Drunk on a Plane

by Zane Mitchell

  “Where are you?” I mumbled into the forest, my shaded eyes scanning the forest floor. Only the vague sound of bird chirps and ocean waves answered me.

  I pictured myself standing on my balcony, bag over my head, and wondered how far I would have been able to toss it. I pictured it landing several yards in front of me, so I began my search there. A half an hour after not readily finding the bag, I wondered if it had already been found. Had someone in the room on the ground floor seen it and gone exploring themselves to see what goodies lay inside? Or had these weird podlike snakes merely camouflaged it?

  I removed my glasses and rubbed my temples. I’d been looking forever, and I was now filthy. My legs and feet were scratched up, and my new tank top had a tear in it. Why I’d thought it was a good idea to shower and dress before tromping through a tropical jungle was beyond me. I guess I’d thought hunting for my suitcase would be like a trek through the Black Hills or something. I’d pictured myself on solid ground with a nice little hiking path straight to my bag.

  Just about to give up, I came to a realization. What if my bag had never actually made it to the ground? What if it had been caught up in the trees? I took my hat off and looked up into the forest webbing. Was it up there somewhere? I wandered around for another ten minutes, staring up at the trees.

  Finally, I went back to my starting point, beneath the window I was sure was several rooms below mine and looked out at the trees. Vinelike branches hung about, cradling clumps of pod-snakes and other vines. And there it was. Slightly to my right, six yards ahead of me, cradled by a vine and covered with pod-snakes.

  “Hot damn,” I said, a smile finally covering my face. I’d found it!

  I paced over to it and realized retrieving it wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d thought. It was too far over my head for me to touch. I jumped, but because of the exposed roots of the trees, and the ridiculous shoes I wore, I quickly discovered that jumping was futile. I’d have to scale the tree and climb over.

  Fuck.

  Worst. Vacation. Ever.

  Fucking understatement of the year.

  I wallowed in self-pity for about ten seconds and then forced myself to suck it up. In my youth I’d been a Boy Scout. I’d climbed plenty of trees to feel comfortable doing it, and in a tiny twist of luck, I realized that these viney trees were actually easier to climb than regular trees because there were lots of hand- and footholds. So, climbing the nearest tree, I managed to get to the height I needed, and then I had to hang like a monkey on a vine. The word “monkey bars” didn’t seem so silly now. One hand over the other, I scooted closer to my bag and worked to shake it loose.

  “Ooh ooh, ahh ahh ahh,” I belted out as I hung, using my weight to pull on the vines to loosen up their hold on my bag. Yes, making monkey noises was childish and immature, but not once have I claimed maturity. And in that moment, I needed the release to buoy my spirits.

  My legs kicked as I hung—trying to keep the momentum going. I bounced and bounced and watched my bag bounce with me. At times I thought it should have fallen, but it didn’t, and by now my arms and shoulders burned. Finally, I gave one more solid bounce, and a vine let go of its grasp, sending the bag tumbling to the ground.

  “Wooo-hoo!” I wailed excitedly before leaping off the vine to the ground.

  And then I promptly heard a scream. I glanced up and over my shoulder to see a woman with enormous jugs, clad only in a pair of panties in the first-floor window screaming. My eyes widened as my pulse thundered in my ears.

  Fuck.

  “Ahhhh!” she wailed, wrapping an arm over her shoulder and another over a hip.

  I wanted to rush up to the window and assure her that I wasn’t a Peeping Tom and that as scantily clad as she was, I’d seen it all before, but I didn’t think she was in a mood to listen. So instead, I grabbed my suitcase and headed in the opposite direction of the way I’d come. I prayed there would be a break in the motel somewhere close and that it would get me closer to my cottage, where I could lie low in case she decided to call security.

  The trek back to my room wasn’t any easier than it had been getting there. In fact, it was actually more difficult because I had a suitcase in tow, and I felt like I was being chased. The upside was, it ended up being half the distance. I half-expected there to be highly armed security guards waiting for me when I emerged from the jungle, and I wasn’t disappointed not to find them. In fact, no one waited for me at the exit. No angry husband or boyfriend. No maids. And no guests heading to the beach. There wasn’t even a railing to climb over. Just a nondescript opening in the wall that led back to the cobblestone road.

  I took pause to dust myself off and examine the red scratches and welts on my feet and ankles before extending the handle on my suitcase. Then I headed for my cottage, further down the road. That walk was more pleasant. And not feeling the pinch of security guards breathing down my neck, I half considered turning around and going back to the resort for my Dr. Pepper, but I didn’t want to bump into Natasha Prince after having told her that I’d not brought a suitcase with me on my vacation. With that thought in mind, I was careful as I headed back, clinging to every shadow I could and making sure to stay as well hidden as possible despite the bright light of daytime.

  Soon enough, the long run of motel rooms ended and the cottages began. I passed the first couple, then Al and Evelyn’s. They were cottage number three, and Glenn Anderson was number four. Gary Wheelan was number five, and I passed duplexes six through nine before I noticed a truck parked between my cottage and the cottage next to mine. We shared a parking area and a pair of picnic tables. I was sure the truck hadn’t been there when I’d left. I harkened back to Al’s words. “Hardly anyone has a car.”

  The thought made my muscles tense up, and I suddenly wished I had a firearm tucked into my suitcase. I slunk ahead, stowed my suitcase behind a grove of trees and snuck around the beach side of duplexes nine and ten, until I could see the front end of the truck. It was parked on my half of the parking space. I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t ten’s truck. I swallowed hard and wished I’d thought to bring my cell phone. Not that I knew exactly how to call 911 on the British-owned island.

  So I hunkered down behind the neighbor’s cottage and waited. I made mental note of the truck. It was a black Chevy Silverado with a roll bar and a run of fog lights across the top—no license plates on the front. I debated sneaking around to the back to check for a back plate, when the door to my cottage burst open and two men carrying guns emerged.

  22

  I watched them as they tucked their guns into the back of their jeans and covered them with their shirts. They were big guys. One white. One black. The white guy wore cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, and the black guy had an eye patch, a bald head, and a tattoo on the back of his neck. Neither one of them looked particularly friendly. I felt fairly confident they hadn’t shown up to take me to lunch.

  The white guy got into the driver’s seat and, without so much as a backwards glance, tore into reverse and sped away, his tires spinning up a cloud of dust in my parking spot. I waited in my hiding spot for a few minutes, just to make sure no one else was going to pop out of my cottage wondering where their buddies had gone, before I slid across the grass to my cottage and peered inside the windows.

  They’d broken the door’s window so they could reach around to unlock it, and they’d trashed the place, that much I could see. I couldn’t see anyone else inside, so I figured it was safe to go in. I went to the side door, gave one more look before opening the door, and called out from the doorjamb, “Hello!” Unarmed, I decided I’d rather deal with an intruder outdoors than in. Only silence greeted me.

  I stepped over the pile of glass in the living room and looked around. The sofa cushions had been pulled off. The kitchen drawers had all been pulled out and emptied. Vic’s wife’s vase lay shattered on the floor. “Ooh, tsk tsk tsk,” I chastised, shaking my head. “Mrs. Vic isn’t going to like that.”

  I went to my
room next, where I found the same thing. Drawers pulled out and emptied. I fingered the bedsheets they’d torn off the bed. “Oh thanks, the maid will appreciate the help,” I said.

  And then I heard a noise coming from the kitchen. I followed it. It was coming from beneath the counter in the kitchen. I squatted down and removed the toe kick from one of the cabinets. I stuck my hand inside and pulled out my phone and my passport. Right where I’d hidden them the night before, when I’d worried that Natasha Prince might come back while I slept.

  I looked down at my phone. There was no Caller ID, just a number I didn’t recognize. “Hello?”

  “Officer Drunk?” said a deep voice on the other end. I recognized it right away.

  “Sergeant Gibson! How’s it going? Hey, listen, why don’t you just call me Drunk?” I didn’t like my cop status being tossed around so freely. I preferred to keep that on the DL until we’d gotten everything straightened out.

  “Office Drunk, would you mind meeting me at my office? I’ve got some things I’d like to talk to you about.”

  I looked around my destroyed cottage. “I’ve got some things I’d like to talk to you about as well.”

  “Good. Then I’ll see you soon.”

  “Yes, as…” The line went dead. I looked at the phone and muttered to myself, finishing my sentence. “As soon as I can find a ride and get myself some caffeine.” I sighed and jammed the phone into my pocket.

  Looking around, I felt sick to my stomach as the realization sunk in that those two island hillbillies had been here to kill me. I let my head fall back on my shoulders for a moment. My mouth hung open. “Ugh!” I grunted. “Fuck!”

  There was a knock at my door. “Drunk? You alright?”

  My heart lurched at the sound, but I was thankful to recognize Al’s voice. I padded over to the door and peered at him through the shattered glass. “Yeah, I’m alright.” I opened the door.

  Al came inside and took one look around. His bushy white brows lifted, wrinkling his forehead more than usual. One gnarled hand went to his gaping mouth. “Drunk! You throw a party?”

  I put a hand on my hip and stared at him. “No I didn’t throw a party, Al. I think the guys who killed Jimmie came looking for me.” I said it loud, so I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.

  “How do you know it was the guys who killed Jimmie?”

  “I don’t, but you have to assume. Otherwise it’s quite the coincidence, wouldn’t you think?”

  He looked up at me. “Eh?”

  “I don’t know! I just assume.” I was feeling frustrated.

  Al’s head bobbed up and down as his watery eyes took in the damage they’d done to the room. Then he winced. “They broke Shirley’s vase! Oh, she’s not going to like that.”

  “No, she’s not,” I agreed. “Hey, Al. I need to get into town. The cops wanna speak with me. You know how to get me there?”

  “Sure,” said Al. “Want me to go with you?”

  I lifted a shoulder. Having someone who was more familiar with the island customs and people than I was wouldn’t be a bad thing. “If you have the time?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m a retired old man on an island. Time is all I’ve got. Let me just go tell Evie where I’m going.”

  I nodded. “Hey, you mind if I stow something over at your place?”

  “No, of course not.” He beckoned me as he stepped carefully over the glass in my doorway. “Come on. And don’t worry about this mess. We’ll get the desk girls to tell Ozzie what happened and get a better door put on this place and have them clean up this mess. No big deal.”

  “Thanks, Al.”

  “No problem, no problem.” He shook his head as he started towards his place. “There are some guys that have all the luck, you know? And then there are the other guys, Drunk. Sucks to be the other guys.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it does, Al. Yeah, it does.”

  23

  After storing my suitcase at Al and Evelyn’s place, I walked with Al up to the resort. I bought a Snickers bar and a Dr. Pepper for breakfast while he scored us a newspaper and a ride into town. The tourist shuttle had already left for the day, so we got to ride in one of the resort’s cars instead. It was a four-door white Ford Taurus with the resort’s logo pressed onto the doors.

  Riding in the backseat, I fiddled with my cell phone, scrolling through all my missed calls and missed texts.

  None from Pamela, thank God. The thought of her messages being undelivered and her figuring out she’d been blocked brought a smirk to my face.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Al in the seat next to me as he browsed through the newspaper.

  I lifted a shoulder and pointed at my phone. “I blocked my ex. The thought of her being mad about that brings joy to my heart.”

  “She dump you, did she?”

  “No, she cheated on me,” I said loudly so I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.

  I caught the driver glancing at me in his rearview mirror.

  “What’d she do that for?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  He gave me a sideways glance. “There’s always a reason people cheat. Either they’re unhappy, or they’re not getting something at home that they want so they go out looking for it somewhere else.”

  I looked at Al sharply. “She wasn’t getting banged. That’s what she wanted that she wasn’t getting.”

  “She wasn’t getting banged? You and her weren’t…” He wiggled his fingers at me.

  “No. We were saving it for our wedding night.”

  He stared at me while rolling that around in his mind. Then he gave a momentary glance down at my lap. “Ahh. Is the old escalator in need of repair?”

  I rolled my eyes. “My escalator is working just fine, thank you. My escalator goes to the top floor and beyond! Hell, my escalator blows the roof off buildings, alright?”

  Al closed his newspaper. “You’re not trying to tell me you’re a virgin, are you? I mean, you aren’t exactly a spring chicken anymore.”

  I puffed air out my mouth. “Fuck no, I’m not a virgin. And neither was she.”

  “Then why weren’t you… ya know, doin’ the old in ’n’ out?”

  “It was a thing I was trying. You know. A thing. To save myself. For marriage. She was supposed to be doing the thing too. Apparently I was trying harder than she was.”

  He frowned and his brows lifted. “Well, that was a stupid thing. I mean, who does that in this day and age?”

  “Thanks, Al. I appreciate that.”

  He opened his paper again. “No problem.”

  Sighing, I turned my attention back to my phone and scrolled through the texts and missed calls. I had messages from some of my buddies on the force checking on me. About eight dozen missed calls from my mother. Zero missed calls from Pops. And several missed calls from numbers I didn’t recognize. Either it was Pamela calling from a friend’s phone or it was work stuff. I didn’t know, but I had a minute and I decided I better use it to call my mother before she freaked out and did something stupid like filing a missing person’s report.

  She picked up on the second ring.

  “Hey, Ma.”

  I heard her suck in her breath on the other end. “Terrence? Is that you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Who else calls you Ma from my phone number?”

  “Danny, it’s Terrence!” she screeched into my ear. “Terrence, where are you? Your father and I have been worried sick.”

  I glanced out the window at the palm trees and the blue-and-white puffy sky as it rolled by. It was the middle of February. It was probably twenty-five degrees back home. There had been snow on the ground when I’d boarded the plane. “I’m in my apartment.”

  “Don’t lie to your mother,” she snapped. “I know you’re not at your apartment. You’re out of the country, aren’t you?”

  “Well, if you know where I am, then why did you ask?”

  “I didn’t think it was my place.”

  “Obviously you didn’t think t
hat, Ma. Otherwise you would have just let me lie to you.”

  “I taught you not to lie to your parents. Now, where are you? On that island?”

  “You tell me. You seem to know so much.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Daniel Terrence Drunk.”

  My head rolled forward on my neck. “Ma, listen. I’m fine, alright? Don’t worry about me. I just need time to clear my head.”

  “Well, when are you coming back?”

  “In about a week and a half.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone right now. Pam’s really sorry for what happened, Terrence.”

  “Mom. Tell me you haven’t been speaking to Pam.”

  “She keeps calling!”

  “Hang up on her!”

  “But she’s like my daughter-in-law. I can’t hang up on my daughter-in-law.”

  “She’s not your daughter-in-law, Ma. She’s a heartless bitch that you used to know.”

  “Terrence,” hissed my mother. “Language!”

  “Sorry, Ma. Listen, I can’t talk. I’m headed into town to do some souvenir shopping. You want something?”

  “Ooh, get me one of those hula dancers that sway when they’re on your dashboard. I’ve always wanted one of those.”

  “I’ll see if I can find one. No more talking to Pamela, alright?”

  “What do I do if she calls, then?”

  “Hang up. Promise?”

  My mother was quiet. And then finally, in a meeker voice, she said, “Oh, fine. I’ll try.”

  “Thanks. Tell Pops I said hey. He’d like it here. All the booze you can drink.”

  She sucked in her breath. “Terrence! You’re not drinking again, are you?”

  “Ma, you’re cutting out. I can’t hear you. Ma?” I hit the End button, and the car fell silent.

  Al shook his head while reading the newspaper. “Tsk tsk tsk.”

  “What?” I huffed.

  “Lying to your mother.”

  “As if you’ve never lied to your mother?”