Undead L.A. 1: LAX
Page 4
ministrations of his favorite flight attendant, but he was out in less than fifteen minutes. In the back of his head he could still hear the country music he hated but had grown to associate with her and that pungent love shack on wheels. One lyric kept repeating as he passed out, his mind finally letting go of everything and surrendering to the chaos of the unknown.
Know when to walk away…and know when to run.
He awoke to the sound of his alarm going off. It had been loudly beeping for over ten minutes. The power in the room was out. The alarm clock provided by the hotel was digital. It sat blank and useless, giving him no indication of when the juice went out. He tried the television, but it was dead too. He threw the remote in frustration. It was already getting hot. The AC unit was turned off. He fiddled with the knob, but nothing happened.
“This is exactly why I depend on my own alarm,” he said to the empty room. Outside in the hallway he heard a loud groan, which he mistook for another tired traveler violently protesting the coming day.
“Right there with ya, buddy!” He shouted at the door but didn't get a response. He walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. It was cold from both faucets.
“What the fuck is going on? Whole damn world is gone to shit.”
He walked back into the room and began to dress. Back in London, he could splash on some cologne and take a hot shower. He had a spot he preferred not far from Heathrow's sprawling grounds, a five-minute ride by cab. They always knew just how to treat him there. He enjoyed everything about the United Kingdom better these days. Hell, even the cabs were nicer!
Maybe I should just give up and move there. After all, it's not like my wife would notice.
He hadn't talked to Theresa in over a week, but she was never far from his mind. He just didn't know what to do about her anymore. He realized that he should have called her when he landed and explained the change in his work schedule. She'd be expecting him later in the day. He picked up his cell phone and saw that it had no signal. The battery was low too, despite being plugged in all night, because of the power outage. Instinctively he grabbed his iPod. Anger coursed through him as he saw it, too, was almost completely drained now. Listening to his own mix before take off was also one of his rituals, on the rare occasions he flew first. He'd made a fast paced rock mix to get him pumped up for the first leg of the trip. Then later, when it was time for another pilot to relieve him, he'd listen to the chanting of Tibetan monks as he fell asleep. Now all that was out the window.
“Looks like the day is going to be a total loss,” he grumbled. He picked up the phone to call downstairs and complain, but the line was dead.
“Guess I won't be talking to Theresa today after all,” he said. He reached over and picked up his complimentary bag of morning coffee. He stared from his hand to the one-cup brewer like a caveman trying to figure out how to use a computer. Slowly the realization dawned on him that he would not be enjoying a fresh cup of piping hot coffee to start his day.
“Great,” he said aloud to the empty room, his frustration growing. “Just great. No shower. No cell service. No morning news. No iPod, and now no coffee. This is just perfect. Looks like it's going to be a great fucking day.”
He threw the coffee bag hard against the wall. It opened on impact, spraying fragrant grounds across the bed and nightstand.