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I narrowed my eyes at him. I was in no mood to be misidentified for the millionth time. “Must be getting my period,” I shot back in the deepest voice I could manage without sounding like a cartoon character.
The man’s eyes widened when he realized his mistake. “Oh, uh, sorry, dude. All I saw was your long hair. But are you okay? You look a bit green.”
I appreciated him not mentioning the hot-pink hoodie I wore. I hated the thing, but it was the closest I had to a good-luck charm, and I figured I needed all the help I could get.
“Never flown before. Pretty sure we’re all going to die.” The plane made a thunk sound somewhere below us and toward the back. I clutched the armrest between us. “That was clearly a bird strike.”
The man leaned forward to look around me out the window. “You know we haven’t taken off yet, right?”
I rolled my eyes until they were closed and my head was leaning back against the headrest. “Semantics,” I muttered. “Most airplane accidents happen on the runway anyway. We’re doomed either way.”
“You sound pretty chill for someone who thinks we’re going down,” he said with a chuckle.
“I’m high. Really very high.”
There was a beat of silence. “Well, this should be fun,” the man said.
“Should be fine,” I slurred. “I took two instead of halfsies, so I’m sure I’ll drift off and sleep the whole way.”
I did not drift off and sleep the whole way. I was awake enough to take two more pills midway through the flight, which only ratcheted up my chill factor to a most-excellent level.
When we landed in Dallas, I was half-surprised there weren’t police officers waiting to board the plane in search of the passenger the flight attendants kept referring to as “the drunk woman in 34A who won’t stop singing Irish pub songs.” Or, as my seatmate called me, “the best thing since sliced bread.” It could have been worse, I guess. He could have had to sit next to a toddler or newborn.
I was so grateful to be on the blessed earth again, I suddenly wanted everyone to know how much I loved them.
“Cheers, welcome to America,” I said to the young mother behind me. “This your first time? You’ll love it. Almost as much as I love all of you and the pilots for all this.” I waved my arms around, unsure of what I was referring to.
“I’m from here,” she said in a thick Texan accent. “Born and raised in the Lonestar State. Honey, I bleed red, white, and blue.”
“Sounds messy,” I admitted. “But maybe you’re the right person to ask about this. Are gay cowboys easy to find? I heard there’s some kind of hankie code, but I don’t have a hankie and I think you need a hankie for the code. Think they use Grindr too just in case for people who don’t have their own hankies? Hankie. Hankie… wait. How do you spell that? With a y or an i-e? Hankie. Hankie-pankie… oh! Do you think that’s where the phrase came fr—”
The next thing I remembered was waking up in a luxuriously soft bed in a small dim room. I was toasty warm under a thick pile of blankets, but the comfortable feeling was ruined by the steel band cinched around the top of my head.
“Oh fuck,” I breathed, nearly knocking myself out with morning breath. I moved slowly to sit up. The first thing I noticed was the simplicity of the room. It was furnished with only the double bed flanked by basic side tables and a high-backed wooden chair in one corner. Opposite the bed was a narrow door I hoped led to the toilet.
I gingerly made my way to the edge of the bed and noticed a half-full bottle of water on the bedside table next to a full bottle. I grabbed the full one and heaved a sigh of relief when I heard the telltale sound of a new seal breaking. I took a few sips carefully before realizing my stomach was fine. Apparently the headache was the only problem.
That and not having any idea where the fuck I was.
Oh, and only being in my underwear.
I wondered if this was normal for Texas… if this was, in fact, the actual origination story for the famous phrase “Houston, we have a problem.”
17
Hudson
Hudson’s Luck:
Just when I think I’ve figured shit out, it all goes to hell in a handbasket.
Another of the endless calls Bruce Ames referred to as “quick check-ins” interrupted my early-morning breakfast with the family.
“Hudson Wilde,” I answered, stepping away from the table where I’d been cutting up pancakes for my niece Pippa. She sat fat and happy in her big high chair off the end of the giant wooden kitchen table that separated the farmhouse kitchen from the attached family room area. My brother West caught my eye and nodded before moving seats to continue helping his daughter with her food.
