Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1)

by Noel J. Hadley

  “No sir. A Marine never leaves another Marine behind.” I felt the sudden urge for a fist bump. I lifted my fist and Alex swiftly answered.

  “When you helped me scramble back to my feet, both of us fleshy and pale as our future wedding night, I looked behind me, and I swear, that fat-bellied slob was hounding us down like the T-1000.”

  “I’m just amazed we were able to utilize such an abundance of shrubbery on that terrifying trip back to our dorm.”

  Alex turned his gaze to the hotel across the street. “Hey, how come we didn’t stay over there, at the Sheraton? With all the money you make, I bet their pool and Jacuzzi collection is fabulous.”

  “If you think about it, its because I don’t receive per diems. This isn’t your ordinary business trip. I have to scrutinize my budget. Every penny that I drop on travel doesn’t return into my bank account, so I’m completely satisfied staying in smaller, humbler accommodations…. though it’s certainly nice to splurge once in a while.”

  “I was just thinking. What if we, you know, crossed the street, hopped the fence, and slipped our feet in, for old time’s sake?”

  “I don’t know. I kind of think one should accept what he pays for.”

  “Come on Prosexionist,” Alex grinned. “It will be fun. We deserve it. But more importantly, you deserve it.” And here I thought peer pressure was buried in the setting sun of my teenage years.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “And if you even think about picking me up when an over-zealous security guard chases us away, I’ll have you know that this Marine will kill you.” He climbed out of the Jacuzzi. “Last time you brushed up against my gong.”

  “Wait, what?” I protested. “We’re not going skinny dipping.”

  But Meat-Duck didn’t hear me.

  That, or he pretended not to.

  9

  “Ever since we’ve landed on this volcanic ash-pile, you’ve been worried that you’ll bump into them, haven’t you?” Alex widened his grin from his end of the table. He cut into his Mahi-Mahi, poked at it with a fork, and wound a piece into his mouth.

  “No I’m not.” I peeled eyes over my menu at the young couple entering hand-in-hand through the restaurant door. For a second there I could have sworn it was Ellie and her new jerk of a boyfriend, Jack.

  “Yes you are, Ellie and what’s his name, the guy that’s friends with the congressman who’s banging your wife.”

  “Don’t say that.” I lowered my menu long enough to point a finger at him. “And his name is Jerk-Off. That’s what Michael and I decided on.”

  “You were even hiding on the plane.”

  “This island simply isn’t big enough for the three of us.”

  “They’ll probably end up in the timeshare just above our heads.” Alex took another bite of fish to hide his smile. “And we’ll hear them compounding their lovey-dovey relationship vows…. all night long.”

  I stole another combing glance at the baker’s assortment of starry-eyed couples lining the restaurant and the next couple to walk through the door, which I could have sworn a second ago was them, and tucked the menu over my eyes. I chose not to respond to him, but later that night, the narrow condominium wall on the opposite end of our king-sized mattress apparently raised all the necessary eyebrows for the both of us.

  Bed boards pulsated against our skulls as we lay on our backs staring up at the wobbling ceiling fan, and the madness wouldn’t stop. A woman groaned, repeatedly found religion, while her male counterpart let everyone within earshot know his favorite four-lettered word. I even knew how she liked it but I’d already lost count of how many times she’d claimed his maneuvers to be the spot.

  Alex unraveled into an uncontrollable spiel of laughter. “It’s Ellie and what’s his face.” He howled with masturbatory amusement.

  “No it’s not.” The bed board pulsated against my skull as I said it, causing my sentence to splinter into three parts. I thought about carefree sea turtles, lazy snorkeling, and the Humuhumunukunukuapuaa that I was certain to see in the morning.

  As the bed boards finally slowed to a halt and the sex-crazed rabbits finished the last of their maddening animal-like vocabularies, I was content to clamp my eyes shut and swim with sea turtles to the dream-like music of Camille Saint-Saens Aquarium, averting my eyes whenever Ellie and Jerk-Off swam from one corner of my aquatic vision to the other without a stitch of clothing on. That’s right, I was swimming with the Humuhumunukunukuapuaa and hundreds of sea turtles, I reminded myself, turning lazy circles under the illuminated underworld of the crystal blue, and trying so very ruthlessly to listen in on to Camille Saint-Saens, backed by the song of placid humpbacks, while the groaning regenerated and the bed boards pulsated against my skull all over again.

  10

  I got up early on my first morning in Paradise to go jogging with the rising sun. I’d set a goal to jog through every state and major city that I could. Las Vegas was checked off my list and I could tackle several more cities before the summer was through. I had also set the goal of making Alex jog through every state and major city possible as part of his wedding photographers training program. I just hadn’t gotten around to telling him about it yet. When I gave him the news he swatted me away. I pulled the sheets off his bed. He said if I ever tried that again he’d fart on my face while I slept. I took that threat seriously and left.

  After a thorough twenty-minute jog I rinsed my sweat off in the Iron Man lanes, swam roughly ten minutes and spotted an octopus. On my fifteen-minute paddle back to shore I spotted another octopus. I told Alex about it over breakfast at The Scrambled Coconut. Alex said it was probably just the same octopus twice. He had a point.

  For lunch we drove all the way to the Punalu’u Bake Shop on the southern tip of the island with a quick layover at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Alex wanted to know where all the lava was. I said you had to get up early in the morning and jog a mile or two to see it. While you sleep, Alex said.

  We spent our afternoon snorkeling at Pu’uhonua O Honaunau National Historic Sight with its rainbow assortments of tropical fish and legions of Humuhumunukunukuapuaa. I counted fifteen sea turtles. Alex claimed I saw the same three sea turtles over and over again. He had another point.

  11

  “This is amazing.” Alex guzzled his second Kona Longboard Island Lager like they were going out of fashion.

  “Take it easy, Meat-Duck,” I said from my side of the table at Hana Hou, a local Kailua-Kona bar, and sipped on my first of two Mai Tai’s that entire evening. In the corner, a rather large native Hawaiian was strumming his ukulele and singing the songs of IZ into a microphone. His current selection was Hawaiian Supa Man. “There’s plenty more where that came from. I do believe they’re produced by the thousands on production lines…. and by the magic of the Keebler Elves.”

  Alex studied the dark haired waitress in a slim fitting Aloha shirt and tight black shorts. He didn’t latch his eyesight on her for long. Several giggling Caucasian girls in string bikinis entered the bar with no men to accompany them. “You actually live like this?”

  Sure, I shrugged shoulders.

  “All the time?”

  “Sure, some of the time, when I’m not at home feeding Aristotle or cooking dinner for my wife.” I paused to think on it. “It’s certainly nice to get away once in a while and work for a living, but if I had to choose one or the other, I’d choose a home life.”

  “Home life is home life, but if this were me I’d be living like a king.” He finished his pint of Longboard Island Lager and signaled the waitress for another. “The biggest hotels, room service, first class flights.”

  “Like I said, no per dium.”

  “Crank up your price, man. Make them work for you. You should be living like a king.” Our waitress was quick to respond. He dug into his next Longboard. “You deserve it.”

  “I don’t deserve anything. I’m grateful.”

  Alex shrugged shoulders. “So much for Capitalism.”
/>   “You’d better take it easy on the beer.”

  “Are you kidding? This is only our first bar. It’s my aboriginal trip to Hawaii, Prosexionist. We’ve still got several more to go on this drag. And by the looks of it, I’m gonna drink you under the table.”

  “We’ve got a wedding to photograph tomorrow. I need you performing at your fullest potential in the morning.”

  “Hey, it’s me – Meat Duck.”

  “Exactly, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  12

  “No,” Alex said from The Hula Skirt, our next bar, “I don’t really like the term Christian. Don’t get me wrong. I have faith like the rest of them. You of anyone should understand.”

  “Wow, you’re a progressive.” I nervously smiled, unsure of what to make of his outside-the-box-thinking. “Though I guess I’m not surprised.”

  “The only problem with the word Christian,” he continued his argument, stopping only to nurse another Kona, “is that it’s a scandalous and heavy weight, tainted by capitalistic politics, right-wing thinking, and above all else, fundamental insecurities. I think its time to come up with a new name.”

  “So, when people ask what you believe, what do you tell them?” I sipped on my second and final Mai Tai of the evening.

  He leaned back against the wall. “I guess I just tell them I believe in Jesus. I kind of think they should read it for themselves to figure the rest out. Fundamentalists shouldn’t have the last say in everything.”

  “So you like Jesus, just not other Christians.”

  “Something like that.” Alex thought on it then grinned, satisfied with his conclusion. “Most of them, anyways. I just think Christians in general are wrong, and that Jesus obviously got it right, and it’s the right-wing Christians that confuse salvation for their narrow views and suppressive lifestyles. I think more people wouldn’t reject the Bible if they could make that sort of distinction.”

  This was the same guy who, in college, would bend on his knees to pray at my side. Sure, he had a wild side, but who didn’t at nineteen? I remember he was even courting the idea of becoming a missionary for a time. Then he disappeared (apparently because his father was murdered in front of him). The rock band happened. I thought about asking him if he still attended church and where that might be, but I was afraid he’d be a progressive on that point too.

  “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into it,” I finally said.

  Alex shrugged.

  Then again, maybe he hadn’t.

  13

  “You seriously can’t sit here and tell me,” Alex leaned across the table at our third bar, Kanaloa, “that smoking pot is any worse than drinking a Mai Tai or two.”

  “Oh, Alex.” I took careful observation of anyone that might be listening at the bar and grinned. “You never used to be a pot smoker. There’s no reason to start now.”

  “For someone who clearly thinks outside of the box, especially for a church attendee, jump on outside of it for a change. Come on, answer my question.”

  “I guess I couldn’t say either way. I’ve never lit up a joint.”

  “OK, but if someone could prove, and I stress I believe this is entirely possible, that marijuana is no more lethal than the two Mai Tai’s you’ve had tonight, would you consider making it legal?”

  I didn’t want to answer his question. “Sure, maybe. I guess. I really don’t know. I don’t want to freely partake in it if it’s a sin.”

  “It’s silly that western Christianity’s made up all these Pharisee-like rules regarding acceptable and unacceptable behaviors. Do this Christian sin, like gossip, and not that, and you’ll be a good little lamb in the flock of God.”

  “Are you saying Jesus would have lit a joint?”

  “Yeah, maybe I am. Maybe I’m saying it’s not a sin. And you know what? I’d smoke one with him. What, you don’t believe me?”

  “Jesus liked to flip the religious establishment on their heads in first century Palestine, and I’m certain if he were around today he’d put the church into a frantic, perhaps even angry tail-spin, but Jesus was clearly no home boy or hippie.”

  “Well, I’m definitely no fan of legislating morality.” Alex finished off his Big Wave Golden Ale and signaled our waitress for yet another. He spoke in distinct slurs now. “I say, give us freedom; freedom to do whatever we want and whenever we want with our mind and bodies. I mean, do you really want to make all Biblical sins illegal, like disobeying one’s parents or committing adultery? Every child on this planet would be incarcerated.”

  “No, of course not.” I agreed with him. “So long as we’re not infringing on the freedoms of others.”

  “I can tell you right now, marijuana’s about as harmful to my neighbor as fattening my thighs with an extra helping of McDonalds French fries.” Our waitress brought him another pint of beer. I’d already lost count of how many.

  “Think about it and let me know,” he said. “This being my first gig with you and all, I thought we could…. celebrate.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t pack any on the flight.”

  Alex leaned back in his chair. “So what if I did?”

  “Do you know what would have happened to you, perhaps even to both of us, if you were caught?” I looked around the bar just to make certain that no one was listening.

  Alex coldly shrugged shoulders.

  “How else do they get it on the islands? Pot smokers don’t like getting their hair wet.”

  “Just please promise me they’ll be gone on the flight home. I’ll look the other way while you go outside our time-share and smoke them. But whatever happens, I need you in a sound mind come morning.”

  Alex grinned. “Hey, you know me, its Meat Duck.”

  I was beginning to sound like a broken record. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” And I was really starting to become afraid.

  14

  Corey and Amanda, remember them? They were the betrothed couple that I’d photographed in Vegas two weeks earlier. He was the owner of The Office Lounge, if you recall, a triple-x strip club for men, and she was his prized coal-eyed dancer of the exotic, mostly undressed arts. I guess she finally climbed out of that bubble for once in her life because they’d rented a massive post-modern house with glass walls, polar bear rugs, swirling banisters, a multi-layered pool that dipped down onto a rugged heap of lava rocks, and a private beach for the ceremony. The polar bear rug wasn’t real…. I hoped.

  “My entire life, ever since I was a little girl,” Amanda told me as she gazed into the mirror to powder her nose, “I’ve only dreamt of one thing.” A tropical breeze hummed through double French doors and colonial wood blinds for walls. The crowning fingers of palms swayed just beyond her balcony. “A princess wedding,” she finished her thought. “That was always my dream, becoming a famous pole-dancer and having a princess wedding.”

  “Those are two things,” I told her.

  “Hmmm, that’s interesting.” She rotated her lips as a consideration of my point. “I always thought they were one and the same.”

  I thought about that for a moment.

  Amanda’s mother and grandmother (three chain-linked generations of Vegas pole-dancers) escorted her down the sandy aisle, with thirty or so guests from the Vegas bubble seated on either side (more pole-dancers and pimps of pole-dancers) to meet Corey, who from the looks of it on my end of the 400 millimeter lens, was crying. Yes, that was clearly a genuine tear streaming down the crease of his nose, which in turn was followed by another, and then a much larger one. I have digital photographs for proof. He clamped his lips together and sucked his cheeks in, keeping both hands tucked over his crotch in a failed attempt to contain the oncoming flow of them.

  And then it occurred to me. I considered what Amanda said, how pole dancing and princess weddings were both one and the same. I thought about those men dressed in wife-beaters slugging back bottles of beer outside of my Florida motel. Maybe there never was such a thing as gentlemen just as there never
was anything remotely close to purity, no matter how white its wearer bleached the bridal gown. Maybe they were both one and the same. Though I highly doubt that’s what she meant by it.

  Oh, and on a side note, stripers apparently don’t strip merely for non-stripers. They also strip for themselves. That’s what happened on the enormous patio of their Oceanside rental, which had doubled as a dance floor, and after enough of the bar had been deforested of its liquor. I didn’t take any pictures of it. I told them I was done for the night. Alex wasn’t. On both accounts, they were cool with our conscious conclusions. Who was it that once said, a fool’s paradise is a wise man’s hell?

  15

  “So you didn’t bang her?” Alex stared up at the wobbly ceiling fan circling our condominium in a maddening frenzy as he reclined on the bed.

  “Um, no Alex, I’m married. Appreciating the beauty in a woman is one thing, but I would never want to betray her trust like that.” I set my book down on the patio, leaning back on the two hind legs of a chair with vinyl straps for seating. The ocean breeze flushed through a heavy dosage of humidity, bristling the branches of palms.

  “With all due respect, Joshua, your wife left you, and for another man. I think that entitles you to some exploratory freedom.”

  “I couldn’t have slept with her if I wanted to.”

  “What are you talking about? She was eyeing you all night. She would have unzipped your pants, dropped them to your ankles, lifted her skirt and bent over in a Shanghai second had you even remotely suggested it on an abstract level…. and a stripper…. Bloody hell, she’s a Vegas stripper, working the same stage as the bride. What a waste of expensive silicon.”

  “She wasn’t being flirtatious, just courteous.”

  “No, she clearly wanted a stag, and to her, you were exotic. Some women are sexual creatures like that. You have to have the scent for it. That’s the difference between guys who regularly visit the DNA dumpster and guys who don’t. Some girls release their pheromones in groves, just eager for the right guy to come along and pluck their ripe fruit from the limb. It’s not taking advantage of them if that’s what they want.”