I booked a roundtrip flight from Auckland to LA for two weeks for a couple thousand dollars. Thank you California unemployment. My friend Jack got a roundtrip flight from LAX to Auckland for a week for four hundred dollars. She booked through a treasure trove. Jack is magical. She has an enchanted life where she can arrive at airports and get on flights she's booked.
Someone voodoo'd my airport life. I've been marooned in airports for days without money. The Swine Flu took me from Lima, Peru to Miami, Florida and then delivered me to my California destination three days later without luggage. Ganja and I went to San Francisco's airport without a visa for India. My flights get delayed and canceled. My planes get arrested because of diseases and bomb threats.
The weekend Jack was in New Zealand, Rob Awesome, MK Ultra, and Polly organized a reunion in Nelson. I traveled with the two Brits and Kiwi through India for a few months late last year. I found the cheapest flights to Nelson I could and handed my laptop to Jack.
"You'd better book them," I sighed.
"What? Why?" she reasonably questioned.
"I fall asleep taking standardized tests. I still have more of a chance of getting a good score on a test than I do booking flights."
I razzle-dazzled her with a sampling of my airline experiences.
"Okay. Flying Auckland to Nelson Friday, and Nelson to Auckland Sunday," she confirmed. "Look at this with me, so we can double-check."
I reviewed the screen with my 20/400 vision, and Jack clicked submit.
Thursday night, we went to Danny Doolan's bar. Before we went out, we shot back a bottle of whiskey. At Danny Doolan's, we boozed with beer, Jager, and a photo shoot.
While standing in line for the women's restroom, a male in the opposite line told us we should kiss. I kissed her neck. He told us we should kiss. I kissed her neck again. He told us we should kiss. Our lips met.
Briefly. An Aussie that looked a bit like a penis stalked Jack, so we left at three in the morning. Stepping out of the cab, I tripped over a tree root. At the airport the next morning, I was still leglessly drunk.
The morning after I've been drinking, my libido incites McDonald's lust.
"I need McDonald's," I told Jack.
"Me too, but we should probably check in first, because we're running late," she responded.
"I need McDonald's."
"You make a fine argument," she laughed, "But we should check in."
"I need McDonald's," I cried.
I have a male one-track mind for McDonald's when whiskey still slides through my brain waves.
"Okay, if we see McDonald's before we get to the check-in, we'll stop. If not, we'll get it after we check in."
When we checked in, the airline representative gave us our tickets to fly out that day, and mentioned our return on Saturday, the next day.
"No, we booked return for Sunday," we enlightened her, "We even double-checked."
"You booked your return flight for Saturday," she repeated.
"But we're going for the weekend, not just for one night. That doesn't even make sense," we argued.
"Your return flight is for Saturday," she iterated.
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