Nightmare at 45,000 Feet: Terror, Indigestion, and Alcohol Withdrawals En Route to France

 This will be my Halloween post, as this is the most terrifying thing to ever happen to me. 

The year was 2017, I was 27. I had moved to Michigan in 2016 after being released from prison. I was living with my dad and stepmom. I was ashamed that I had been imprisoned for such a dishonorable charge, and after being released did nothing but smoke, and fuck whores. I couldn't drink on account of my parole, as I had to give a piss test every day. 

It was my mom's birthday on the 12th. A little tidbit about my family, we all have extravagant birthday parties. Whether it be in Key West, or a destination, all of us kids, and our parents had big parties. My 1st birthday was in Cabo San Lucas, my 16th was in Cancún, and my 21st was in Las Vegas, and all of the parties between cost upwards of $1000. I am not sure how we financed these before Bob came along. For all of my life, my mother has been an acting teacher, and has made about $80k a year. My father was a long-haul truck driver for a few years before my birth and got a job running several car washes a year before my birth. I guess that combined could make that much money, but it isn't my business. 

My mother's 55th birthday party was in the French countryside this year. It was going to be a who's who of people on my mother and stepfather's sides of the family. Even my inbred cousins were going to be there, much to everyone's chagrin. No one said anything to them about it, but we ALL know what happens in their house. 

I had to jump through a lot of hoops to be able to leave the country, but in the end, I could leave, accompanied by my parole officer, Carole Calhoun. Our flight left April 10th, at 5pm from Detroit Metro. It was an 8.5-hour flight (give or take), where I could have no booze, and no cigarettes, and no whores. I had eaten a hearty breakfast of White Castle sliders, chicken rings, and a fifth of vodka (I got drunk after my piss test that day, as I wasn't getting another until the 16th). I know, I had a problem. I had also smoked 3 packs of cigarettes from 2am on the 9th up to my 5pm boarding time. 

Carole and I sat in Premium Economy next to my cousin, Barty. Bart normally would've been in first class, but he heard I was on his same flight, and wanted to sit next to me. As we had left the strip, my parole officer told me once again I couldn't have any drinks. I told her she was a cunt. We had a friendly relationship. 

We were 2.5 hours in, it was about 7:30, and I had a tingle in my stomach. "Oh goddamnit..." I moaned. My parole officer turned to me and inquired why I had muttered an expletive. "I forgot what White Castle does to my stomach..." I told my parole officer. She went white as a ghost. "Are you...going to make a number 2?" she asked me. I cursed at her and told her "Yes" loudly. Barty started laughing manically. "You're gonna take a White Castle shit on an airplane?" he asked, laughing. I nodded. But then, my worst enemy reared its ugly head. Turbulence. We were forced to sit in our seats, buckled as the airplane jumbled around. "Goddamnit, I'm gonna shit my fucking pants on this airplane," I muttered. One of the more conservative women on the plane asked me to "keep my profanity to a minimum" and I called her a cunt. We had a friendly relationship. 

Then, hour 4 hit. I was jonesing for a cigarette at this time and scratched my arms incessantly. "Come on, come on, come on...." I muttered. I was waiting for an emergency landing, or some horrible accident to kill all of us so I wouldn't have to endure this pain anymore. Whenever my parole officer tried to talk to me, I held my hand up. She told me to do this every time I wanted to shoot her in the face, and I exercised my right. In an effort to take my mind off of the withdrawals, I turned on the screen on the seat in front of me and watched "Bridesmaids". Then, I was hit with a right-left-right from my insides and doubled over. I damn near screamed in pain, as the plane bobbed up and down. My parole officer held my back in an attempt to seem like she gave a shit, and I held my hand up. Barty was asleep by now- he was 89 years old at the time- and woke up with a jolt. He saw me, and a smile spread across his face. "Jesus, boy, are you shitting yourself?" he asked. I glared at him. I asked my parole officer- "Please, let me have one drink to settle my stomach. A rum and coke or something, please Carole, please!". She just shook her head. I tried to stand up but was rudely reminded by some dumb bitch flight attendant to "please sit down, monsieur" so I smiled, and did. 

Hour 5 hit like a sack of bricks. Now it wasn't just the lack of cigarettes hitting me, my buzz was wearing off. And my insides were being vandalized by White Castle. Why did my mother want her party in fucking France!? Now, real terror was creeping in. People were silently praying. Some folks thought this plane was actually going down. Hell, even my parole officer was scared. I didn't know she felt emotions! 

Hour 6, the turbulence finally dialed down, but my indigestion had dialed up. I politely flagged a stewardess down, and asked her if I could pretty please be exempt from the seatbelt sign and take a shit I've been holding in for hours. She said she had to ask her superior and went away. She came back five odd minutes later and said I could. I made my way to the lavatory, walking with my asshole clenched tighter than Fort Knox. I got in, and took a solid 20-minute, ass-blasting, stomach churning, nauseating, noxious fume-filled shit. I mean, I was grabbing my thighs, trying not to breathe in the smell. That was an onion-vodka-cheeseburger shit like no other. It was like Reagan from "The Exorcist" spewing bile out of my poor asshole. After I had driven the evil spirits out of my ass, I stood shakily, and made my way back to my seat. I still felt rumblings inside of me but had to put them to rest and enjoy the rest of my flight. As I sat, my parole officer asked if everything was alright. I flipped her off and turned "Bridesmaids" back on. 

Hour 7. The shakes were so bad now, that I couldn't sit still. Christ almighty, I needed a fucking drink. And the turbulence. Now the bile wasn't gonna be coming out of my ass, but my mouth. It was BAD. Old folks praying, babies crying, people telling their significant others that they love them. Then, all gone. No more turbulence. Nada. Not a damn thing. Everyone cheered. The vomit slid back down my throat. I had to cool my jets. My parole officer stood. "I have to pee. Now Mr. Goldstein, please make sure Bombus doesn't have anything to drink." She walked away. I turned to Barty. He handed me the remnants of his beer, and I sucked it down. I looked at my hand. Ahh. Normal. 

Hour 8. Christ almighty, once I land, I'm heading straight to the liquor store, buying 12 bottles of wine, and 4 cases of cigarettes. We're in the home stretch, come on! But no. I had that tingle in my stomach again. I stood, shakily, and lunged towards the bathroom. I tried to open it, but it was locked. "Occupied!" a young boy said. I smiled and sighed. "Let me level with you, son. I ate a whole cheesy 10 sack of White Castle and drank a fifth of vodka before I got on this goddamn plane. I'm gonna shit my pants out here. Now you better finish whatever the fuck you're doing, or else I'm stink this cocksucking plane up like a mother. Do you understand what I'm saying?" I said. The little boy in the bathroom didn't respond. "Answer the question, son," I said. Just then, a woman appeared behind me. "My son texted me that a man was swearing at him while he was using the bathroom, what the hell is wrong with you?" I whipped around. "Lady- I am about to shit my fucking pants, and your dumbfuck son is playing with himself in the fucking bathroom, instead of letting me NOT shit myself on this plane!" I shouted. "My son is 9 years old, you pervert!" she retorted. I raised my fist in anger but slammed it back to my side. "Lady, get your fucking son out of the goddamn bathroom, or I will shit directly on you." I said. She was horrified. "Hunter, finish up in there! What are you doing in there? Come on, honey, hurry up!" in no time, her little boy was out of the bathroom. "How fucking long does it take to take a piss, you little asshole?" I asked. She ushered her son away and turned back to face me. "You're sick," she spat. I went in and finished my business. 

I made my way back to my seat and sat. We landed some 15 minutes later. I made several enemies as we deboarded, brushing past several people, hitting them with my carry on. I made my way off, and quickly lit 2 cigarettes, and waited for Bart and Carole. I told Carole that she would have to stay in a hotel room near our family's rental house, on account of her being a no-fun bitch. She said that was no problem and reminded me that while there's no piss test overseas, I should still NOT be drinking. I smiled. "What the hell do you think I am, some sort of addict? Christ, Carole, I can go a year without drinking!" she smiled. "Alright. Mr. Goldstein, please call me when the party happens, I'll have to be in attendance. And please tell me if Bombus drinks. You have my number." She took her bags and walked away. "What a fucking loser!" Barty exclaimed. We went on our merry way. 

The festivities were fun, and everyone stayed until the 15th. Sadly, Carole died in France. I'm not joking. She was 59 years old, 5'2, 270 pounds, and due to being gross and overweight, had a heart attack on the 14th. Goddamnit, I was so upset that I drank 4 bottles of wine, 2 bottles of rum, and when we were out of liquor, 1 bottle of cooking sherry. I went home with Bart and drank only 8 drinks (one every hour) on the plane ride home. I made sure not to eat anything that would blow my ass out, too. 

My parole ended in June of that year, so I rode out the rest of my months. If you're wondering, all of the booze was out of my system by the time I took my test on the 16th, and I made out like a bandit. Suck it, legal system. I went to AA as soon as parole was over. They were very judgmental, and that wasn't good for my health. I'm better now. Really, I am. I smoke more than I drink. It's soothing. I am soothed. But in 2017, on a plane, onions firing out of my ass, all I wanted was a screwdriver. First, the cocktail, then one to kill Carole with- God rest her soul.

Anyways, Happy Halloween!