Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1)

by Noel J. Hadley

  It backed up, attempted another parallel parking swoop-job, and then a third before finally settling on the worst attempt yet. Alex Parker opened the door dressed in tight blue jeans, a SPINAL TAP t-shirt, and long curly hair hugged his shoulders. He strolled coolly to my bronze nameplate on brick paneling that read CHAMBERLAIN Studios (on the base of the stairs), and stared at it for a time before walking up to knock on one of two doors. Only he knocked on the wrong door. I opened up the screen for him anyways.

  “Prosexionist,” Alex said upon entering. We embraced, hands slapping shoulders. His slapped my butt.

  “Meat Duck,” I grinned. “First Vegas and now this. How have you been?”

  “You know me.” He took in a breath, scanning the canvas prints and framed photographs lining the walls of my studio apartment. “Just a little sore, that’s all. Now that we’re nearing thirty, those bar fights can be killer on the spine and the rib cage…and the nuts.”

  “I’ve been popping some Aspirin myself.”

  “Wow, your work really is amazing.”

  “Thanks man.”

  “No really. I’m at a total loss of words. I knew you were charging towards greatness during college, but this is breath taking. I know I haven’t kept in touch, but I’ve been following your career, especially your efforts over at ETIQUETTE. I’m a subscriber, you know.”

  “Look around.” I poured him a cup of coffee in one of those I HEART NY mugs, set it on the coffee table, and returned to my desk. “Let me know if there’s anything in particular that you’d like. I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said the other night. You know, about working for your father-in-law and how you were looking for a fresh start elsewhere.”

  Alex sighed at the mere mention of his father-in-law. He gazed up at one of my global warming prints, the one where the polar bear swims towards the photographer, half of its body paddling underwater. “That’s sort of why I came to talk with you.” He moved on to another portrait from the same ETIQUETTE series.

  “Go ahead, anything. Your wish is my command.” I had no idea what he wanted to talk about, but I’d already made a clear-cut decision concerning what I wanted to do for him. I had a feeling that the Universe would back me up.

  “Well, I don’t know how to say this.”

  “Spit it out, Meat Duck.”

  “You know how my music career with Dumb Angel didn’t exactly pan out and, well, I’ve been thinking about getting into photography.”

  I was right. The Universe was on top of it.

  “I see.”

  “I just love what you do, with your weddings and all, and I know this is a lot to ask, but….”

  “Come on buddy. Say it.”

  “You think I could second for you at some of your upcoming gigs? You could show me the ropes, and I wouldn’t get in the way, I promise.”

  “So how long have you been interested in photography?” I took a pull of coffee. He didn’t answer. “Two days, huh? You’ve been interested in photography for two days.”

  “Something like that.” He blushed.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Really, so you’re saying you’ll think about it?”

  “Sure, let me think about it.” I looked up at the ceiling for effect. “Yup, you’re in. But before you get too excited, understand there are a few hiccups that we’ll need to talk about.”

  “You don’t need to say another word. I’ve thought this through. I’ve already spoken to my father-in-law.”

  “That’s part of what we need to talk about.”

  “I’m not asking for pay. I’ll be your intern. Gracie’s father said he’d be happy to pay our expenses for a little while. He’s covering everything on my end, flight and food. I’ll even book my own room, and….”

  “We can share rental cars and you can sleep in my room.” I finished his thought. “All we need to figure out is finding a seat on the same flight, because I’m not waiting around the airport for hours. And we need to talk about your father-in-law. I don’t want some bad dudes coming and knocking on my door. I’m not selling my soul, am I?”

  “This has nothing to do with that.” He stopped me. “What goes on with Gracie’s father is completely separate and irrelevant. Trust me, you’re not selling your soul to the Godfather.”

  “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse,” I delivered my best Marlon Brando impersonation. I wasn’t happy with it. “Wait, hold on a second.” I retrieved some tissue from the drawer, stuffed them in each side of my mouth, and repeated it verbatim. Alex didn’t seem impressed. Maybe I should have tried Jimmy Stewart.

  “This is amazing.” He took a frantic turn around the studio. “Is this really happening? Do you ever think I’ll be anywhere as good a photographer as you?”

  “Stick with me, kid,” I utilized my best Humphrey Bogart impersonation, “and I’ll make you a star.” He didn’t seem to notice. Maybe its because my Bogart came across as a bad impression of Cagney.

  “I’ll do everything I can to make this worth your time. How can I repay you?”

  “Good company is all I ask. But I do have some other concerns.”

  “What is it, buddy? Shoot.”

  “Before we can ride off on an adventure together, I guess I don’t need to know exactly what kind of business your wife’s family is tied up with, but I will need a permission slip from her, just to make sure she’s on board with this. When it comes to your marriage, I’m not jeopardizing anything.”

  Alex pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and handed it to me. “Gracie will be begging for you to get rid of me. There’s just one thing. She will want to know where I’m heading.”

  “Bakersfield,” I told him, bringing Gracie up on speed dial. “We leave in a couple of days.”

  “Bakersfield?”

  3

  Alex retrieved a bottle of Sam Adams Boston Lager from my kitchen fridge, popped the lid off, and nursed his health. “When you said my treat, I had no idea that meant you were actually going to cook me something. I’ve never known a man who cooks.”

  “Where did you grow up, the fifties? I like cooking.” I washed thin slices of chicken in the sink. “It helps me relax. It keeps me focused.” I cracked three eggs into a bowl and stirred, filled another bowl with flour, the third with breadcrumbs mixed with Parmesan and parsley with an added touch of curry powder.

  “So what are we making?” Alex leaned over my shoulder at the counter.

  “Breaded Chicken Parmesan.” I coated the first piece of chicken in flour, saturated it in eggs, and finally the bread crumbs, set it aside in a cooking pan and continued with the next slice of chicken, same exact order. “Once I get them in the oven I’ll steam up some broccoli.”

  After coating six thinly sliced wedges, I drowned a pan in cooking oil and turned the stove on high until it was hot enough to sizzle. “Here’s the thing.” I added the first piece of chicken to the pan. “We need to talk about what happened the other night.”

  “The bar fight? You were there for the whole thing. I certainly didn’t start it, but I sure saved your horse’s petute.”

  “That’s not totally what I’m talking about. I was in it as much as you were.”

  “Then I guess I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Alex frowned. He finished off the Sam Adams, returned to the fridge and opened up another.

  “You were drunk…. uncontrollably drunk.”

  Alex returned the beer back to the fridge. “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should leave and forget about the whole thing.”

  “Hold on a second.” I threw my hand in front of the refrigerator door before it could shut. “That’s not what I’m saying. Please finish the beer. I just want to talk.”

  “We’re not talking about that.”

  “Alex, you came to me asking for a job. You promised this wouldn’t cross paths with your father-in-law’s business, and I’m good with that. But as an apprentice, we need to talk about more than just how to point
and shoot a camera. Photography is anthropology, a study of man, and as such, it also includes the handling of ethics in a variety of cultural settings.” I used a pair of tongs to remove breaded chicken from the oil, laid them out in the cooking pan, and added another set of slices to the heat.

  “I don’t think I’m going to have to worry about getting into fights at weddings.” Alex snorted, taking another long pull from his beer. “Please tell me that bar fight in Vegas was a once in a lifetime freak incident.”

  “You’d be surprised.” I turned the chicken in the pan and reach for my beer. “It’s the anger and the addiction that we need to set some ground rules on. They can spring up and disrupt a number of scenarios that might occur.”

  “I’m not addicted to alcohol.”

  “I didn’t say you were addicted to alcohol. But you did receive a court order for anger management after those thugs came to conduct business transactions with your father-in-law. Gracie seems to think you’re an addicted personality.”

  “You spoke to Gracie about that?”

  “Yes. I asked and she told.” Turning the oven to 400 degrees, I cut thick wedges of Parmesan cheese and spread them on each piece of chicken. In just a few minutes I’d open a jar of Bruschetta and top each one with a loving spoonful.

  “So I’ve struggled with my moods in the past, but I’m not an addict. That fight, both of those fights, were freakish solitary acts, and you know it.”

  “She had a lot of great things to say about you, as any wife should. She said you were highly talented but lacked discipline and self-motivation. She thought your expression stemmed from the fact that there was a lot of emotional stirring within you that constantly needed a good flushing, which explains your participation in music. She seems to think an apprenticeship, particularly in an area of expression and self-reflection, will do you good.”

  “Wait, that’s good, right?”

  “It was a shining review.”

  “I always knew I liked that girl.” Alex finished off his second beer.

  “The other night after Michael and I pulled you away from the bar fight, you said something that had me particularly disturbed. You said this year, September if I recall, was the seventh anniversary of your father’s passing.”

  “You can say it. Murder.”

  “Yes.” I stuck the baking dish in the oven. “In the unlikelihood that you do find this mystery man who murdered your father, and we’re talking evolutionary numbers here….”

  “I hate impossible scenarios.” Alex sighed.

  “What would you do?”

  “If I saw him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d kill him.”

  “Even if he were a guest at the wedding, you’d murder him?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  “It’s just a scenario.” Alex sarcastically bowed before opening the fridge for another beer. “It’s never gonna happen. I’m not going to find the guy in Bakersfield and wherever else we’re going this summer.”

  “Hawaii,” I said.

  “We’re going to Hawaii?”

  “And Boston, and New York, and San Francisco, and Washington DC, and Kennebunkport.”

  “Kennebunkport?”

  “It’s in Maine.”

  “We’re not going to find him in Kennebunkport.”

  “Alex, when you’re working with me, and not just at weddings, but when we’re on the road together, I need you to be able to control yourself. No getting drunk. Please, I’m not trying to sound self-righteous, but can you handle that third beer?”

  “Hey, daddy-o.” He popped it open and grinned. “You know me.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  4

  Alex Parker lived just a couple of blocks away from my old stomping grounds, Wilson High School (on East 7th Street and Ximeno Avenue) and a short jogging distance from my own home. He and Gracie rented a garage that had been converted into a back house behind someone’s twenties-era California bungalow home. I parked on the only available curb halfway around the block, studied his address on my crumbled sheet of paper, retrieved two McDonalds coffees from my Ford Country Squire (the drive-through was open on PCH), and then strolled through the darkness counting house numbers.

  It was four in the morning when I lightly rapped on his door. Someone stirred inside. I double-checked the numbers on my crumbled sheet of paper with the address hung over the porch. If I had the wrong house I’d make a quick run for it. Damn kids these days. Alex, and not some grumpy old man, opened the door.

  He immediately stepped outside with a small camera bag hung over one shoulder and a Nikon on the other. He was groggy, slightly slumped over, and it occurred to me that he’d probably never known what it was like to wake up at four in the morning until now. I’d have him walking five AM on a tightrope come September. But what immediately impressed me was the fact that he was wearing a charcoal vest over a slick-fitting button-up shirt and a paisley tie around his neck. His skinny slacks hugged both legs and were finely creased, and his recently polished shoes gleamed.

  And he’d cut his hair.

  I looked at the numbers on my crumbled sheet of paper and the address above his porch just to make sure I had the right guy. I couldn’t recall a time when I’d seen him without shoulder-length hair or a ponytail.

  “I haven’t had coffee yet, Prosexionist,” he said. “So if you even think about mentioning anything remotely close to the fact that I’ve gotten a haircut, I’ll murder you right here.”

  I handed him a cup of McDonalds coffee and waited for him to take a sip.

  “You look handsome with your hair cut off and all.” I smiled.

  Alex frowned at me.

  “I’m sure my grandmother could just kiss you.”

  Mm-hmm, he slumped his body down the driveway for the curb. “I know its still dark out, but don’t get any ideas. I wanted to impress Bakersfield, not you.”

  “Then let’s not keep Bakersfield waiting.”

  5

  We were on the 405 Freeway northbound within minutes, completely out of Los Angeles within forty-five, (where the 405 merges onto the 5,) and passing Six Flags Magic Mountain at the hour mark. Our destination was another easy sixty minutes away over the winding Tejon Pass, which finally dropped rather dramatically into the expansive San Joaquin Valley. The San Joaquin Valley included several cities, Kingsburg, Fresno, Merced, Modesto, and Stockton, that pocketed hundreds of miles of farmland on the road to Sacramento. Bakersfield was the first of them.

  The entire drive we sung to an arena of our closest fans, mostly women dressed in summer clothes (who obviously couldn’t tell the difference between a live band on stage and the car radio); women who were eager to catapult ornament bras over our rock-god earlobes. We belted out our aboriginal hit, Born in the USA, the typical sweetness in our baritone voices scratched with the raggedy riffs of our new self-proclaimed name, THE TWIN BOSSES, and quickly broke into Livin’ On a Prayer with a guitar heavy rendition of Danger Zone to follow. Our fans went wild, particularly for We Didn’t Start the Fire and Dude (Looks Like a Lady).

  Passing Pyramid Lake we brought Chevy Chase on stage to dance along with our famous music video, You Can Call Me Al, working our fans into a screaming frenzy with our silly tall-man, short-man leg kick routine. This of course followed a hit track from our sophomore album, Take My Breath Away, when we mounted our diaphragms to perplexing scale of soulful acrobatics. Time After Time followed. And finally, while passing Hungry Valley, we dialed the knob for the opening beat of Billy Jean, a spirited crowd pleasing number that would undoubtedly include a gas-and-break pedaled moonwalk and perhaps a crotch grab or two, which was completely fine since we clearly invented those moves.

  It felt good being back in Meat-Duck’s company.

  6

  Alex was unusually quiet. He remained that way for fifteen or twenty minutes, and from what I knew of him, I didn’t think that
was a good thing.

  “I can’t take it any more,” he finally said.

  “What, was it Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer or Ray Parker Junior’s Ghostbusters? Have I been playing too many songs from the eighties?” I dialed the volume off.

  “No, it’s this.”

  “Bakersfield? The 99?”

  “No, this…. this car your driving. What is it?”

  “It’s a 1985 Ford Country Squire. It’s a classic.”

  “No it’s not. It’s not a classic. It’s a nightmare from my childhood. How could you even consider pulling up to a wedding in this?”

  “I don’t know, I kind of think its pretty hipster. It’s so lame it’s cool now.”

  “No Joshua. It’s not hipster. Skinny jeans are hipster. Clunky shoes, bulky sunglasses, vinyl records and bicycles are hipster. This…. this is just an episode of the Brady Bunch.”

  “And when we’re done with the wedding, I thought we could cruise up and down Second Street or Pine Street in Long Beach picking up chicks, maybe putting on a little Tupac just to keep it fresh.”

  “You’re kidding, right? If Tupac knew his songs would put up with so much abuse, he probably would have avoided songwriting all together.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” I looked at him, emotionless, flexing both nostrils and then rolling my tongue like a taco.

  “I’m being punished,” he sighed, “for conquering the world in another life.”

  7

  Sitting at a booth in PANCAKE HOUSE, I made sure to comb through the precise details of what constituted a wedding photographer’s duties, like ethics, which included RULE #97 from the Wedding Photographer’s Handbook: Don’t be a nuisance during the ceremony. Be a shadow or a ninja and go unseen if possible.