Honeymoon in Jamaica part 9. Hurricane Harrison.
It was time to go home and we were bummed to have to say goodbye but we knew this day would eventually come. I was willing to give up everything and stay but Poptart being the logical one wasn’t going for my plans of opening up a bait and tackle/calligraphy store. He said it wasn’t practical. Practical, schmactical, I liked the idea of becoming a local. But I submitted to his persistent nagging about my cats dying if I didn’t go home, and the fact that I would be leaving what was the beginning of my awesome shoe collection behind for people who may not value them the way that I do. And I just couldn’t do it. Screw the cats, but to have some horribly dressed woman with no fashion sense clunking around in my size 8 ½’s just made my stomach turn. So I packed and got ready to leave.
We decided that we had seen just about enough of the Jamaican driving and opted for the puddle jumper instead of the van back to the airport. When we arrived at the tiny airport and saw the size of the plane Poptart seemed worried. But I had ridden in a two-seater before, so for me, this should be a piece of cake. All 10 of us climbed aboard and Poptart and I were lucky enough to get the seats right behind the pilot and co-pilot. Oh goody! I’m not going to lie, I would have much rather been seated a little further back in the plane. First of all, I wasn’t sure that the flight attendant would be able to squeeze her way up to us to get us our cocktails. But more disturbing was the fact that we were so damn close to the pilot and co-pilot that I can tell you, with utter certainty, that the pilot loved onions and the co-pilot had a free-wheeling attitude towards hygiene. It was a little unnerving. When we first took off I could feel the panic symptoms arise in my chest, grabbing at my heart and shortening my breath, but once we were up the view was spectacular! I had the best seat in the house. Where I was sitting I could see right through the cockpit. I got to see what the pilots saw and my heart skipped a beat. We flew out over the water and got a bird’s eye view of the Jamaican coast and I was so happy we had chosen the plane over the van. Not to mention these pilots were good drivers. Not once did we play chicken with an oncoming plane. I’m assuming the flight attendant missed the flight because there were no cocktails served. Either that or the plane was too small. Either way, I still think she should be fired.
We made it to the big airport in Kingston and this time Air Jamaica was going to give us a direct flight back to LAX without stopping in “location unknown.” We scored this time. Now all we needed to hope for was a seat that was attached to the plane, and a plane with no unforeseen holes in it. Luckily this time we seemed to have gotten one of Air Jamaica’s newer models and it didn’t creak, shimmer, or threaten to fall apart upon take off. We were in the air, and we were feeling very certain that we were going to make it home safely.
About an hour into the flight I tried to get some much needed rest and laid my head back, just as the flight attendants walked through the cabin selling full bottles of duty-free booze. No nuts, no pretzels, but if you wanted a liter of vodka this was your kind of flight. I was just about to doze off with bottles of Jamaican rum dancing in my head when I heard, “Harrison!” come from over my right shoulder. I opened my eyes just in time to see a small yellow haired child streaking down the aisle like a wild banshee. “Harrison! Sit down!” His mother said to him while holding Harrison’s much younger sleeping sister in her arms. “Harrison! Would you please sit down!” But this didn’t stop Harrison one bit. Harrison was on a mission. Mission chaos. And we were all just pawns in his adventure.
“Harrison, listen to your mother!” I heard a man say, half-heartedly, from directly behind me. I turned to sneak a peek at the man, who I assumed to be Harrison’s father, but he had already resumed his conversation with the young, attractive, not-his-wife sitting to his left. Nice. Meanwhile, the young, attractive, tired-looking wife and mother to his right was left to try and wrangle Harrison on her own.
“Harrison, come here!”
“Harrison, put down that stick!”
“Harrison, where did you get those cigarettes?”
You could just feel the tension level of all the passengers follow Harrison like a wave as he ran up and down the plane. I looked at Poptart and he was doing his best impression of an invisible person, trying to block out Harrison and his parents by intensely reading his book.
Right as the yellow haired demon was about to run past me once more, I did something that shocked even me.
“Harrison! Sit down.” And I pointed to the open seat on my right. Harrison stopped in his tracks with a stunned look on his face, then climbed into the seat next to me. Poptart was sitting on my left and looked at me as if to say, “What the hell are you thinking?”
“So, Harrison, tell me something. Are you a married man?” I asked him.
“I’m four.” He answered.
“That doesn’t answer my question Harrison, I asked if you were married?”
“I’m not married. I’m four.”
“Well it’s never too early to start thinking about your future.” Harrison just stared at me with a wide smile on his face. I had his attention for the time being. Other people turned their heads to get a good look at me too. They wanted to get a glimpse of the woman who tamed Hurricane Harrison.
“Is he bothering you?” his father asked from behind me.
“No, he’s fine,” I said. Dick head. Nice way to ignore your son.
“So Harrison, what do you do for a living?”
“I play lego’s. You’re funny.”
Not even Poptart could ignore this kid. He put his book down and started to engage Harrison as well.
“So Harrison, how about those Cowboys?”
“I like cowboys. Hey! How come you have all those spots all over you?” he asked me, pointing to my various mosquito bites.
“They’re mosquito bites,” I explained to him.
“You have ow-ies,” he said as he began to kiss each and every one of them.
I shot a concerned look at Poptart as Harrison was working my arm like a miniature Pepe Le Pew.
“Can I get arrested for this?” I asked Poptart.
“I’m not sure. Technically he’s harassing you.”
“Harrison, try and keep it together,” I told him. “Now is not the time for ow-ies. Do you know how to make paper airplanes?”
“No,” he said.
“Well you’re about to learn,” I said as I dug into my bag and pulled out a puzzle book. Then Poptart, Harrison, and I proceeded to rip the pages out of the book and make some pretty amazing paper airplanes. Flying them didn’t make us very popular but I gave the dirty looks back just as well as I got them. Hey people, he could still be running up and down the aisles. Now give me a fucking break, I’m trying to work here.
FINALLY, the flight attendant decided to help us out with operation Harrison and came by with a coloring book and a bunch of different colored crayons. The coloring book was a book that showed different parts of the plane and explained what each person’s job was on the plane. The book covered everyone, from the pilots all the way to the guys who put the luggage on the plane. It was a nice, calm coloring book that should have kept Harrison busy for a little while. Harrison opened the coloring book to the first page, which showed the outside of the plane. He grabbed a red crayon and start coloring all over the page like a crazy person who had just gone off his meds cold turkey, all the while yelling, “The plane is on fire!!!!!” No, no, no, Harrison. People don’t like that.
“Let’s turn the page,” I said to Harrison in a very calm voice. Now Harrison and I were looking at a picture of the cockpit with two smiling pilots waving at us.
“They’re on fire!!!!!!” Harrison began yelling and scratching away again with his red crayon. I just started shaking my head back and forth and snuck a peek at Poptart whose eyes were HUGE staring at Harrison.
“Okay Harrison, let’s try something else. How about coloring the fight attendants. We’ll do it together. And before I could even touch my harmless blue crayon to the coloring book Harrison was at it again. “THEY’RE ON FIRE!!!!!” I took a deep breath and now realized why Harrison’s parents were not really trying very hard to get him back to his assigned seat.
“Harrison, have you ever seen Jamaican money before?”
“No,” he told me. Good, I thought to myself. Maybe I can distract him from the coloring book of death and carnage. By the time Hurricane Harrison was done with me he had all of my Jamaican money, including the bills, which I had planned to save as a souvenir. I was exhausted! I was even considering buying one of those giant duty free bottles of booze from the flight attendants.
After the plane landed, Harrison’s parents thanked us for entertaining their child. Whatever, I’m calling CPS. Harrison wasn’t such a bad guy, he was just bored and he has given Poptart and I many laughs over the years. Sometimes when we fly now, we’ll take my daughter’s coloring book and start coloring rapidly all the while yelling, “THE PLANE IS ON FIRE!” Just for kicks. Other passengers love it. Air Marshals especially.
We haven’t been back to Jamaica since our honeymoon. My strive for excellence in calligraphy and my husband’s double life as an international spy has kept us away. But we did have a second Honeymoon, which was almost as eventful. But that’s another story…
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