Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1)

by Noel J. Hadley

  “Can’t say that I have.” He stated that fact proudly, like waving a bachelor banner. “I’m a better man for it. And something tells me if you weren’t so hung up on abstract feelings and chivalrous notions that you could round up both of them…. at the same time.”

  But that’s not what I wanted. I never fantasized about stuff like that. Why was it so difficult to find someone, just one monogamous person to love? That’s all I ever really wanted. Sex is wonderful, even the worst of it. But when it’s with your lifelong lover it never ceases to be immaculate.

  “I guess I just wanted to make New York my home.” I murmured to Cousin Joe under my coffee mug.

  “Sounds to me like you caught the wrong flight, then.”

  “What a waste of four-hundred dollars.”

  “The good news is there’s at least fifty planes coming and going from JFK every hour. Believe me, Joshi-boy, there will be plenty of others.”

  He was wrong. There weren’t plenty of others. No, there couldn’t be. It just wasn’t possible. For me there were always only two options, either/or. If I couldn’t make one of them my final destination, then there was nowhere left to turn.

  As the years passed the details of that dreadful day slowly dimmed in color. A little over an hour later my Twenty Year-Old Self would be somewhere below the eightieth floor (having narrowly survived a brief entombment in an elevator,) gazing out at the South Tower engulfed in flames and the seemingly constant line-up of falling people glazing past the window. The heat and the smoke were overbearing, and yet in the midst of it there was only one number that came to mind. I punched it into my cell phone. I remember the voice of that woman on the other end, and our brief conversation, better than all the eggs and coffee cups I’ve ever tried. Though three thousand miles away, she was my angel.

  7

  I threw up on the floor of THE LAB, or was it Windows on the World? Or better yet, I kept my fingers crossed that it happened in Andrea’s kitchen. Of course, now that I opened my eyes again, it was far more likely that I’d never actually left my spinning bathroom. I couldn’t be sure. Just thank the Lord that I finally threw up somewhere.

  8

  Someone was knocking on my door, but I wasn’t going to answer it. Aristotle howled. The kitchen reeked of dirty dishes, strands of lasagna and scrambled eggs rotting from a recent heat wave, and Dean Martin, You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You, echoed from iPod speakers. My head spun like a top. The door creaked open and that same somebody entered. Aristotle wagged his tail and thumped his paws like a good home-protector.

  I heard the clip-clop of another dogs overgrown nails scrambling across floorboards and the panting of its tongue as the intruder entered, closing the door behind him or her. I thought Aristotle might be sniffing the dogs butt, and then I listened in as the other dog sniffed Aristotle’s butt. Then I was pretty sure they were both sniffing each other’s butt. It was a regular butt sniffing party. I was completely fine with it so long as the intruder didn’t come in here and sniff my butt. What time was it? How long had I been here?

  “Joshua?” The intruder said, definitely not a woman.

  I’d left our wedding ceremony playing on the television. In fact, the intruder had the same voice as the man narrating the video, sloppily zooming the video camera in and out as we stood in front of a Vegas court judge.

  He rumpled several magazines and old newspapers into a single stack on the couch. Toes stumped an empty bottle of whiskey. It toppled clumsily across a rug and slid into the hall. Footsteps trailed from the dining room into the kitchen. The cabinet opened, the sink turned on, and a dish or a bowl of some sort was set on the ground whereas Aristotle and the second strange dog began to lick up a helping of water like it was going out of style.

  “Joshua? Are you home?” My best man’s voice said. “I’ve been trying to call you for hours.”

  I was sprawled out dry as a whistle in the empty tub with all of my clothes on when Michael and a basset hound entered. Aristotle followed, sniffing the midget hounds butt. Michael studied several electric candles burning around the sink, a glass of Bourbon with ice and a bottle of Wild Turkey erected at full salute on toilet porcelain, the dried oatmeal heaping of vomit on my shirt, across its sleeves, and finally on the corners of my mouth.

  “How long have you been in here?” Michael said. The strange basset hound stared me down rather stupidly.

  “Not nearly long enough,” I thought about it. “But certainly long enough to finish off that bottle you kicked across the floor.”

  “Long as I’ve known you,” Michael sighed, “you’ve never been much for drunk.”

  “Elise left me.”

  “Yes I know. Susan told.”

  “Are she and Susan talking about it?”

  “You know girls.” Michael removed the bottle of Wild Turkey and sat on the toilet. Thank the Lord his pants were on. “They like to chirp from the trees when other girls are involved, but never to boy birds…. or husbands.” He picked up the bottle, ventured back into the kitchen, opened cabinets, and retrieved a glass. “You left your tray of ice melted on the counter and there’s no more in the freezer.”

  I didn’t answer him.

  “I guess a shot without ice will have to do.”

  Michael sat back down on the toilet with a glass of Wild Turkey. “Do you want me to stay the night? I can sleep with Saint Augustine on the couch.”

  “You mean it’s not morning yet?”

  “Its two hours past midnight.”

  “I’d prefer you not see me like this.”

  He stood, fished for my set of keys in the sink, and slid them into his pocket. “Too late. Let’s get you to bed. Come on, I’ll help you out of the tub.”

  He ironed me out under a single sheet, found a salad dish and a punch bowl in the kitchen and nestled them on my side of the bed. “Here’s your trip to the bathroom.” He returned to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, popped open a plastic bottle of Aspirin, and returned.

  “Where’s my kiss goodnight?” It hurt to talk.

  “Here’s your kiss goodnight.” He set four capsules on the in-table. “I’ll be back in the morning to make you coffee and breakfast.” He flipped the light switch. “You want me to turn Dean Martin off or do you willfully wish to remain depressed with morning after breakup songs for the rest of the night?”

  “I can dance with who I want to.” I drifted towards sleep. “And by the way, who’s the dog?”

  But I was already asleep before I got around to asking about the dog.

  9

  I was dead. Yes, I was quite certain of it. I was dead, and this was heaven. It’s the breezy wind chimes and the morning dove cooing outside the window that gave it away. I listened to the distant hum of cars, probably an angelic highway. You couldn’t fool me, Saint Peter. When I opened my eyes, I’d be resting comfortably in my heavenly abode without the slightest hint of a hangover, I knew I would – or not.

  Aristotle towered over me, emotionless ears hung like curtain drapes. He stared me down with all four paws on either side of my ribs. I often thought he was plotting my murder. It was quite possible that he slugged my skull with that bowling ball in the closet and he was waiting for the killing to take full effect. That, or maybe I was just hung over.

  Elise rang me up on the cell.

  “Hello?” I pretended like I didn’t know who it was.

  “You called me two-dozen times last night. Is everything alright?”

  “No,” I confessed. “I finished off an entire bottle of Bourbon. My head hurts like hell, and I think Aristotle wants to kill me.”

  “Has he been fed his breakfast yet?”

  “That’s probably it.”

  Elise started to say something and paused to think on it. “I already miss you,” she finally said.

  I kept silent in hopes of fishing up a kind response. Nothing bit and I considered the likelihood that my brain was so dehydrated from that recent trip to Bourbon County that all the fish
had dried up and died anyhow.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I don’t want to leave you. I hope I didn’t come off wrong.”

  “That’s a stunning development. Because last we left off, you’d run off with another man.”

  She paused. “I…. I’m confused.”

  “What are you confused about, whose body part is whose?”

  “That’s not nice.”

  I digested the silence. “I’m sorry.”

  “This is very difficult…. I…. while you were away…. all those times, I was so very lonely and I…”

  I waited for Elise to finish her thought.

  “Joshua, do you still love me?”

  I wanted to lie and tell her no. “Yes.” I cleared my throat. “But I guess you can’t say the same.”

  “No, Joshua, that’s not true. I do love you.”

  “So you just bopping this guy for summer recreation or do you love him too?”

  “I,” she opened her mouth and closed it, took a sobering breath and tried again. “Joshua, I don’t know. I’m very confused.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Are you staying with him?”

  “Joshua, please. I can’t answer that. I love you.”

  I was tired of hearing that she loved me. “Look, do me a favor. Don’t think about me while you play doctor with him tonight.” I hung up the phone. If we were being technical, then that probably wasn’t very nice either.

  10

  I kept under a single sheet cocking both eyes in hopes of shielding an atrocious onslaught of morning light. I listened as someone played Chris Isaak, Wicked Game, in my house, probably the kitchen, and smothered my entire face with a pillow. And then the smell of brewing coffee kicked in, what I fancied to be blueberry pancakes, and the sizzle of bacon in the frying pan with what appeared to be the simultaneous scramble of eggs.

  I stammered down the hall in a Bruins sweater, flip-flops and jogging shorts, dark sunglasses over my eyes, hair in knots, probably smelling like puke, all to the music of Lesley Gore, It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” I forced a smile and stopped quite suddenly in my tracks. The kitchen didn’t look at all as it smelled. Quite the opposite, it was a complete disaster zone.

  Mounds of pancake batter lay in puddles across the counter. They dribbled down cabinets to the floor. Several eggshells were murdered and lying in puddles of their own blood. The welcome party was already at work. Aristotle and the basset hound licked yoke and batter up with their tongues, and some sort of grease bomb had exploded over the stove. Pancake batter even managed to nest in Michael’s hair. I held my composure but Lesley Gore would have already run away to mother in tears.

  “Tell me I’m seeing the world through the distorted lens of a hangover.” I gently pressed the palm of both hands to my forehead.

  “This used to be breakfast once.” Michael frowned.

  “I’ve never seen anyone charcoal eggs before.”

  “The Boy Scouts taught me everything I know about cooking.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t burn the coffee.”

  Michael sunk into a chair and rested his chin on a hand. “The Boy Scouts didn’t teach me about brewing coffee.”

  “Thank the Lord.”

  I turned the oven to 400, retrieved a nine-inch cake pan from the cabinet and lightly greased it. In a large bowl I combined one cup of flour, another cup of cornmeal, two-thirds sugar, a teaspoon of salt with roughly three and one-half teaspoons of baking powder mixed with a cup of milk and a third cup of vegetable oil.

  “Are there any eggs to spare?” I spoke softly. My skull throbbed.

  “I think there’s one survivor of the Kitchen Morning Massacre in the fridge.”

  “That’ll do.” I opened the fridge, cracked it open and dropped it in the bowl, mixed it all together and poured the batter into the greased pan.

  “How did you do that? You made that in less than five minutes…. with a hangover that would likely take Rocky Balboa down.” Michael studied the yellow ingredients in the pan. “What is it?”

  “It should be cornbread in about twenty to twenty-five minutes.”

  I popped it in the oven.

  “I’ll clean this place up.”

  “Yes, you will.” I held the palm of both hands to my head. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna take a shower to wash the puke out of my hair.”

  “And while you’re at it, you might want to scrub your teeth with an elephant sized tooth brush.” He fanned his face.

  “By the time I get back, the cornbread should be ready and the kitchen’s gonna be clean.” I studied the various cracked eggs, grease explosion, and the two dogs busy at work licking up the pancake batter from cabinet doors.

  “What’s the dogs name again?”

  “Saint Augustine,” he said.

  “That’s a good name.” I nodded and disappeared for the bathroom.

  “Sorry about the kitchen,” he called after.

  “Forgiven.” I said from the bathroom, turning the shower on. I popped my head back into the kitchen. “Despite turning this place into a disaster zone, you’re the best friend a guy could ask for.”

  11

  Cookie, the Los Angeles Zoo’s aging resident lioness, let out a healthy growl, which quickly turned into a hair-standing roar. Her aging boyfriend Lionel lay on his back, paws held up innocently in the air, as if pleading for a little child to come along and scratch its tummy, similar to what kittens will do before they wrap their claws around your wrist and clamp their teeth down. I figured it must have been a team effort. Cookie attracted the crowds with her show-stopping roar, particularly wooing children, and Lionel lay there lazy-like and inviting, begging for a belly rub. I wondered if they’d ever caught a single child yet.

  “Remember when we used to come here as kids?” Michael grinned at the two lions. “One of the best things that can happen to you isn’t so much a happy childhood as revisiting it once in a while.”

  “I feel naked.” I hung over the railing and frowned. I was still wearing my hangover sunglasses. “I wish I would have brought my camera. I’m naked without it.”

  “Yes, but that was the deal. I’d take you out of the house, my treat, but only if you left your camera behind. No alcohol and no camera.”

  Cookie let out another awe-inspiring roar. Children screamed with delight, and Lionel just lay there like a fuzzy log inviting any one of them into his soft teddy bear paws.

  “My camera helps me focus.”

  “No, cooking helps you focus. Best cornbread I ever had, by the way. Your camera closets your eyes away from the peripheral vision of your current circumstances. There’s a reason why you see pictures of horrific disasters, people fleeing for their life, and the photographer’s just standing there, not helping anyone, clicking away like everything’s capital.”

  “OK fine, I’ll just stand here naked with my full peripheral vision. But if Cookie or Lionel does anything spectacular, like yoga or zumba, and I’m not ready with my camera….”

  Cookie let out another series of threatening purr-like growls to entertain the crowd, like a true Los Angeles celebrity, while Lionel tired of waiting for children to fall into his adorable trap. He rolled off his back, shook his mane, and let out a menacing growl of his own. Cookie roared, teeth, tongue and all. Children squealed with delight. Then Lionel roared. Children hugged their parents. The MGM lion had nothing on Lionel. Lionel was as Hollywood as they came.

  “Let me ask you something. If you were photographing Cookie or Lionel right now, what would you see?”

  “A spectacular display of whiskers, teeth and tongue.”

  “And without your camera, right now, what do you see?”

  “A painful reminder that I’m waking up tomorrow morning in a world without Elise.” I frowned at the lions.

  “Mm-hmm, and when we were just up the hill at the ap
e exhibit?”

  “A painful reminder that I’m waking up tomorrow morning in a world without Elise.” I frowned again, this time at Michael.

  “And when we were watching the Ibex and the elephants?”

  I told him.

  “Mm-hmm, I’m sensing a theme here.”

  12

  Her name was Dr. Ellie Alexander. I held her partly responsible for Elise’s actions (I’d decided that fact after sinking into another bottle of Wild Turkey, it was still early on a Friday afternoon), and I knew exactly where she was expected to be, Barnes & Noble at the Marina Pacifica, just off the Pacific Coast Highway, where she was scheduled for a book signing. Elise and Ellie went all the way back to their college years when they co-habitated the dorms at USC. A friendship was fused despite the fact that the two of us never got along. I occasionally called her Elizabeth, the name on her birth certificate. She hated it when I called her Elizabeth. But sometimes it slipped out like a dirty word.

  She was an atheist too. I bring it up because I could never figure out why she taught religion at UCLA. Actually, she was a bit of a celebrity on the anti-religious front. That’s where Barnes & Noble came in. She had authored a book called Babies Are Atheists. It had only recently become a New York Times Bestseller, though I imagine the cover photo had something to do with it.

  It’s jacket depicted a blushing Dr. Alexander completely naked, barely covering two baby-feeder wardrobe malfunctions, with her only other free arm holding a crucifix at full mass over her inner-thigh, and beaded rosaries draped from her neck in-between the crack of her breasts. I figured it had something to do with the fact that she was reverting back to her inner baby atheist or something, with the guilt of religion desperately attempting to clothe her. Mm-hmm, I got metaphors.

  When I arrived at Marina Pacifica with the taste of Bourbon on my tongue a line of anxious readers zigzagged through the store, wrapped into the parking lot and around the block, every single one of them holding a shiny new hardbound copy. Despite everything I was taught in kindergarten, I didn’t wait in line.