by Joe Thomas
He walked beside me sweeping my overt fears into the gutter, “Don’t worry. We’ve been here for three days. Has anything happened?
“No.”
“Exactly,” he continued, “I’ve traveled all over the world. There’s nothing to be scared of. Girl, you’re scared of everything.”
In agreement I nodded, “You are right. Why do I do this to myself?”
He laughed out loud, “Cause you’re crazy. Remember that time we were in Paris and I yelled at you not to get too close to that parked van with no windows? You thought you were getting kidnapped.”
That made us both laugh. I could always count on Evan to pull me out of my silly overreactions. I stopped for a moment and looked around, “I think this is the restaurant from the other night.” I walked over to the menu stapled to an old chipped paint easel, “I can’t tell. They all look the same.”
Spinning on his heels, “Yeah. This is the place. Let’s see if they remember you from when you were drunk and put on a dead shrimp puppet show.”
He was also good at reminding me of how crazy I get after too many beers. “I hope not. I just want to try the black paella.”
Evan flung his nose in the air, “Nasty.”
The middle-aged balding server hurriedly ushered us to our seats a few tables back from the busy crowds walking along the street. Still in the middle of all the commotion but not as much foot traffic. The perfect people watching table. We instantly noticed our dining neighbors to my left. A mother, father, and their gay son. We didn’t need to see his membership card for confirmation. His gayness was brighter than the full moon lighting up the evening sky. His brilliance engulfed both our tables to the point that if there was a power outage, I’d still be able to read the menu on the table.
“Look at that queen,” Evan whispered, “She’s out with mommy and daddy on vacation.”
I chuckled and grabbed my cell phone and snapped a stealth photo of the family triangle next to us, “She’s so gay. She makes us look butch.” Again, we both screamed with laughter allowing everyone in the restaurant to know we were present and accounted for. The gay looked over and made eye contact but he wasn’t laughing. Did he hear us? Most likely. Gays tend to have supersonic hearing. Probably from all the years of having to eavesdrop on bullies talking shit about us in high school.
The waiter approached with two glasses of water and took our orders. As I handed the oversized menu back to him I focused my attention on Evan, “This has been a fun trip,” I raised my glass of water in the air, “Cheers to a great trip.”
He lifted his and smiled, “Cheers, queen. We always have the best times.”
“We sure do. I can’t wait to get to Helsinki and see what it’s like.”
Evan answered but he was distracted by the crowd of soccer players causing a scene in front of the restaurant, “I’m sure it will be nice. Look at that guy,” he licked his lips, ‘Hellllller Mr. Soccer Man. Can I play with your balls?” We both howled and he continued, “I wouldn’t mind him scoring a goal in my butt.”
“Well you can’t score anything because we are sharing an apartment.”
“She’s a cockblocker. My bestie is a cockblocker.”
After taking another sip of the tepid water, I placed the glass down and noticed a grungy stranger walking up to our table. I looked away but felt him standing there awkwardly staring at us. He didn’t say a word. All three of us experienced a moment of silence while the rest of the world chattered on. I did my best to avoid eye contact but my curiosity got the best of me. Our eyes connected and I watched as he studied us for a few beats and then thrust a piece of paper a few inches from my face. Evan completely ignored the man which left me to deal with the haggard looking homeless guy shaking a white sheet of paper at me.
Focusing my eyes on the paper, I noticed it read: Por Favor. Dame dinero. Gracias.
I turned my head away but responded to his request, “Lo siento. No tengo dinero.”
That wasn’t enough for this guy. Like I said, these gypsies run Barcelona. Without budging an inch, he continued to lift the paper up and down in front of me while pointing at it. When I didn’t respond he dropped the paper on our table.
There were at least a dozen other people seated in all directions around us. Why was he fucking with me? What about the other gay guy at the next table? I silently asked myself these questions while the gypsy focused his attention on making me as uncomfortable as possibly. Finally I snapped, “No, no tengo dinero. Adios!” My aggression worked. He picked up his piece of paper and as quickly as he appeared he vanished. Gone.
“See,” Evan turned to me, “You know how to handle these people. They are harmless.”
I agreed. I felt self-assured handling the situation. I needed that boost of confidence and now that I had tasted it, nothing could stop me. It was so simple. Why was I afraid of these gypsies? You just had to be firm and to the point with them or they’d take advantage of you. The same is true when flying on an airplane full of Puerto Ricans and Dominicans. Show any sign of weakness and you’ll have footprints on your back. And a dick in your ass… but only if you’re lucky.
Within seconds of my gypsy encounter our waiter arrived with our entrees. The smell of the meal made the past few minutes a faint and forgotten memory. He set our heated plates down in front of us and politely asked, “Algo mas?”
We both smiled letting him know we were all set. He nodded and disappeared to the next table. The black paella instantly put me in a trance. The collection of shrimp, mussels, and fish married with a heaping pile of squid ink rice made me reach for my cell phone to take a picture.
“Matt will never believe I ate this,” my left hand swept over the table to grab my cell phone but there was nothing there except air and table cloth. No cell phone. Evan had already taken a bite of his food, unaware of the tension building up in my veins. My eyes moved from the paella to where my cell phone had been moments ago. It was gone.
“Oh my god. Where’s my phone?” I demanded, which alerted Evan. I frantically moved the few napkins out of the way on the table assuming my cell phone was under one of them.
“What’s going on? Where’s your phone?” Evan asked putting his fork down. He picked up a few napkins on his side but found nothing.
I desperately lifted my plate of food and sat it back down. Then I lifted the tablecloth and searched between it and the table. Pushing my chair out I looked under the table for any sign of my iPhone. I had not placed it in any of these locations but when you are about to have a nervous breakdown thinking rationally does not come easy. I stood up violently, pushing the stainless steel chair backwards enough so that when it hit the concrete the noise caught the attention of a few patrons. “My phone is gone. Fuck! Where did my phone go?” I patted down my shorts. When I didn’t feel anything I reached into the pockets to double check. My cell phone was thin but it wasn’t that fucking thin.
“Maybe you misplaced it. It didn’t get up and walk away,” he looked around at people gawking at me, “you just took a picture.”
I barely heard him, “Holy shit. It was that gypsy. He took my phone.” With that revelation I took off running. I kicked my chair to the side as I bolted out of the restaurant into the busy street. I ran a few yards before stopping from the congestion of people along the street. Blood pumped vigorously through my heart leaving my insides feeling like a 9.0 earthquake had struck. It was only a matter of time before the tsunami of emotions hit.
Even though I stopped running, my breathing continued at lightening speed. I can only imagine it was my body attempting to make me hyperventilate before the night was over. Placing my hands on my hips, I looked to my left and right, feeling the pulse in my neck grow stronger with each breath. A river of people flowed passed me, ignorant to my predicament. Their jovial conversations and laughter angering me with each moment that past. I hated them all. I hated Barcelona. I hated myself for leaving my phone on the table and for not placing it safely in my pocket. And goddamn
it—I hated those gypsies. Standing on my tip toes I attempted to scan the crowd but then lowered myself back down. Who was I looking for? All I remembered was a dirty guy wearing a worn baseball cap, dark colored clothes, and sporting zero facial hair. Was that the sketch I’d give to the police? I’d get blank stares because that description fit half the people on the street. What if I included the white piece of paper? Any information helps, right? They’d surely know who had my cell phone at that point. Then it hit me. I was fucked. Who was I kidding? Would the Policia Municipal even care about my stolen cell phone? My incident report would be haphazardly jotted down while the chiseled jawed, muscular officers spent the next few hours laughing about the faggot gringo who left his belongings out on an open table in Barcelona for thieves to confiscate.
I really hated Barcelona.
My adrenal glands were spent. Every drop of adrenaline stored in my body was used up on that one stressor. At least that’s what I believed. Adrenal glands are constantly producing adrenaline. Enough that a normal person may react to many emergencies thrown their way at once without losing the fight response. That’s normal people. I am far from normal. There was no doubt in my mind that my body didn’t have enough left to help me jump out of the way of a runaway truck.
When I got back to the table, Evan was updating the waiter on the situation. He offered to package up our food and informed us we did not have to pay the bill. I had no interest in eating after chasing ghosts along Las Ramblas. I lost my cell phone, my appetite, and the will to enjoy the rest of our vacation.
“I can’t believe this fucking happened. I took a picture of that queen at the next table and sat the phone down right here,” I smacked the table. “I bet you he took it when he put that piece of paper down on the table. Probably scooped it up and ran off. I can’t fucking believe it.”
Evan let me vent. He stared at me and took in all my frustration and hatred for the situation. I appreciated that. No joking. No laughing. And let’s not forget, no cell phone.
On our walk back to the apartment we each carried our takeout boxes, souvenirs of a fucked up last night in Spain. I tossed the white styrofoam container into the first trashcan we came across. “I want to go home. What am I going to do without a cell phone? I can’t even call Matt.”
“You can use mine. We have one flight to Helsinki with a quick 24 hour layover tomorrow and then we’ll be on our way home,” he paused, “I’m sorry about your phone.”
“Thank you. I’m never leaving home again.”
He looked over at me, “Don’t say that. Bad things happen. It’s how you react to it that matters. You can get another cell phone. Once you come to terms with this you won’t feel so bad. I promise.”
I didn’t want to hear it. While he rambled on with words of wisdom, I focused on my stolen cell phone. I lost it in a strange country and it was probably already on the black market in Morocco being manually fingered by some homeless monster who hadn’t used soap or cut his fingernails since the 1990’s.
Being violated by Barcelona was not part of my plan, and nothing Evan said or did snapped me out of my misery. As we climbed the stairs to our apartment I was hit with a frightful thought, “Oh my god!” I looked over at Evan, “I have dirty pictures and a jerk off video on my cell phone.”
Evan laughed, “Girl. You’re gonna be famous.”
The next morning Evan did his best to joke and snap me out of my funk, but as quickly as he’d make me smile I’d revert back to my miserable state. I am not ashamed to admit that I acted like a big fucking baby. A daycare full of toddlers in shitty diapers handled themselves better than me. I wanted to stomp my feet and scream at everything and anything that passed my way. I only refrained from doing that because of Evan, I didn’t want him to have me committed in Spain. If you think being robbed and having your personal information available for strangers is terrible, I guarantee being locked up in a psych ward in Barcelona made losing a phone feel like misplacing a pen, albeit an expensive one.
Like most people these days, I have an unhealthy attachment to my smartphone. It’s not just an electronic device that I carry around with me everywhere I go, it’s a part of me. It’s an electronic limb, a limb that was severed from my body by a dirty gypsy. I took baby steps but the phantom pain was excruciating. How people manage after losing a limb is beyond me. They are the strongest individuals on the planet. I am a weak bitch. The agony was so bad I had to fight back the urge to throw myself into the Mediterranean Sea after my phone was amputated from my life.
“Do you need to call Matt?” Evan asked during our early morning cab ride to the airport.
“No. I’m good. I told him everything he needs to know last night.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to file a police report before we leave?”
I looked out the window, “Fuck it. That phone has already seen more border crossings than I have. I just wanna get out of here.”
I barely said two words on the flight from Barcelona to Helsinki. Thankfully, we were seated a few rows apart from each other. No need to be seated next to my chatty friend when all I wanted to do was be a recluse and cope with the pain.
By the time our flight landed I had experienced all five stages of grief. My mind processed thoughts and emotions quicker than items purchased in the express checkout line at Target. First came denial, “This can’t be happening to me.” Then anger, “I will fucking end that asshole if I ever find him.” Followed by bargaining, “I swear I’ll never leave the United States again if I find my phone,” and depression, “Please let this airplane hit a mountain. I can’t live through this.”
After the full three hour flight I was able to walk up to Evan at the Helsinki Airport and share with him my acceptance of the situation. He was off the airplane first and all smiles as I approached him, “How you feeling? Any better?”
I finally smiled, “Yes. It’s just a phone. Worse things could have happened. I’ll just get another one when I get home.”
He erupted with enough joy for both of us, “Yes! That’s the way to look at it. Alright. Let’s get out of this airport and see what Helsinki has to offer.”
We arrived in Helsinki on a Sunday night. Here’s a note to jot down in your travel journal for that fine New England-like Scandinavian city: don’t bother visiting on a Sunday. Either the city had been overrun with vampires who sucked the entire population dry, or nobody leaves their home on a Sunday. I wouldn’t even say the streets were dead. More like abandoned. Forever. I checked the map to make sure we hadn’t landed in Chernobyl—we were in fact in Helsinki.
The two of us checked into our hostel, took showers, and headed out onto the quiet streets before the sun finally disappeared for the evening. Occassionaly, my emotions snuck up and tapped me on the shoulder reminding me that even though I had accepted what happened in Barcelona, I was still miserable as fuck about it. We walked down cobblestone streets, hit a few gay bars, and read signs that probably only meant something on a planet 120 million light years away. A planet without vowels.
The next morning I barely waited for Evan to get dressed before pushing him out the front door. He wasn’t happy about it, “What’s up with you? The flight isn’t leaving for four hours.”
“I know but I don’t want to take any chances. This is our only way home today.”
“Chill out, queen. Damn.”
I ignored him and focused on one thing and one thing only, getting the fuck home.
We arrived early at the Helsinki Airport hastily making our way through security to check in with the gate agent. Evan trailed a few feet behind me but my tunnel vision prevented me from looking back. The moment we cleared security my entire body screamed to be home. I was one flight away from being in New York City and another flight away from my husband and cats in Orlando. I could almost feel the humidity building up around me.
No other passengers were waiting in line as we walked up to the counter and greeted the elderly blond gate agent. I arrived first and plac
ed my crew ID on the counter, “Hi. We are listed standby on this flight to JFK. Can you check us in?”
Without looking up she took my ID and began entering information into her computer. I glanced over at Evan who had finally caught up and was leaning against the counter. He smiled which made me relax. Things were looking up. I hadn’t forgotten about my cell phone drama, but now that I was finally checking in for the flight home I was able to find peace with what happened. After the ticket agent finished with my ID she placed it onto the counter and snatched up Evan’s. He looked at her and asked, “How does the flight look?”
The name bar on her blouse confirmed her name was Olga. After a few seconds of typing, she handed Evan back his crew ID and happily answered in a thick Finnish accent, “The JFK flight is full. You probably won’t get on, but you can still wait.”
A bald eagle could have flown into my mouth. I stood there thinking to myself, “Close your mouth, Joe. Yes, you are in shock, but don’t embarrass yourself. You did a fine enough job of that in Spain.”
The two of us had nothing more to say but we didn’t move. Honestly, I couldn’t have moved even if I tried. I’d have pissed myself right there at the counter if my bladder was full. The utter shock of hearing we might not make the flight left me frozen solid. Evan was the first to move away but I stood there waiting for her to admit her mistake and reassure us there were enough seats on this airplane for all the standby passengers in Helsinki, whether they were going to JFK or not.
“Are you sure? I just checked the other day and there were many seats open.” I whimpered out.
Olga spoke as if she were behind the food line prep station at a crowded IKEA explaining they had just ran out of lingonberry sauce. “Yes. I am sure there were,” she responded with a hint of annoyance, “but today there are no seats.”