Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1)

by Noel J. Hadley

  WRONG FLIGHT HOME

  A JOSHUA CHAMBERLAIN NOVEL

  NOEL J. HADLEY

  Copyright © 2013 by Noel J. Hadley

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever

  Hadley, Noel J. 1980 –

  Wrong Flight Home

  CONTENTS

  PART 1: A WORLD WITHOUT ELISE ACCORDING TO THE LOS ANGELES ZOO

  ONE MORE NIGHT IN NEW YORK

  THE HOMELESS MAN, ADDRESS UNKOWN

  THE PSYCHIATRIST (IN TRAINING)

  A WORLD WITHOUT ELISE ACCORDING TO THE LOS ANGELES ZOO

  PART 2: MEAT-DUCK

  HONEYMOONERS

  THE SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER

  PARADISE

  THE BOSTON BRIDESMAID

  PART 3: THE LOST BOYS

  THE LOST BOYS

  THE SEXAHOLIC

  THE NEW YORKER

  PART 4: THE TROUBLE WITH SITCOMS

  SAN FRANCISCO, DAY 1: THE PAINTED LADY

  SAN FRANCISCO, DAY 2: ANOTHER ALL-NEW EPISODE

  SAN FRANCISCO, DAY 3: CHARLIE & JOSEPHINE

  SAN FRANCISCO, DAY 4: THE TROUBLE WITH SITCOMS

  About the Author

  .

  For Sarah

  Let’s ride the next plane together

  .

  PART 1

  A World Without Elise According To the LOS ANGELES ZOO

  ONE MORE NIGHT IN NEW YORK

  1

  Susan was already drunk by the time I met her for dinner at The Establishment, a hipster restaurant in Williamsburg that mix-and-matched art deco on century old brick with the look of a warehouse. She was sitting at the bar drinking a Citrus Gimlet from a martini glass, impeccably dressed in complimentary layers when I entered.

  I tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me. If I were to ask you out on a date, would your answer be the same as the answer to this question?”

  Oh Lord, she sighed, and turned around to swat me away like a sexual fly.

  “Joshua!” Her face lit up at the mere sight of me. I couldn’t blame her. She slipped out of her barstool. “Always a pleasure to see you in my city.” We hugged. Her breath reeked of alcohol.

  “Your city? Whatever happened to hippie worship songs like This Land is Your Land?”

  “Keep dreaming.”

  “There’s a hippie crying…right now… in heaven.”

  “And I think we need to work on your pick-up lines.”

  “I got that one from Michael.”

  “Figures.” She sighed with an epic dosage of spousal sarcasm. “He picked me up with something three times that bad when I didn’t know any better. But I didn’t want to die a Jewess virgin, so…”

  “That’s how we like our women, young, ignorant, ethnic…. and willing.”

  “Stop it.” She slapped me on the arm.

  “So are you hungry or what?”

  “I’m starved,” she said.

  A hostess showed us to our table.

  “Finally,” Susan said, “We can dispense with our spouses and proclaim our love.”

  “Yes,” I smiled. I was already weary of the unnecessary flirtatiousness and decided to dial it back a step. “I wish Michael and Elise could be here.”

  “Michael and Susan and Joshua and Elise. The four Musketeers, the four Amigos.” She rolled her sentences and blended her words together. “The four stooges.” She tried to think up another. “The four compadres. The four….”

  “How much have you been drinking?”

  “Only a little.” She held two fingers together, grinning, and then spread them as far apart as she could. “Only a little of a lot.”

  Our waitress came by to take our order. She asked if we wanted to start with a drink from the bar. I discreetly nudged towards Susan and said she’d had enough already. The waitress took one look at her and agreed. I ordered a Samuel Adams Boston Lager with my dinner.

  “What did you say to her?” Susan said.

  “Nothing.”

  “How come you never come by Frank McCormick?”

  Susan was a fashion buyer for Frank McCormick, one of the leading upscale retailers in America, much like Nordstrom. Its inventory included the latest American and European fashion, handbags, jewelry, and fragrances. There were well over two hundred stores in thirty states. Its department headquarters was right here in New York City, and on the very corner of Ground Zero, no less. She spent a lot of time in Manhattan, away from her husband, alone. I wondered if Michael minded her continual absence the way Elise grew weary of mine. I missed my wife.

  “I have visited Frank McCormick… back home.”

  “It’s not the same.” She pointed her martini glass at me. “And you know it.”

  As I closed my eyes I observed several mannequins sprawled out across the floor. Some of their limbs were bent in broken and asphyxiated poses or altogether missing, and they were covered in the ash of pulverized concrete. My skull ached. I held five fingers to my head. Chaos was evident everywhere. Outside people were still running through the streets. The lights were out. There were broken windows, and the apocalyptic cloud of ash still hadn’t settled yet. Everything was colorless. Except for my hand. That was painted blood red. From the entrance a firefighter was screaming at me. His mouth moved silently. I couldn’t understand the syllables of his lips, but I gathered it had something to do with my aching skull and the blood on my hands. When I opened my eyes again I was far removed from Frank McCormick’s and it was Susan, not the firefighter, staring at me.

  “If Michael’s in town, if he’s not back home running the pub, he goes to McCormick,” she continued. “Even Elise went that one time or two. But you, my friend, won’t even put your foot through the door, much less the street its on.”

  “You know I’ve already been there once.”

  “Yes, but that was….” She counted the years on one hand, but quickly ran out of fingers. “Over five years ago now.”

  “Almost seven.”

  “See, my point exactly.”

  “Maybe next time, when we’re both in town. I’ll make sure you give me the complete tour.”

  “You’ve got that right.” She pointed her fork at me now that her martini glass was empty. I’d seen Susan well watered before, but never this drunk.

  “So how long are you in town for?” I said.

  “Only until Wednesday. You?”

  “I leave on a flight first thing in the morning.”

  I’d just driven in from photographing a wedding in the Hudson Valley and was anxious to see Elise again.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Well, this is sort of embarrassing, but the airport.”

  Susan stared at me. “The airport?”

  “The floor of the airport. I thought I could save on a little money.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No. I simply won’t have it. No. You’re not sleeping on the floor of LaGuardia Airport.”

  “JFK, actually.”

  She kept shaking her head. “No, on the floor of John F. Kennedy Airport. No.”

  “Got any suggestions?”

  “Yes.” She leaned into her hand. “You’ll accompany me to my room.”

  “Your room? You mean, just the two of us?”

  “Well, you know, I usually don’t invite strangers up. But for you, big boy, I’ll make an exception.”

  “And Michael won’t be present.”

  “No, silly. He’s got a pub to run back home, remember?”

  “Thanks, Susan. But I think I’ll pass.”

  “Oh, stop it.” She slapped my hand. “It’s not like I’m asking for hanky p
anky or anything. I’m a good Jewess. You gonna let me go off alone in a big city…drunk?”

  “I’ll see you to a cab.”

  “You’ll see me to a cab… to my hotel….”

  “That’s fine. And better yet, I have my rental, so I’ll drive you personally. Then I’ll be on my way to the airport.”

  “…. To my room…. to my bed.”

  “You’re going to persist at this aren’t you?”

  “Only a little.” She thought about it. “Of a lot.”

  2

  I didn’t go near Susan’s bed. I sat in a chair flipping television stations back and forth between Jay Leno and David Letterman while she took a shower in the bathroom. I tried not to think about the fact that she was naked in the other room, water and soap lathering her body, and I wished more than anything that Elise could be on the road full time with me. Now that I thought about it, aside from my wife I’d never actually been alone in a hotel at night with another woman, and only a woman, before. She was my best friends wife. This wasn’t a very good idea.

  Susan came out dressed only in a nightgown. It was low cut above her legs and the upper crack of her breasts was exposed. My last and final hope was that she was wearing a recognizable trace of underwear underneath, except I didn’t even put the effort into finding out. I laid a sheet across the floor, used my camera bag as a pillow, and settled into it. This was definitely a bad idea.

  “Is this the conduct of a wedding photographer?” Susan slid her head over the edge of the bed. “Do you normally pay six hundred a night for a five star hotel and sleep on the floor?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever paid six hundred dollars for a hotel room.”

  “Joshua, you’re being outrageously silly. I’m not letting my husband’s best friend sleep on the floor. I wouldn’t be a very good host if I did.”

  “So long as you remember that, Susan. I’m your husband’s best friend.”

  “Oh shush.” She reached far enough over to slap my arm, and struggled with that feat. “Yes, I know the rule. Bros before hoes.”

  “You’re not one of those, Susan.”

  “Oh geez, just say it. A hoe?”

  “No. You’re not. If anyone accused you of being that I’d call them a slapsauce scoundrel or a scallywag and challenge them to a duel.”

  “Yes, mm-hmm, you and Michael are the two most chivalrous men I’ve ever known. Now climb into bed and keep me company, Saint George, before the dragon comes and devours me whole.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, especially since I’m feeling alone and vulnerable right now, and you’re clearly drunk.”

  “All the better reason to climb into bed with me.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Oh gosh.” She reached for the in-table and retrieved her cell phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling my husband to tell him what a naughty boy you’ve been.” Someone made himself known on the other end. “Michael,” she said. “I’m here in New York City, in my hotel, with another man. Joshua insists on sleeping on the floor. Tell him to climb into bed with me.” She handed me the phone. “He wants to speak with you.”

  “Joshua,” Michael said. “I’d climb into a foxhole with you. I trust you.”

  “And I can be trusted.”

  “I know,” he said. “She’s intoxicated, isn’t she?”

  “Very,” I said.

  “Is she being flirtatious or drunk-silly?”

  “It’s hard to tell.”

  “Is there a couch to sleep on?”

  “A loveseat. It was this or the airport.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m used to the floor.”

  Michael thought about it. “I’m glad you’re the one to keep her company. And Joshua, if anything happens, I’ll shoot the both of you.”

  “What were you thinking, 22 Caliber?”

  “Definitely. A 22 is easy to handle when shooting fast rounds, its good for close range, and the bullets come cheap. Then again, with a shotgun, I wouldn’t even have to aim at close range. But the cleanup would be a pain in the pooper. I guess I’d let the two of you decide.”

  “How considerate. I’m sure the jury would show you some leniency.”

  Michael hung up.

  “So what did he say?” Susan smirked from the edge of the bed.

  “He said if I even thought about climbing into bed with you he’d murder the both of us.”

  “Oh stop it!” She flung a pillow at my face. “You’re my husbands best friend and Elise is my best friend. He didn’t say that. He doesn’t even own a gun.”

  “Best friends. Just keep that in mind.”

  I started the slow ascent to her mattress and halted myself halfway. This was probably a really bad idea. Sliding onto the mattress was an impromptu decision that surprised even myself. I’d never broken my own rules before. But then again, life was full of contradictions. And now that I thought about it, if anyone had been out of character lately, it was most certainly my wife.

  “And stay on your side. I expect there to be a neutral Switzerland between us.”

  “Oh gosh.” She scooted to her side.

  “Also, I’m keeping all of my clothes on.”

  I couldn’t tell in the darkness, but I think she rolled her eyes.

  That’s the last I remember, laying my head on the pillow. My muscles ached and the mattress felt good, and I was out like a light. When my alarm woke me up at 4am her arm was around my ribs, the inner spoon. She was breathing soundly, and the trace of alcohol reeked on my neck. I checked to make-sure my pants were still on. They were. Thank God, we hadn’t done anything stupid. I peeled her arm off, slid out from bed, grabbed my bags without waking her, opened the door and left. I hoped that didn’t make her feel economical, but what was I supposed to do, call her honey and kiss her good-bye?

  I’d never really experienced anything like this before, but it was just one of those bizarre incidents that happened on the road, the kind of thing that I never really told my friends or family about whenever I was home. That was my life, one domino continually smashing down on the other. You couldn’t really get a picture of the whole unless you scaled back and took your focus away from the individual domino at hand.

  Except I did think about it, I considered the situation all the way to the airport. Susan was likely just as lonely as I was, which only complicated the fact that we both loved our vagabond lifestyle. Or maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe we were co-dependents, and maybe we both had horrible relationships with our father. And maybe what we were really running from was the answer. I smiled. I guess it felt nice knowing I wasn’t the only lonely person in the world.

  THE HOMELESS MAN, ADDRESS UNKOWN

  1

  It was nice saving money once in a while.

  Except it was times like this when I realized more than ever that there was something very wrong with the world. The upside down ashtray with a no-smoking sign on the in-table, which made absolutely no sense the more I thought about it, or the Texas-sized cockroach, legs sprawled up in the air, didn’t bother me, despite the fact that it was dead and had somehow always repositioned itself on the floor whenever I worked up the courage to look for it. The homeless man however did. Bolting the door of my budget motel, I paced across a marshland of shag carpet on my toes and shriveled into bed, buckling both knees to my chin as another episode of Full House comically unfolded in the box-shaped television and I considered why the stranger was hunched up against the brick building across the street.

  I’d seen him not more than thirty minutes earlier wearing a grungy pair of slacks and a flannel coat with a hole about where elbow padding would typically go. His skin was leathery as a baseball glove, marked by a few distinct scars on his cheeks and hands with a grizzled beard to warm his chest, and he wore gloves. But what really bothered me about him was this; as he twitched his head in unpredictable patterns, speaking absurdities, it was like he
knew something about me. September Eleventh and Leah Bishop immediately came to mind. I didn’t like that.

  But far more importantly, I was positive that I’d seen him before. I added up Philadelphia, Augusta, San Antonio, and countless other cities strewn between America’s two oceans until I ran out of fingers. Even my own city of Long Beach, the same homeless person.

  “Tell me I’m not the crazy one,” I told Bob Saget on the television.

  Bob Saget was too busy figuring out why there was a pony in his living room to answer me.

  I considered the plausibility that he was a professional hitchhiker or something. Of all the possible scenarios, the hitchhiker thing was the most credible interpretation that I could muster, if not wholly silly, especially since I’d seen something along those lines in an episode of The Twilight Zone. No, I wasn’t dead. Perhaps the most reasonable explanation was a bad case of déjà vu. Albert Einstein once said it was the experience of mystery, when mixed with fear, which engendered religion. Still, I wasn’t ready to remove religious reasoning as a table option.

  I scribbled a few lines of poetry into my black notepad and dug back into another attempt at Kung Pao Chicken from its paper take-out box via a splintered pair of chopsticks as the bed board pulsated against my skull. It was the typical budget motel experience, listening to women groan for God on the other side of cigarette stained paint and plaster. There’s some religion for you. It’s what fifty bucks a night bought a businessman without a per diem, only on this particular occasion her head bashing was seemingly endless, with short intervals strewn between. I set the Kung Pao Chicken on the in-table, tip-toed through shag carpet that probably hadn’t been changed since the seventies, and peeled the curtains to see if the president of my fan club was still there. He was. He scrolled the white of his eyes towards my window. They latched onto me. He was so entirely attuned to my presence, and it was haunting.