I’m clean-shaven in the picture, and four years younger. I weigh about thirty pounds less than I do now—although if I keep it up with the bathroom trips, I might be close to that weight again soon. Right now I’m sporting a serious beard. While the rest of my hair is blond verging on white after being in the sun for the past ten days, my beard is closer to red. Like I’m part ginger, but only on my chin and upper lip. Before the trip, I was well groomed; after ten days without a razor, I look like I’m ready to audition for an episode of Teen Wolf.
“Please take off your hat, sir.”
My hair’s a greasy, disgusting mess since it’s been trapped under there all morning, but I do what I’m asked.
She inspects my passport and then me again, typing away on her little computer with a frown. When it’s clear I’m not a dangerous felon looking to escape the Haitian prison system, she hands me back my passport.
“Would you like an aisle or a window seat?”
“Is there anything left by the exits?”
“I’m sorry, those seats are already taken.”
“Nothing with extra leg room? I’m kinda tall for those standard seats.”
“Sorry, sir, I have row twelve, window only, or seats at the back of the plane. Those are close to the restrooms.”
I don’t want to be too close to the bathroom since I plan to abuse it. I booked the tickets as economy. Randy’s in first class, but I felt like a dick flying with the specials to go help people who have nothing. I’m regretting that decision now.
It’s a seven-hour flight. I feel like shit. Not only am I in economy, but the back of the plane means getting on and off last. Considering the state of my gut, it’s less than ideal. I can’t manage seven hours in one of those tiny seats feeling the way I do. It was bad enough on the way here.
I lean on the desk so I’m not quite so imposing, and also my stomach is cramping again. I’m worried I might not make it to a bathroom if we don’t hurry things along. I smile and hope it doesn’t look like a grimace. “Are there any spots left in business or first class?”
She clicks away on the keyboard with her pale pink nails. They’re decorated with tiny flowers on the tips. Sunny’s are often pretty like that. I wonder how they do it.
“There are seats available in first class.”
I heave a relieved sigh. “That’s great.”
“There will be a charge of one thousand two hundred and twenty dollars to upgrade.”
That’s a lot of money to sit in a better seat. But the guilt isn’t bad enough to stop me from passing over my credit card to secure my spot among the privileged jerkoffs. The bathroom by first class is less frequented. I’ll have extra legroom, and I won’t have to sweat all over my neighbor because we won’t be sitting on top of each other. To make up for it, I’ll donate twice that amount to fund a program at the orphanage when I get home.
Violet, my sister and financial manager, is going to shit a brick when she sees my credit card statements. I think I’ve gone over budget for this trip by about ten grand. Except for my hangover and possible food poisoning, it’s all been for a good cause.
If I have her set up some kind of educational thing for the kids who have trouble learning, she won’t be able to fight me on it. School was never about class, but all about sports for me. Later in high school, when my teeth were fixed, it was all about sports and girls. Not much has changed, except that I’m interested in one girl in particular now.
My lack of baggage makes everything go a lot faster once I’ve got my boarding pass. On the way to Haiti, I checked three suitcases. Coming home all I have are the clothes on my back, a backpack of handmade gifts from the local kids and their families, and a shitload of Imodium—which isn’t working at all.
The security check is superfast, thank Christ. I rush to the closest bathroom and give birth to the devil. When I’m done ruining yet another public restroom, I find Randy lounging in one of the uncomfortable chairs at our gate.
Now he looks as bad as I feel. Even still, there’s a chick sitting beside him, cozied up like maybe she’s thinking about climbing into his lap. Randy can manage to score with the ladies. His beard is like a magical lure even though he’s wearing the same clothes he went out in last night, so he smells a lot like a dumpster.
His last night ended a lot differently than mine. While I went home bleary-eyed with mild stomach cramps, he managed to hook up with one of the women at the BBQ. They went for a walk down to the beach and got busy in the sand. His legs and ass are covered in sand flea bites. Every few seconds he shifts around. He has to be itchy as hell. It’s pretty fucking funny.
He whispers something to the chick. She giggles, pats his knee, and gets up. She’s got to be a good five years older than he is or more—not that it matters. Randy likes women: short, tall, thin, curvy, blond, brunette, redhead.
“She coming back?” I ask as I watch her walk away. She’s petite. Her waist is probably the same size as his right thigh.
He grins. “Maybe. I think she’s gonna see if they stock condoms in that little store. She’s flying first class. Her seat’s beside mine.”
“Did you even shower this morning?”
He scratches his balls through his shorts. “I cleaned the important parts and put on deodorant.”
“You’re a dirtbag.”
“Whatever.” He grins. “Like you can talk. I bagged it last night, so it’s not like there’s going to be cross-contamination.”
“You’re so considerate.”
“You’re just jealous I’m getting all the pussy you used to.”
I ignore the comment and drop into the chair. It’s not that I care about Randy’s manwhoring ways. It’s more that I’ve been in his shoes, and I don’t want to think about how it’s messing up my current attempt at a relationship. Particularly since I’m trying not to do things like that anymore. And I still feel like garbage, so I’m not in the mood.
“Still feeling crappy, huh?”
“Like Satan has taken up residence in my intestinal tract. I’ll be better when we’re home and I can abuse my own bathroom.” I look across to where a couple of the other guys flying home today sit. Most of them have baseball caps covering their faces. It’s early, and last night was rough. “They don’t look any better than we do.”
“Devon seems to be doing fine.”
“Who?” I’m terrible with names.
“Butcher. The dude who doesn’t eat meat.”
“Wait, he’s a butcher who doesn’t eat meat?”
“No, dipshit. His last name is Butcher. He’s a priest or something.”
“Oooh. You’re talking about The Minister.” I nickname people. It’s the only way I can remember them. I check him out. He is the only one in our group who doesn’t look like the walking dead. “I guess he passed on the mystery meat.”
“I ate the meat, and I’m fine.” Randy pats his stomach. “He’s all holy and stuff, so I think the only booze he can drink is wine.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” I’m almost positive I’ve seen Devon pounding beers a couple of times.