Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1)

by Noel J. Hadley

  “Don’t tell them how to do their wedding day,” I added. I lathered my pancakes in strawberry syrup, cut a cube from the stack, and bit into it. “They’ve spent months in the planning. Let them tell it to you. You’re just there to capture their story. That’s RULE #42 in Wedding Photography.”

  “And if they don’t have a clue what that story involves?” He bit into his stack of pancakes.

  “I’m glad you asked. That’s RULE #43. Tell them your way of doing things is better.”

  “I suppose you have this handbook available somewhere for me to read?”

  “I haven’t written it yet. But when it’s published, it’s gonna be the biggest thing that’s ever hit the wedding industry since I Do.”

  “You know, we could have at least had breakfast at Grandma’s Country Bakery across the street. Instead I’m sitting in a vest and tie and my nicest slacks eating the worst pancakes I’ve ever tried. What is this place called again?”

  “PANCAKE HOUSE.”

  “That’s right. You drug me here in Vegas too. I thought that was a bad nightmare or something.”

  “Surprisingly, you won’t find a single chain in Southern California, but they’re practically everywhere else. With all my traveling, I suppose I like the consistency. I eat here often, not only because it’s cheap, but it makes me feel at home.”

  “The pancakes are soggy and they taste like cardboard.” He finished off the first half of his pancakes, lathered the second half with chocolate syrup, and dug in for another bite. “If this is the standard for Manifest Destiny, then somebody needs to do America a favor and let the Cherokee and Navajo Nations take back over.”

  “Sure, but the coffee is good,” I said.

  “There’s that.” He washed a heaping of pancake down with coffee.

  “RULR #107. If you want to be a wedding photographer, then you need to eat like a wedding photographer.”

  “That’s deep,” he said.

  “Now eat the rest of your terrible pancakes.”

  “10-4, Captain.”

  8

  When we finally pulled into the parking lot of the church, Alex wasn’t impressed. The building itself had very little soul to it, like an old community center or library. In fact, it was 1950’s Googie architecture at its worst; rectangular geometry flexing bold use of glass, only without the flare of curvaceous walls or upswept roofs, and not a hint of steel protruding from its sides or neon, like so many ghost town coffee shops littering the landscape of Route 66 and the 99.

  There was a separate building in the back of the property, flat and rectangular with missing slabs of paneling and tile, even more rundown than the church, and was probably utilized as a fellowship hall. From the look of it, the way a middle-aged woman with a shapeless body and flattened melon breasts was presently setting out thin paper cloths over folding tables, scattering M&M’s and 99cent store items as centerpieces, I figured the reception would be held there.

  “Is it just me,” Alex finally said, “or does it smell like a poopy diaper around here?”

  “I think they call that manure in the American heartland.”

  “How about American armpit?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Sounds like a polite way of saying feculence to me.”

  “Haven’t you been to the San Joaquin Valley before?”

  “I can’t say that I have.” Alex tightened the corners of his mouth as he covered his nose. “Now that I think on it, I’m not sure I’ve ever left Southern California before.”

  “I thought you toured with Dumb Angel.”

  “Yeah. We played San Diego a couple of times.”

  “Impressive. You jumped two counties.”

  “Really, that smell. It’s been lingering in my nostrils like a bad case of the runny nose since we got here.”

  “You should try coming here on a windy day.” I grinned. “Welcome to Bakersfield, buddy. The open-road is calling your name.”

  He inhaled another disagreeable whiff of manure.

  “I was born ready.”

  9

  Given the description, the rest of the wedding day looked exactly as you might imagine. Lots of party balloons, a wicker arch tangled with plastic leaves that had probably been recycled since the early eighties, plastic cups and silverware, grape juice rather than communion wine, and even the tux rentals didn’t match right. But Billy looked stunningly handsome with his brass buckled Marines uniform, sword, and dress hat, and Ashley, the baby-faced teenage bride, could drape her body in raggedy stitching and still make a man beg. Sure, they lacked in life experience, and even their character was thin, but they were young and in love, and they were going to develop the constitution of their own personal identity together like Elise and I did. And even more importantly, I liked them.

  Since there were two of us, Alex and I, we decided (after speaking with Ashley) that we’d split up duties. One of us would photograph the guys in the Sunday school class while the other kept strictly to the girls in the woman’s powder room.

  Alex spoke up. “I’ll keep the girls company.”

  I grabbed him by the collar. “I’ll take the girls. You can show the boys a good time.” I showed him out the door.

  The girls squealed with delight and wooed at the mention of showing the boys a good time. “It’s what he’s good at,” I told them.

  “A day is coming. I’ll get you for this.” I heard him say from the hall after the door was closed.

  10

  Alex stopped me in the hall.

  “She’s pregnant, you know.” He spoke at a whisper.

  “Who, the bride? I’m shocked.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “No, I don’t believe you.”

  Actually, she had told me about it in person, as had her sister, and her mother. Father, however, didn’t know, and nobody wanted to let the cat out of the bag. I had just come out of the dressing room where all the un-pregnant maids were seated with their groomsmen’s jackets on, arms bundled, buttoning up coats like Eskimo’s in the frigid air conditioning. And then there was the bride, slumped in her chair; legs spread apart, lifting her dress and fanning sweaty pores with the church bulletin.

  “Dear lord,” she had told the gathering (with Father standing by) while Mother widened her eyes in preparation to flip the subject, “how can y’all wear your sweaters and coats on a day like this? It’s the freaking middle of a Bakersfield summer in here.”

  “I know this stuff. I can read people.” Alex was well pleased with his discovery. He leaned in. “She’s not fat, if you know what I mean.”

  I patted him on the shoulder.

  “Thanks for letting me know. It’s best we keep this among ourselves.”

  “Definitely.”

  “If you detect anything else, like an alien impersonating a mother-in-law or the worlds first pregnant man, be sure to let me know.”

  Alex grinned. “Hey, what are friends for?”

  11

  After the Marine in a handsome slick fitting uniform slid his bride into their Volvo, he maneuvered around party balloons and soup cans tied on a string from the bumper and wiped shaving cream depicting suggestive innuendos from the drivers windshield, then pulled out of the parking lot and into the street while dozens of friends and family cheered them on. Alex and I took our final pictures then quietly slinked towards my Ford Country Squire for a smooth getaway.

  That’s when I saw him again, the homeless man. He was pushing a grocery cart down the sidewalk looking hot and miserable in his ragged clothes and talking riddles of some sort to himself. The father of the bride appeared at my side. His name was Donald, but he went by Don. We stood and watched him pass together.

  “I see that guy all the time,” said Don. “He lives around here.”

  “Here…in Bakersfield?”

  “Oh yeah. I see him almost every day. I think his name is Murray. He looks crazy, I know, but I honestly believe he’s an outstanding member of society. This sounds silly, I guess
, but I actually feel comforted seeing him around town. I think he must have been a veteran at one time. Probably Vietnam.”

  I couldn’t say the same. And how is it that he could live here in Bakersfield yet still find the time to haunt my every waking move as I played state-to-state pinball with America? I chose not to tell him about that – or the fact that I suspected this Murray fellow was some sort of mind reader.

  “But you do see him, though.”

  Josie couldn’t.

  “Of course,” Don looked puzzled. “Don’t you?”

  I told him I did.

  Alex opened the passenger door and popped his head over the car. “It’s baking in here, man. Good thing I’m not made of yeast.” I got the message. The wedding was over and he wanted to make like a tree and leave. I couldn’t blame him.

  “Look, I just wanted to tell you,” Don laid a hand on my shoulder, “how much this meant to my daughter, you coming out here for so little, and how much it means to me.” Tears were forming in his eyes.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “I was happy to do it.”

  “You gave my daughter and son-in-law an unimaginably wonderful wedding gift. When times are tough for them, and believe me, they get tough, I know after thirty years of marriage, I’ll pull out your beautiful artwork and show it to them as a reminder of the love and the vows that they shared here today.”

  Tears filled his cheeks now, and all he could do was throw his arms around me. He squeezed my ribs. All I could do was let him, returning an occasional back pat or two while Alex stood impatiently waiting with the passenger door open. And then Don said the strangest thing imaginable.

  “We’re eternally connected, you and I. You need anything, you let me know.”

  Piling my camera equipment into the Country Squire, I started up the ignition and promised him I would. He waved at me through the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the church parking lot.

  “It feels good being a wedding photographer,” I smiled at Alex.

  “I don’t know. That whole eternally connected thing was kind of weird,” he said.

  “Truth is stranger than fiction.” I held my index finger up, as though making an earth shattering philosophical discovery.

  “Yeah, you’re weird yourself.”

  “Thanks, man, I kind of like you too.”

  I didn’t see the homeless man on the short drive to the 99 onramp.

  12

  “That was not at all as I was expecting,” Alex finally said as we scaled the treacherous Tejon pass on the return trip home. “Paper plates at the reception and buck-chuck wine?”

  The sun had just settled behind the hills of San Louis Obispo and Paso Robles while the hundreds of taillights winding up towards Frazier Mountain looked like a massive snake on the slither. I took one last longing gaze at the massive San Joaquin Valley through my rearview mirror, nestled below us and tucked in for the night. I always felt sad leaving the San Joaquin Valley behind. Like PANCAKE HOUSE, simply passing through it felt as familiar and comfortable as home.

  “They don’t all hire Mick Jagger or Elton John as their wedding singer.” I sipped on a coffee that I’d bought at the Tejon Ranch McDonalds before beginning our steep four thousand foot climb that would eventually slope down past Six Flags Magic Mountain, the Getty Museum, and into the Los Angeles basin.

  “Yeah, but on your website, the kind of environments that you capture. This was nothing quite like that. How much do you normally charge?”

  I told him.

  Alex opened his mouth in awe.

  “And how much did they actually pay?”

  I told him.

  Alex let his jaw hang there in disappointment.

  “Then why did you photograph it?”

  “Because I liked them.”

  “You liked them.”

  “They called me up to praise my work while humbly telling me what they could actually afford and why, which was very little. Few people can be honest like that. They even had the courage to drive all the way down to Long Beach to meet me in my studio. I took an immediate liking to them. Money is wonderful, but it isn’t everything. This job simply isn’t worthwhile if I don’t like or enjoy the people I’m photographing.”

  “I was kind of hoping to build a better portfolio.”

  “You wanted me to show you the ropes, and this was an easy introduction before accelerating into the rest of summer. Believe me, they’ll get harder. When I started out, it took me months – no years, to work through gigs like this before the rich and powerful were willing to promote me.”

  “It will be very difficult to construct an interesting portfolio out of what I saw back there.”

  “We love the things we love for what they are.”

  “Who said that, one of your poetry friends?”

  “No,” I said.

  Alex tightened his eyes and stared at me.

  “Yes,” I finally said, but not because he was gunning me down. “It was Frost.”

  13

  The fuel truck directly ahead of us swerved. I didn’t think much of it at first, but then again, it all happened so fast. It deviated into the trucker lane on my right, swerved back in front of us and continued to the lane on my left before finally returning. It wheeled to its side now, quite suddenly, and flipped. I hit my breaks. The truck tumbled in violent circles. I skidded to the left, first one lane over and then two, but wherever I swirled to it preemptively lead the way. I pedaled the gas into the shoulder and accelerated as fast as my Country Squire would go, cracking over shards of glass and a spare tire. I wasn’t sure how it happened, but as the truck spiraled forward in bloodthirsty somersaults, the rear axel catapulted a dozen feet into the air (just as we were about to smash into it), lurching over the hood and landing precisely behind its bumper. And then it exploded.

  I slammed on my breaks. The car skidded to a halt. I couldn’t breath. Neither of us could. I stole a breathless glance through the rearview mirror. It was a miserable inferno back there. I opened the door and began my adrenaline-fueled sprint to save what was left of the driver. My entire body trembled as Alex and I lurched towards the wreckage. Even from dozens of feet away the flames baked our flesh and illuminated it blood red. Other cars had hit their breaks and swerved, there were several rear-ends collisions, but astonishingly everyone had avoided the same hellish termination as its driver.

  There was no use saving him. When the fire trucks and the paramedics arrived they shoveled what was left of his body from the driver’s seat. His hands, they said, were still gripping the steering wheel. His death was probably instantaneous, and hopefully painless.

  Thus concluded Alex’s first wedding experience as a second photographer. What began with a terrible heaping of syrup and batter at PANCAKE HOUSE and the most simplistic wedding imaginable in the manure scented flatlands of Bakersfield, ended with the ashy leftovers of a corpse. I’d had my fair share of traumatic experiences, but now the reality check wasn’t just for me. Alex was involved. On the interconnected civilization of life on the road, with its many gas stations and hotels and dinners, there were random victims. No matter how far we’d managed to escape the impropriety of our most intimate and damaged relationships, with their many emotional scars, no matter how far we’d run, death would eventually swoop in on us. Find your happy place where and while you can, because no one’s getting out of this alive.

  I wondered how many calendar dates were left in my life before Beethoven pronounced his Fifth Symphony and somebody scrapped me off the road. I wanted to be found with a marriage ring and I hoped Elise would still be its representative lover when that happened. I couldn’t imagine anybody else, aside from Michael, who I wanted to receive that phone call.

  PARADISE

  1

  The fuel truck toppled through my dreams that night and continued on into the morning. The heat and the fury of its hellish furnace were seemingly never ending. I couldn’t get the image of the driver’s charred remains out of my head. Early
on a Monday morning, after tossing in bed like Caesar salad, I called Elise on the phone.

  “Hey handsome.” She huffed into the speaker.

  “You sound out of breath. Are you jogging?”

  “Just taking a little spin through the neighborhood. What’s the special occasion?”

  “Elise, this almost sounds silly now that I’m saying it, but I almost died on Saturday night.”

  “Are you all right?” Her breathing intensified.

  I told her about the incident. “I just thought you should know.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t put yourself in such dangerous situations all the time. Disasters seem to plague you wherever you go.”

  “I think we’re all reeling from one trauma or another.”

  “Yes. We are.”

  “All I could think about afterwards, aside from the imagery, was you, and how, if and when death finally catches up to me, I hope you’re the one to get the phone call.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Nobody gets out of this place alive, Elise.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you is, despite what’s happened, you’re the only girl that I want to wake up with.”

  “Joshua, you mean more to me than anyone in the world.”

  “And yet you left me. I guess I’m trying to understand the contradiction.”

  “Joshua,” she huffed. “Thanks for trying to understand. You’ve been so patient with me over the last few weeks. It’s all confusing, but just know that I still love you.”

  “None of this makes any sense.”

  “Joshua?” She said again.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you going to leave a girl standing outside?”

  I peeked through the kitchen window. Elise was standing on the sidewalk, hair tied back in a ponytail, sweat dampening her forehead, and looking as adorable as ever in her jogging clothes. I opened the front door and descended the stairs. She held her arms out until I could reach her on the curb. I accepted the invitation. We embraced.