FRENCHIE HAD A SUDDEN ATTACK of shin splints the following week and gave Mike his ticket. Dean was happy to have his best friend along for the trip, but still didn’t know what a shin splint was, and nobody could tell him.
He swayed through the aisle of the cruising 737 and dropped into the seat next to a young man in a stubbly black crew cut and Ocean Pacific t-shirt.
“You took forever that time,” said Mike. “People are starting to look cross-eyed and stuff, like you’re a secret agent or teenage detective. ‘Dean Cook and the Mystery of the In-Flight Toilet.’ ”
Dean groaned and leaned his head against the folding tray. “Everything’s trying to come out from both ends.”
“Disgusting! I’d keep that information private, if I were you. Sharing is definitely not caring in this case.”
“I’d twist your neck off if I didn’t need to go back to the toilet. You’re the one who told me to donate blood!”
“Sure, it’s all my fault,” said Mike. “I’m the guy who needed to know his blood type just in case there was a crash on his first plane ride.”
“I can’t stand it ... if my intestines come out, I’m wrapping them around your neck.”
“It was probably the airline food. I told you not to eat it.”
“You had some!”
“I’ve got a stomach of iron to go along with my heart of gold. Don’t worry, pale and sweaty friend. Think of all the skinny Florida girls in bikinis and you’ll feel better.”
“I couldn’t feel worse,” said Dean.
He left for the toilet and returned a moment later.
“That was quick,” said Mike.
Dean spread his arms. “There’s some weirdo in front of the bathroom. He told me to sit back down.”
“Flight attendant is what we call them. Possibly a very masculine one in pants?”
“But he wasn’t wearing a uniform. Look, here he comes.”
A man in a tan corduroy blazer and fierce black mustache moved up the aisle, followed by three dark-haired men and a woman. All five stared at the other passengers with quick, serious eyes.
“He’s not even using the bathroom,” said Mike.
Dean half-turned in his seat and watched the group walk up the aisle. The man in the blazer stopped beside his seat.
“You there,” he said with a thick accent.
Dean glanced left and right. “Um ... yeah?”
The man pointed a finger with a badly trimmed nail at Dean’s nose. “Stay in seat and stop being trouble.”
“Okay, sure.”
The man nodded, and continued with the other four toward the front of the plane.
Dean rubbed his face. “What is he, some kind of undercover air police? I didn’t use that much toilet paper. Okay, maybe I did.”
“Bam! You got busted by the T.P. Gestapo,” said Mike. “Enjoy your time in the T.P. gulag––you only get one square per day. I’d trade mine for drugs.”
“You would, wouldn’t you? I’d save mine for a rainy day.”
Mike grinned. “When it rains, it pours.”
A scream came from the front of the plane, along with smacks, grunts, and a clatter of metal. Dean couldn’t see anything, because people in front of him stood up, just like that thing that happens at kindergarten graduations.
“That could have been you,” said Mike. “Good thing you got a warning instead.”
Dean rubbed sweat from his forehead. “I really, really have to go to the bathroom.”
“Do it, big man. Just don’t scream like a girl when they tackle you.”
The audio system crackled and the voice of corduroy-blazer man spoke in accented English.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm. Sit down and stay in your seats. We are in control now. Do everything we say and nobody will be hurt, apart from those who have already been hurt. They have been hurt, we can all agree that is a fact, but that hurt is now in the past. Let us move on with a relationship that does not involve hurt.”
Mike shook his head. “Sounds like they’re really serious. Toilet paper must cost a mint these days.”
“Boiling oil is about to burst out of my bowels,” said Dean. “Can you stop with the jokes?”
“Yes, I should be more helpful. I’ll make a diaper out of the SkyMall catalog. Better yet, I’ll hold the vomit bag and you can squat over it.”
Dean leaned back and groaned. “I should have stayed at home.”
“Maybe we can bribe these guys. They work for the government after all.”
Mike waved at a mustachioed man. The grim-faced figure pulled a gun from his jacket and approached through the aisle.
“Excuse me,” said Mike.
He waved a twenty-dollar bill. When the gunman grabbed it, Mike leaned forward with a hand cupped beside his mouth, as if national secrets were about to be confided.
“My friend really has to go to the bathroom,” he whispered.
The gunman sneered. “Give me your wallet. Your friend’s, too.”
“As long as you promise to give it back,” said Mike. “It’s where I keep all my money.”
In the gunman’s breath Dean smelled rotten meat and tomatoes. “Of course,” said the gunman. “All little princesses will get their little princess wallets back when we land in little princess island.”
Dean handed over his wallet and wandered down the aisle toward the bathroom. The gunman followed and gave him a helpful shove every now and then. He even held the folding door open, but when Dean tried to close it the gunman squeezed inside.
“No, little man,” said the gunman. “You are not tricking me by coming in here alone. I must watch you for safety.”
“Really? I swear I won’t use it that much. You can trust me.”
The gunman closed the folding door. “Do not argue. I will beat you senseless.”
Dean would have gulped or sighed or expressed his discomfort in a dramatic way, but his bowels were barely holding back the burning lava. He pulled down his pants and sat on the toilet a nanosecond before the proverbial molten rock burst out in a flatulent explosion to rival Mount Pinatubo. This in turn brought a volcanic explosion of curses from the gunman, who twisted and turned in an attempt to find the door handle, his rear squishing against Dean’s head. He burst into the aisle and scrambled away on his hands and knees, an act of pure survival which unfortunately exposed Dean and the toxic atmosphere of the toilet to a dozen passengers before he could close the door.
The rest of the flight took longer than Dean expected. To be fair, his sense of time was skewed by constant pain in his midsection, threats from the undercover toilet police, and repeated visits to the tiny bathroom.
“I thought Miami would have more buildings,” said Mike, as palm trees sped by the plane’s tiny window.
“Urgh,” replied Dean, his cheek on the folding tray.
The wheels bounced once, and the aircraft touched down. White, tin-roofed buildings grew like mushrooms in the overgrown, waist-high grass and wide fields of leafy palms.
“Ladies and gentlepeoples,” said Corduroy Jacket’s voice. “Welcome to Cuba.”
Mike slapped his armrest hard. “That bastard Frenchie! He said nothing about a connecting flight!”