Florence
“It started,” she begins, “on the plane coming up from Kenya. We were on a small jetliner, and it was delayed on the runway because a guy in the front was jerking off. The flight attendants kept us all in our seats as he literally held the plane hostage with his dick.”
Boy laughs, staring at the dimples flash across her cheeks as she talks.
“We were delayed, like, forty-five minutes before the local airport police came in and bashed the guy over the head to get him off the plane. He was never threatening, and maybe that’s why I still feel bad about being so happy to see the cop’s black baton bash against his black skull. Everyone cheered for them. I cheered to be on our way. During that time, one of the attendants was in back and gave us beer when we became agitated with having to stay in our seats while that man did what he did. Anyway, so we got in the air and the guy in front of me began coughing. I heard his wife say something about him not drinking with his medication, but he silenced her somehow and ordered a whiskey and water. I remember the woman bringing up the little bottle with the red label and the little cup of ice water. I remember the woman smiling as she asked me if I cared for anything to drink when passing by my seat. I remember the short amount of time, maybe two minutes, that went by before it all happened. The man…”
She looks out, no longer keeping her eyes on Boy, but drifting them down across the river flowing beneath them.
“The man began vomiting with this horrendous noise emanating from his mouth. His wife, first calmly, I’m sure with embarrassment, gave him bags and then asked for mine and the person’s next to me when he filled all the barf bags in their row. She began to grow hysterical when he wouldn’t stop vomiting, and wouldn’t even respond to her with anything but this horrific noise, the bile, and the gasps for life between each wretching. The worst thing, I think, was the stupid movie that was playing during all of it. It was that, oh, that movie with Dana Carvey in lots of disguises, and he was a turtle and doing all these idiotic things, and all these goofy images were flashing across the screen while the lady attendant and even a guy from the front came over and tried to do anything they could to stop the man from puking all over the place.”
Boy sees the gelato start to drip onto her hand. He doesn’t move.
“He wasn’t aiming for bags now, but was flailing his arms and jerking against his seat, pushing it back again and again at me. Each time he did this he would gasp, then wretch, then gasp again. The noises mixed with the movie at times, and I remember people behind me snickered when he farted…I guess he was releasing his bowels because of all the wretching, and I don’t mean to be so vulgar, but the sounds and the smells that came from the scene just beyond those seats in front of me...I remember the safety pamphlet sticking out the back of his seat, those blank faces almost smiling with all the fire around them. I will never forget that image. I wanted to sit up some, or lean into the aisle to see exactly what I was smelling and hearing, but I couldn’t move. I just couldn’t move to look at anything but that fucking movie and those fucking blank faces with their fucking flames.” She stares straight down at the bridge.
“Anyway, they asked if there was a doctor on the plane, but there wasn’t. When he stopped moving they took his wife into the back and shortly after that said they were going to make an emergency landing to get some medical help. Their voices were more annoyed than anything, and I couldn’t help but thinking two things. That, one, he was already dead, and two, these poor flight attendants just tried to do their job, and were delayed first because of a drunkard and his dick, and again from a man who mixed prescription medication and alcohol to find himself dead. I looked – finally – just before they covered him with a blanket, and his face was swollen with all the wretching, and puke covered all around his mouth and down his front. That was the first time I’d ever seen a dead person, let alone be there while someone died.” Suddenly she is back on the bridge with Boy. “Oh my god! My ice cream is everywhere!”
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Boy says, holding up a few napkins taken from his backpack, “I really wanted you to finish the story.”
“Thanks,” she smiles at him the way she did when he first spotted her on the bridge, three hours before. It was this smile, those flashing dimples, that told him to speak to her. They were both waiting for people who never came, and now all the light of day is gone, the merchants and tourists all gone, and they’re the only ones left on the bridge. Boy, for the first time ever, is attracted to a girl he’s not dating. His girlfriend’s face floats into his head, and he hears her voicemail voice, her only words he’s heard since coming to Europe. He closes up inside.
* * *
Jim steps off the train and pukes on the platform, barely making it the ten steps to the waste basket before puking again. Lissa exits behind him, carrying his rucksack in both arms, with her own rucksack overstuffed and heavy on her back. She drops Jim’s bag on the platform, barely missing the puke as she drags it closer to him.
“Goddamn ferry,” Jim manages out between dry heaves, having already purged the little bit of water he drank on the ride from Milan. “Goddamn winds. The winds made me sick, you know…it wasn’t the soup.”
“I got sick too,” Lissa sluffs off her bag and rubs Jim’s head. “I hate to admit it because it was so good, but I think it was the soup. I think it was just a coincidence the ferry back from Moroccowas such a god-awful trip.”
“Everyone got sick on that fucking thing,” Jim says, brushing Lissa’s hand away. “Sorry babe, not now, that hurts.”
“Rubbing your head hurts? You gatta toughen up, mister.”
“Fuckin’ ship’s crew were fuckin’puking on each other and praying for a swift death…that fucking ferry ruined us.”
“It ruined you. I got sick from delicious soup, and I got over it in Barcelona. You good to go?”
“Not,” Jim dry heaves into the trashcan. “No, not quite yet.”
Forty minutes later they take the buses recommended by L in his last e-mail, winding up the slope of Florence to the youth hostel. It’s early enough they hope to catch the others before they all leave for the day. The letter said Boy and Gelka were staying in L’s tent in the campground outside the hostel, and the bright green manta-ray-shaped tent is in plain sight when they arrive.
Outside is L topless and stretching in the sun.
“Ahoy, comrades!” L shouts as he sees Lissa and Jim, rushing up to greet them. Jim stays L with a sharp arm between them. “You okay, my friend?”
“Sick as a dog, man…I’ll tell you all about it with the others. Where are they?”
“Well, Gelka’s inside the tent, and Boy’s been gone since the crack of light, actually. Don’t know where’s he’s off to. Oh, and there’s something you should know right away.” L looks around as if telling a prison yard secret. “Gelka and I are, um, together…in a way.”
“What?” Lissa asks, almost scoffing.“In what way?”
“Romantically. Exploratively. I, I don’t really know, but I’m really happy about it!”
“What about Boy, dude?”
“Well, I told him about what was happening back in Paris, like you told me to, and he says he is okay with it. I mean, he already moved on – he’s got a new girlfriend and everything.”
“How did this happen?” asks Lissa.
“I don’t really know…we were walking along after she got here, and we were looking over there.” L points out to the overlooking slope of Florence.“I blame the land of love, really…this whole trip I kept telling myself I can’t think of her in that way, and I finally realized I kept saying this because I really do think of her romantically, I like her, and think she’s so beautiful and wonderful…and suddenly I was kissing her, and she kissed me right back. We haven’t really been able to talk too much, though, with Boy arriving shortly after, but like I said, I told Boy we kissed and we’re taking it from there.”
Boy laughs, staring at the dimples flash across her cheeks as she talks.
“We were delayed, like, forty-five minutes before the local airport police came in and bashed the guy over the head to get him off the plane. He was never threatening, and maybe that’s why I still feel bad about being so happy to see the cop’s black baton bash against his black skull. Everyone cheered for them. I cheered to be on our way. During that time, one of the attendants was in back and gave us beer when we became agitated with having to stay in our seats while that man did what he did. Anyway, so we got in the air and the guy in front of me began coughing. I heard his wife say something about him not drinking with his medication, but he silenced her somehow and ordered a whiskey and water. I remember the woman bringing up the little bottle with the red label and the little cup of ice water. I remember the woman smiling as she asked me if I cared for anything to drink when passing by my seat. I remember the short amount of time, maybe two minutes, that went by before it all happened. The man…”
She looks out, no longer keeping her eyes on Boy, but drifting them down across the river flowing beneath them.
“The man began vomiting with this horrendous noise emanating from his mouth. His wife, first calmly, I’m sure with embarrassment, gave him bags and then asked for mine and the person’s next to me when he filled all the barf bags in their row. She began to grow hysterical when he wouldn’t stop vomiting, and wouldn’t even respond to her with anything but this horrific noise, the bile, and the gasps for life between each wretching. The worst thing, I think, was the stupid movie that was playing during all of it. It was that, oh, that movie with Dana Carvey in lots of disguises, and he was a turtle and doing all these idiotic things, and all these goofy images were flashing across the screen while the lady attendant and even a guy from the front came over and tried to do anything they could to stop the man from puking all over the place.”
Boy sees the gelato start to drip onto her hand. He doesn’t move.
“He wasn’t aiming for bags now, but was flailing his arms and jerking against his seat, pushing it back again and again at me. Each time he did this he would gasp, then wretch, then gasp again. The noises mixed with the movie at times, and I remember people behind me snickered when he farted…I guess he was releasing his bowels because of all the wretching, and I don’t mean to be so vulgar, but the sounds and the smells that came from the scene just beyond those seats in front of me...I remember the safety pamphlet sticking out the back of his seat, those blank faces almost smiling with all the fire around them. I will never forget that image. I wanted to sit up some, or lean into the aisle to see exactly what I was smelling and hearing, but I couldn’t move. I just couldn’t move to look at anything but that fucking movie and those fucking blank faces with their fucking flames.” She stares straight down at the bridge.
“Anyway, they asked if there was a doctor on the plane, but there wasn’t. When he stopped moving they took his wife into the back and shortly after that said they were going to make an emergency landing to get some medical help. Their voices were more annoyed than anything, and I couldn’t help but thinking two things. That, one, he was already dead, and two, these poor flight attendants just tried to do their job, and were delayed first because of a drunkard and his dick, and again from a man who mixed prescription medication and alcohol to find himself dead. I looked – finally – just before they covered him with a blanket, and his face was swollen with all the wretching, and puke covered all around his mouth and down his front. That was the first time I’d ever seen a dead person, let alone be there while someone died.” Suddenly she is back on the bridge with Boy. “Oh my god! My ice cream is everywhere!”
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Boy says, holding up a few napkins taken from his backpack, “I really wanted you to finish the story.”
“Thanks,” she smiles at him the way she did when he first spotted her on the bridge, three hours before. It was this smile, those flashing dimples, that told him to speak to her. They were both waiting for people who never came, and now all the light of day is gone, the merchants and tourists all gone, and they’re the only ones left on the bridge. Boy, for the first time ever, is attracted to a girl he’s not dating. His girlfriend’s face floats into his head, and he hears her voicemail voice, her only words he’s heard since coming to Europe. He closes up inside.
* * *
Jim steps off the train and pukes on the platform, barely making it the ten steps to the waste basket before puking again. Lissa exits behind him, carrying his rucksack in both arms, with her own rucksack overstuffed and heavy on her back. She drops Jim’s bag on the platform, barely missing the puke as she drags it closer to him.
“Goddamn ferry,” Jim manages out between dry heaves, having already purged the little bit of water he drank on the ride from Milan. “Goddamn winds. The winds made me sick, you know…it wasn’t the soup.”
“I got sick too,” Lissa sluffs off her bag and rubs Jim’s head. “I hate to admit it because it was so good, but I think it was the soup. I think it was just a coincidence the ferry back from Moroccowas such a god-awful trip.”
“Everyone got sick on that fucking thing,” Jim says, brushing Lissa’s hand away. “Sorry babe, not now, that hurts.”
“Rubbing your head hurts? You gatta toughen up, mister.”
“Fuckin’ ship’s crew were fuckin’puking on each other and praying for a swift death…that fucking ferry ruined us.”
“It ruined you. I got sick from delicious soup, and I got over it in Barcelona. You good to go?”
“Not,” Jim dry heaves into the trashcan. “No, not quite yet.”
Forty minutes later they take the buses recommended by L in his last e-mail, winding up the slope of Florence to the youth hostel. It’s early enough they hope to catch the others before they all leave for the day. The letter said Boy and Gelka were staying in L’s tent in the campground outside the hostel, and the bright green manta-ray-shaped tent is in plain sight when they arrive.
Outside is L topless and stretching in the sun.
“Ahoy, comrades!” L shouts as he sees Lissa and Jim, rushing up to greet them. Jim stays L with a sharp arm between them. “You okay, my friend?”
“Sick as a dog, man…I’ll tell you all about it with the others. Where are they?”
“Well, Gelka’s inside the tent, and Boy’s been gone since the crack of light, actually. Don’t know where’s he’s off to. Oh, and there’s something you should know right away.” L looks around as if telling a prison yard secret. “Gelka and I are, um, together…in a way.”
“What?” Lissa asks, almost scoffing.“In what way?”
“Romantically. Exploratively. I, I don’t really know, but I’m really happy about it!”
“What about Boy, dude?”
“Well, I told him about what was happening back in Paris, like you told me to, and he says he is okay with it. I mean, he already moved on – he’s got a new girlfriend and everything.”
“How did this happen?” asks Lissa.
“I don’t really know…we were walking along after she got here, and we were looking over there.” L points out to the overlooking slope of Florence.“I blame the land of love, really…this whole trip I kept telling myself I can’t think of her in that way, and I finally realized I kept saying this because I really do think of her romantically, I like her, and think she’s so beautiful and wonderful…and suddenly I was kissing her, and she kissed me right back. We haven’t really been able to talk too much, though, with Boy arriving shortly after, but like I said, I told Boy we kissed and we’re taking it from there.”