a shower, a meal, and a few drinks, this trip was going to be fucking epic.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I said, feeling a bit of my usual swagger returning.
Disembarking the plane directly onto the tarmac, I had to squint to see anything, the sun was so bright. My virgin Midwestern eyes wouldn’t last a second in Paradise without a pair of sunglasses, so I put “stop at the airport gift shop” as number three on my priority list, right behind buying a drink and flirting with anything with breasts.
The other passengers were already being ushered towards the small island terminal, and our luggage was being unloaded by hand onto long wheeled luggage carts. At the bottom of the stairs, an exotic little number with curly brown hair and wearing a pencil skirt kept the traffic moving. Her name tag read Lola.
“Lola,” I whispered to myself. Rolling the name around on my tongue, I realized I liked the way it felt in my mouth. I could only imagine her skin would taste as sweet.
I gave her a nod and a smile.
“Thank you for flying Delta, sir. Enjoy your stay on Paradise Isle.”
“Thank you, darlin’. Say, do you live on the island?”
“Yes, I do, sir. Something I can help you with?”
Oh man, did I want to tell her exactly what she could help me with. But I resisted. Instead I pulled a business card out of my wallet and handed it to her. “If you ever want to get together, you know, for a drink or something, my cell number’s on the back.”
She gave me a little giggle and a flutter of her fingers as I blew a kiss at her while continuing along on the tarmac towards the terminal.
I felt like skipping at that point. I couldn’t get to my resort fast enough.
Following the general flow of traffic, I got a good look at the island for the first time. Palm trees rustled against a light breeze. The ocean ebbed and flowed, and the temperature was fucking divine.
Inside the airport, Caribbean music played by way of a native steel drum band. I liked music, and I didn’t mind dancing. I mean, I wasn’t one of those guys that got up at a club and willingly danced all night, but I also wasn’t dead inside. Who am I to argue with Gloria Estefan? When the rhythm’s gonna get ya, the rhythm’s gonna get ya. And fucking straight, that steel drum band had me at hello. My pelvis began to gyrate even before I’d had my first drink.
The line of people from my flight seemed to just somehow know where we were supposed to go, and I followed
behind, shaking my hips and randomly tapping my foot like the unrhythmic white guy that I was. The line bottlenecked through a security checkpoint where a couple of airport officials were dubiously checking passports and carry-ons. I wasn’t too concerned, because I could see the bar up ahead, and drinks were within reach.
Goodbye, sobriety.
Daddy’s almost home.
Catching a glimpse of a familiar figure, I saw Jimmie peering at me from up ahead. Feeling much more like the easy-going guy I normally was, I gave him a wassup nod. It was funny how some people reacted to heat differently than others. My large frame seemed to drink up the heat, welcoming the stench of my manly charisma. Others, like Jimmie, seemed to immediately turn into sweaty beer cans. He literally looked like a cat trying to bury a shit on a marble floor. I felt bad for the guy. How’s a guy supposed to get laid on the beach looking like that?
Jimmie gave me a little nod back. Except it wasn’t the kind that I’d given him—you know, the friendly wassup-mate nod. It was more like a side tilt with an eyebrow lift. Like he was trying to tell me something. I glanced in the direction he was nodding and saw Megan Fox staring at both of us.
Oh. Fucking guy’s got jokes. I gave him a tight smile and then thought, Fuck you. You can have a drink on your own, you son of a bitch. I was trying to be nice, and you’re gonna rub Megan Fox’s esophagus punch in my face?
The line moved on. I wasn’t far away from the front of the line by now, and Jimmie was two people from the front when all of a sudden I see him drop a heel on the foot of big beefy guy who happened to be behind him. He followed it up with an elbow to the gut. My eyes widened. Had I seriously just seen that?
Big beefy guy emitted a grunt, and Jimmie turned around to take the punch in the face that was coming to him.
That was when all hell broke loose.
7
The security guards all leapt into action as if that was what they’d been waiting for all day. Jimmie, who was trying to hold his own through a squinty eye and a bloodied nose, took the time to glance back at me during the ruckus and give me another nod. Had he been trying to show off for Megan Fox? Was that it? Did he think somehow by getting laid out, he was going to increase my chances of getting laid?
What is this guy’s deal? I wondered, glancing up to take in Megan Fox’s reaction. That was when I realized that the rest of the line was being ushered through the checkpoint’s fast lane, and Megan Fox was nowhere to be seen.
I grabbed the handle of my wheeled carry-on and, after flashing my passport to a uniformed woman wearing a baton on her hip, cruised my way out of the security checkpoint and straight to the bar.
Goodbye, Jimmie.
Goodbye, Megan Fox.
Hello, Margarita.
Rita, as I liked to call her, was a good-looking dame. A tall, thin, refreshing blonde with a kinky lime-green hat cocked at a jaunty angle. She was salty around the edges, and yet sweet in her own cool, calm, and sophisticated way. She was on a permanent vacation, this one. I could tell it by her unassuming demeanor.
Savoring her taste, I relished my place in the world at that single, solitary moment. I let out a relaxing breath.
The island heat.
The cold drink in my hand.
No job to be late for.
No woman to answer to.
No promises made to a God I wasn’t sure that I believed in anymore.
I was free.
Little did I know that freedom came at a price. But I’d find that out soon enough.
I tipped my bartender after the second drink and carried the glass with me to the airport gift shop: a kitschy little dive filled with random useless shit like turtles made from puka shells, imitation leather fish hook bracelets, and terra cotta coasters etched with palm trees and starfish. Everything had Paradise Isle emblazoned on it, but I knew damn good and well it had all been made in China. I’d never pay money for most of that touristy crap, but I was thrilled to find one of those spinning racks of sunglasses on the glass counter.
I swirled it around and around at least four times before settling on a pair of knock-off black Ray-Bans. I studied myself in the small square mirror above the rack. Damn. My hair had become a rat’s nest somewhere between the cold, shampoo-less shower I’d taken that morning and the hours of planes and airport terminals since. I plucked a black fedora off the rack behind me and popped it onto my head. It rode down low, topping off my glasses and giving me the casual appearance I desired, but also the sense of mystery I knew would draw in the ladies.
I popped it off and dropped it onto the counter along with the glasses and a pair of leather flip-flops to replace the mandals Pamela had bought me (with my money) for the trip. I hadn’t wanted the brown Velcro strappy things, but she’d pushed. I’d told her I wasn’t an expose-your-feet-kind of guy. The closest I’d ever gotten to revealing my long, hairy-toed size thirteens was going sockless in a boat shoe. My pops had never worn a sandal a day in his life, and that was enough to make me think that real men didn’t wear sandals. But love, or perhaps more likely, lust, had persisted, and UPS had delivered my first pair of mandals less than a week after I’d sworn I wouldn’t wear them.
I had to bend over to unfasten the Velcro. I scooped them off the floor and handed them to the fella behind the counter. “Toss these, will ya?”
I slid some cash over to him and dropped the new shoes to the floor, sliding my feet in like I’d done it all my life. Yes, my toes were still exposed. But there was no Velcro to get my toe hair caught in, and these looked much more appropriate for the locale. Plus, Pamela hadn’t picked them out for me. And that, my friends, was the three-pointer that won the game.
I slid the sunglasses on, topped the look off with the hat, grabbed my drink, and dragged my bag out of the gift shop. Now to find a ride outta here. I was pretty sure my itinerary included transportation. I knew I’d heard Pamela mention it on more than one occasion. Everything was included on this trip. The drinks. The food. The ride. Even some snorkeling and kayaking lessons or some stupid shit like that.
Slamming the remainder of my drink, I left the glass behind on top of someone’s luggage and dug through the top front pocket of my suitcase for my papers. There had to be some kind of instructions about where to go from here.
Aside from a hotel confirmation form, there was nothing else. I had to assume the instructions were still lodged inside Pamela’s puffy brain, and that was still back in Missouri.
The crowd cleared, and I happened to notice a lovely little thing in a powder-blue two-piece dress standing next to a little booth. She didn’t have much for tits, but she had killer abs, and she looked like she worked there. That was enough for me.
I rolled my bag over to her. “Excuse me. I’m trying to find my way to the Seacoast Majestic. I was told I could catch a cab somewhere. Can you possibly point me in the right direction?”
Her big almond eyes lit up as she smiled at me. “Oh, welcome, welcome! You can check in for the Seacoast Majestic shuttle right over here.” Her words were choppy, as if English wasn’t her first language. She pointed to the little booth behind her, which was really only a hole in the wall cordoned off by a counter, filled with island maps. A gangly black man with teeth as white as freshly fallen Missouri snow and a baseball cap on his head sat behind the counter, quietly reading what appeared to be a trashy romance novel.
“Thanks,” I said. If she’d been at the hotel, I would have offered to buy her a drink. Small tits didn’t bother me.
The man behind the counter gave me directions to find the shuttle bus outside. He said I’d know it was for my resort because the words Seacoast Majestic were painted along the side. I slid him a fiver, and in exchange he slid me a map of the island.
Outside, the heat raked its gritty claws over my skin once again. This time the sun wasn’t so bad on my eyes. I had my shades and my hat now, and with the two drinks in my system, I felt calmer, and much cooler in the less restrictive flip-flops.
Followin
g the directions I’d been given, I walked around the corner in search of the Seacoast Majestic shuttle bus. I looked right and I looked left, but didn’t see a shuttle bus. I wondered if the two margaritas had gone straight to my brain or something and made me suddenly informationally stupid.
So I stood there for a moment, looking like the ignorant tourist that I was while waiting for a shuttle bus to arrive, when a Jeep parked next to a truck with a topper moved out of the way and I saw the words Seacoast Majestic written in black permanent marker on the side of the truck.
Now that I could see it fully, I realized it wasn’t really a topper, but more like a corrugated tin roof fashioned over top of an aluminum frame. Somehow they’d bolted four rows of seats onto a flatbed truck in some sort of poor man’s trolley. I was fairly confident that this would never pass muster in America. But we weren’t in America, and my mother always told me to mind my manners and do as the natives do.
So, by God, I’d found my ride.
8
The cab of the truck didn’t have doors, or windows for that matter, so the driver was able to holler at me unobstructed. “You goin’ to the Seacoast Majestic?”
I nodded.
He waved me over in grand fashion. “What’s your name?” he asked, looking down at a clipboard that had a Bic pen tied to it with a piece of string.
“Drunk. Danny,” I added. You know, on the off chance there happened to be two Drunks on board.
The driver popped the ballpoint of his pen against my name and crossed it off with a flourish. “Hop on in. We’ve been waiting for you!”
I tugged at the collar of my polo and looked back at the arrangements while the driver took my bag to stow. Right behind the cab, a stairway had been welded onto the truck. I climbed aboard and immediately noticed the old man and woman I’d cut in front of at the airport were sharing a ride with me, as were a handful of other passengers that had been on our plane out of Atlanta. The shuttle was filled to capacity, and I had to stuff myself in between two old women wearing matching t-shirts that read Grannies Gone Wild and carrying wicker purses. As the shuttle took off, I felt like a sore thumb sticking out between the two miniature old women, but the nice breeze quickly took my mind off it.
Drunk on a Plane Page 3
