Lucky Stiff (27 page)

“I don’t think that’s allowed,” I say, trying not to sound as pissed as I feel. “With all the new security rules and such . . . you know.”

“Actually, it’s fine,” says a female flight attendant standing nearby, “as long as we know about it ahead of time.”

I give the flight attendant my best Death Star stare as Candy says, “See? There you go. My seat assignment is twenty-eight A, just a few rows back.”

I appeal to Hurley with a look of desperation, but he’s busy adjusting his seat belt and seems oblivious to it all as Candy settles into my seat. Furious, but unwilling to make a scene that might get me kicked off the plane, I make my way back to Candy’s assigned row and cram myself into the window seat, feeling like I’m in Izzy’s car. A moment later, a fiftyish-looking man in a business suit settles into the aisle seat next to me. He gives me a quick smile as he does up his seat belt, and then he opens his briefcase and takes out a stack of financial magazines:
Forbes, Bloomberg Businessweek, Kiplinger’s, SmartMoney,
and
Barron’s.
This bodes well for a quiet trip, but in case I’m wrong, I have an ace up my sleeve. Revealing what I do for a living, particularly if I do it in graphic detail, will typically put a damper on the most enthusiastic talkers.

My seat starts to bounce. At first, I think it’s the luggage getting banged around below us. Then I realize it’s the toddler behind me, kicking the back of my seat.

“Chandler, stop that,” says the woman seated next to him, presumably his mother.

Chandler kicks a little harder; then the guy in the seat in front of me tries to recline, smashing my knees even tighter.

As I feel my feet start to go numb, the flight attendants shut the plane doors and begin their safety instructions, pretending that we all won’t die a horrible death if something happens. It’s only supposed to be a two-and-a-half-hour flight, but right now, Daytona Beach seems a long way off.

Our takeoff is a smooth one; and when the flight attendants come around with their drink cart, my seatmate opts for two of those cute little bottles filled with whiskey, and a soda to top them off. Judging from his red, bulbous nose and the fumes I’ve picked up coming off his breath, I’m guessing this is not his first drink, and he’s no stranger to alcohol. I’m tempted to join him, but memories of this morning’s hangover make me reconsider. I opt for a plain club soda, instead.

I spend the next hour and a half enduring my seat-kicking, knee-squashing torture. I am wondering what Hurley and Candy are doing. I keep peering over the seats in front of me, trying to see past the tops of all the heads to Candy and Hurley to make sure they are both still upright and in their respective seats. I decide that if Candy ever gets up to use the bathroom, I’m going to make a move to reclaim my seat. But she doesn’t budge, leaving me to wonder how someone so small can have a bladder so big.

Just as my seatmate downs his second drink, the plane shudders and drops precipitously, triggering gasps from the passengers. The cabin lights are low and out the window beside me is a black void . . . until the sky lights up as a lightning bolt zigzags across the sky. The seat belt light comes on and the captain asks all passengers to take their seats in anticipation of a little turbulence.

Over the next ten minutes, it becomes obvious that the captain is a master of understatement as the plane bucks, drops, tilts, shudders, and shakes so hard it feels like the thing is going to come apart. The kid behind me starts to cry and the man next to me grabs for his barf bag. I grip the arms of my seat and turtle upward to scope out the cabin and find the closest emergency exits. Instead, my eyes settle on Hurley, who is also sitting bolt upright and looking back at me. Our eyes meet and Hurley mouths “Are you okay?” I shake my head, convinced we are all about to die. Then we go into a precipitous dive, and Hurley’s head disappears from my view.

I’m frightened, but also oddly calm and thinking clearly. It’s the hallmark of any good ER nurse, the ability to quash your natural adrenaline reaction and maintain your composure in the most frenetic and dire of circumstances. My mind starts pondering crazy stuff, like my appointment with Barbara earlier. I figure that if the plane does go down, there won’t be enough of me left for even Barbara to fix, and the fact that her wonderful ministrations will go to waste saddens me more than my impending death does. Then I remember our discussion about reincarnation. Looking out my window and thinking about the distance between the ground and me, I decide I don’t want to be an eagle anymore. I change my choice to a dolphin. Then I recall my conversation with Irene and realize how wise I was to avoid her attempts to sell me a plot. At this rate, my remains will likely fit into a peanut butter jar.

Outside my window, bolts of lightning flash everywhere, highlighting a menacing sky filled with black clouds. Rain and sleet pelt the plane, drowning out the frightened whispers of my fellow passengers. After a few more minutes of riding the flying, bucking bronco, the plane suddenly levels out and things settle down. My relief over death being a bit less imminent is quickly upstaged by my seatmate’s stomach. Unlike our ride at present, his stomach is currently anything but settled. I watch as he pukes into his bag, and I wrinkle my nose as the smell of alcohol permeates the air.

A minute later, I look out my window and see the lights of a major metropolis below us. The captain comes back on the intercom to apologize for the mayhem and inform us that the plane has sustained some minor damage. This worries me, because if his definition of “minor damage” is as accurate as his definition of “a little turbulence,” I can expect both wings to fall off the plane any second now. The captain assures everyone we can still fly just fine, but we are being forced to divert and land in Atlanta.

As we make our descent, everyone inside the plane is deathly quiet except for the seat kicker behind me, who is sobbing as his mother tries to reassure him. When the plane touches down and brakes, there is an audible sigh of relief and the cabin breaks into applause.

It takes another half an hour to reach our gate; and when the doors are finally opened, everyone disembarks in record time—no doubt fueled by the adrenaline surge of a near-death experience. I find Hurley and Candy waiting for me inside the terminal. Candy looks pale and frightened and, much to my dismay, is clinging to Hurley’s arm.

“Well, that was certainly scary,” I say as I approach them.

“I’ll say,” Hurley agrees. “Are you okay, Winston?”

“I’m fine, and glad to be back on solid ground.”

Outside the terminal, more lightning bolts illuminate the sky, and a rumble of thunder shakes the building, making Candy jump. “Oh, my God,” she says with an uneasy laugh. “My nerves are shot. And I need to pee something fierce.”

Great.
Now
she has to go.

“I’ll be right back,” she says. She releases her death grip on Hurley’s arm and heads for the nearest bathroom.

As soon as she’s gone, Hurley looks at me with a worried expression. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say again.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that alone. I should have been there with you.”

“I managed. My seatmate kept me distracted.” Memories of the alcohol fumes emanating from him come back to me; and with it, some niggling thought that I can’t quite suss out. “I don’t think I’ll be too eager to fly again anytime soon, though.”

“I’m guessing that won’t be an issue,” Hurley says. “I don’t think there will be any other flights leaving here for a while, thanks to the weather.”

A nearby display of scheduled flights confirms this;
delayed
flashes beside each one. “We should try to rent a car,” Hurley suggests, “but I imagine everyone else will have the same idea. We need to get to a rental stand before all the cars are gone. It’s about eight hours to Daytona Beach from here. If we drive all night, we should be able to get to our hotel in time to still make most of the conference.”

Candy returns from the bathroom, looking a little better, but still visibly shaken. When we fill her in on the new plan, she eagerly agrees. “Driving sounds like a good idea to me,” she says. “I don’t care if I never get on another plane again.”

“Let’s get going then,” Hurley says. Candy and I follow his lead, heading for the main terminal. When we reach a juncture that shows the baggage area to the right and the rental car section to the left, Hurley hands me his luggage check ticket. “I’ll go see about getting us a car. You guys go and get our luggage.”

“That was one of the scariest things I’ve ever been through,” Candy says as we part company and hustle toward the baggage carousel. “I was frightened to death!”

“Yeah, it was scary,” I say, thinking uncharitably that if we had died, she would have at least had Hurley to hang on to. I, on the other hand, would have been dispatched to the netherworld with a puking alcoholic as my eternal companion.

“I’ve never been a fan of flying, and this just confirms it for me,” Candy says. “Toss me into a burning building anytime over an airplane.”

Don’t tempt me.

When we reach the baggage area, the carousels are still and quiet, and there’s a large crowd of people milling around. It’s a good half hour before our luggage starts to arrive, and it doesn’t take me long to find my suitcase and Hurley’s. Candy’s, however, proves a bit more elusive. After waiting another half an hour, the carousel is stopped and empty, with no sign of Candy’s luggage.

“That’s just great,” Candy says irritably.

“Maybe it got misplaced. Let’s see if we can find someone to help us.”

We take off in the direction of the main terminal area, and halfway there we run into Hurley.

“Good news,” he says, holding up a handful of papers. “I got us a car.”

“Bad news,” I say, gesturing toward Candy. “We’ve lost some luggage.”

It takes us another hour to find someone to search unsuccessfully for the lost luggage and for Candy to then file a claim. She’s clearly mad about the situation and does her best to intimidate the airline staff; her anger is no doubt fueled by her lingering adrenaline. But in the end, she resigns herself to the situation and says, “I’ll just pick up some stuff when we get to Daytona Beach.”

By the time we finally get to our rental car and leave the airport, it’s after two in the morning. Hurley offers to drive; and after a little negotiating, Candy opts for the backseat so she can lie down and nap. That leaves me in the front with Hurley.

Thirty minutes later, we are on a major highway, and the worst of the storm is behind us. Candy falls asleep in the backseat almost immediately; and though I’m feeling quite tired myself, I’m determined to stay awake to make sure Hurley does the same. But the rhythmic lull of the tires on the road, combined with the exhaustion left behind by my earlier adrenaline surge, gets the better of me. My eyelids grow heavy; and after a few minutes of struggling to keep them open, I give in to the bliss of sleep.

I’m awakened to a loud
pop,
followed by an ominous shaking. For one horrifying moment, my mind thinks I’m back on the plane, plummeting toward certain annihilation. I sit bolt upright, see a stretch of highway in front of me highlighted by morning sun, and register the
thud-thud-thud
sound of a blown tire.

“Damn it!” Hurley mutters. He lets off on the gas and carefully pulls the car off onto the shoulder. “I swear this trip is jinxed.”

Candy is awakened by the noise, too. As the two of us sit there, rubbing the sleep from our eyes, I ask, “Where are we?”

“About half an hour from the Florida state line,” Hurley says as he shifts the car into park. He gets out to survey the damage, and I decide to join him and stretch my legs a bit. Our rear passenger tire is flatter than the proverbial pancake. After sighing heavily and raking a hand through his hair, Hurley opens the trunk and rummages around. He comes up with a spare, a jack, and a lug wrench, and heads for the damaged tire.

Fortunately, the shoulder on this part of the road is wide, and beside it is a large field that is mostly dirt, with a few clumps of grass. I’ve seen those TV shows with footage of inattentive drivers hitting cars that are on the side of the road, like ours is. So I stand safely off to one side in the field, where I can watch the two lanes of traffic coming at us and warn Hurley if anyone appears to be veering our way.

Despite the flat tire setback, I’m buoyed by the warm air, a breathtaking sunrise, and the knowledge that I’m not about to die a horrible death aboard a crashing plane. I raise my face to the sun and close my eyes a moment to enjoy the warmth.

When I finally open my eyes again, I see that Candy has also gotten out of the car. She’s standing behind the trunk, watching as Hurley loosens the lug nuts on the wheel. I start to say something to her, to warn her that she should move, in case some idiot does rear-end us. But before I can utter a word, my entire body starts to burn like it’s on fire, and the only thing that comes out is a scream.

Chapter 24

The next few seconds are a collage of pain and confusion. The skin on my torso, arms, and legs is on fire. As I look down at my chest, I’m horrified to see hundreds of tiny red ants crawling on me. They’re on my arms, too; and when I pull out the waist of my pants, I can see them crawling down there as well. The fire on my skin grows hotter and the pain morphs into panic as I look down at my feet and realize what’s happening. I am standing atop an ant nest and the buggers have swarmed up my legs, inside my jeans, under my shirt, up my back, and down my arms. And now that they are all in position, they are biting.

Frantic, I scrape at the ones on my arm and pull my shirt away from my body to try to brush those away. But the fabric keeps getting in the way and the burning sensation is growing more intense by the second. Desperate to rid myself of the ants, I peel off my shirt and jeans and start swatting, jumping, swiping . . . doing a crazy spasm dance in an effort to get them off me. Though my eyes are focused on the army of ants swarming over me, some distant part of my mind becomes aware of both Hurley and Candy staring at me with bewildered expressions. I hear Hurley say, “What the hell? Why is she dancing in her underwear?” He and Candy both hurry toward me. A trio of semis drives by and blasts their air horns, and then cars start adding to the cacophony.