“I told you to put on those headphones when you came aboard.” Headphones had been there all along! I feel like I squandered all my capitals.
Confronted with the obvious, I leap to my defense. “YOU ARE A HACK PILOT!” “True.” “THAT FLIGHT WAS ABYSMAL!” “It had its ups and downs.”
“I WILL NEVER FLY WITH YOU AGAIN!” “No hard feelings. Here’s your tab.” “THIS IS DOUBLE THE METER!” “Standard policy. I have to fly back.”
“SO I PAY FOR A RETURN FLIGHT EVEN IF I DON’T USE IT?” “You realize you’re shouting? You don’t need the headphones now.” I take them off.
“It was in the fine print on the agreement you signed.” I pull a wad of bills out of my pocket. “Here. Get lost.” He remains where he is.
We’re in an empty airfield with dense jungle beyond. “How do I get to the campus?” “Funny you should ask.” David disappears into the hanger.
He appears driving a yellow jeep. “Island Taxi mister?” “Seriously?” “You can ride with me or foot it.” “Seriously?” “You keep saying that.”
He is sitting in the jeep’s passenger seat. If his plane weren’t still parked on the airstrip, I would swear he just tore off its wings.
A teen when I first rode a monster rollercoaster, I expected the heart-stopping plummets but not gut wrenching rolls and upside-down twists.
Wait. I already tweeted that. After our aerial experience, how bad could an island taxi ride be? “Let’s do this” “Sign here.” “What’s this?”
“A covenant for our drive time releasing me from all liability.” “Seriously?” “You keep saying that. My card.” I wonder if it’s a long walk.
The card reads “David’s Island Taxi Service and Storm Door Co.” On back is a photo of his jeep, a dinged yellow taxi:
“We got a deal?” I consider my options. Walk down the mountain and find Regi’s med school by myself, or ride the island taxi. “How much?”
“On the meter. You coming back?” “I wouldn’t fly again with you if you were the last pilot on earth.” “The regular flight is next Saturday.”
“I thought other airlines won’t fly here.” “From Puerto Rico. The flight will come from Bermuda.” “We’ll be on it. Just get me to campus.”
I sign the contract and climb aboard the jeep. “Why am I in the driver’s seat? Where’s the wheel?” “They drive British style. I’m driving.”
“British style?” “Everyone drives on the wrong side of the road.” “This road has one lane.” “I’m driving on the wrong side of the lane.”
The single lane slows our progress considerably. Along the road are banana plantations, waterfalls and golf courses.
Sometimes we see monkeys with bananas. “Are monkeys native here?” “No, they were brought in for med school research.”
Sometimes we see monkeys golfing. MONKEYS GOLFING? “Umm, do you know what kind of med school research they’re doing?”
“Sure! What happens if you put an infinite number of monkeys in front of an infinite number of word processors?” “They write Great Books?”
(The Twitter Mystery continues daily at @Twitstery)