Jed still hadn't called home.
He couldn't, he had been told to turn off his phone.
Now wasn't the time anyways. As he searched for the little white bag in the pocket in front of his seat the plane dipped again.
He said the ride would be a little turbulent not chaotic. The burrito in his stomach kicked back.
Someone behind him retched. Adding a wave of stench to his anxiety.
The black sky flashed out side his window. A bolt of lightening pierced the clouds. Sharp screams escaped from several rows back.
She said, “No tenemos suficientes bolsas de mareo.”
Someone from in front of him handed back over his seat a used paper vessel. “Gracias Señor.” He coughed, gingerly accepting the gift.
He loved Pa's stories of the long flights down to Buenos Aries, the parties, the sleepless night on the plane, the booze, the women. But this, this blended cocktail, in which he jostled, was another story.
“Señoras y señores, parece haber un poco de mal tiempo por delante. Por favor, abrocharse el cinturón y permanecer en sus asientos hasta nuevo aviso.”
“A bit of bad weather?” Jed felt another hot wave push up from deep inside.
The plane banked sideways then dipped fast, releasing the beverage cart. The heavy weapon aimed straight for the front of the plane along with an army of personal baggage. For once he was glad to be in the back.
He couldn't watch. He was too busy vomiting into the stale bag and cussing out Pa.
He said he'd take care of Ma. Not to worry. Just a little detour before coming home. Their little secret.
Jed hugged his backpack, inside it, his world and a name, address and a thousand dollars cash. He held on for dear life and retched again missing the revulsive bag.
“Just be sure to ask for María Sativa, tell her you're my son.” He had said.
copyright (c) 2011 tgwithin