I don’t know if I have posted it in a while, but I really like this story.
A Cat, a Bottle, and the Mob
So here I am, standing at the open door of an airplane, the sound drowning out the shouts of the men with the guns, and the wind trying its hardest to hold me in its arms, and I wonder how I got here.
Well it is a long story involving a cat, a bottle, and the mob.
Well, four days ago I was dropping off some film to be developed at Wal-Mart, when this little old lady, the classic cartoon grandma, nothing more that skin and bones with curly blue hair in a daisy print dress, starts cussing at me. Now I went to public school and I have heard more cussing than I care. Most of the time I don’t even actually hear the words, my brain just blocks it out. But having so much cussing coming out of a little old lady caused me to see what was provoking her to projectile vomit such filth at me.
I turned slowly so as not to spook her in to hitting me with her purse, and calmly asked her, “Can I help you?”
“You can get out of my way, I need to deposit my film of my family’s Easter. I want to see the pictures of my grand-kids as soon as possible.” Those were all the important words of what she said.
“I am almost done, I only have four more rolls to put in the envelopes and finish filling them out.” I answered. You see, I just got back from Mexico on a seven-day mission trip with church and I had about eight rolls of film.
“You ‘&*$%’ will never ‘!@*&#” forget the ‘^&%%^’ day you ‘$@$#%@&^’ met me, you young ‘#%@&’.” She screamed as some Wal-Mart employee escorted her off the premises. To say the least, I left the store a little upset.
I pull in to my usually parking spot at home and felt a thump through the car. I step out and look at my rear passenger tire. I run in the house, grab a towel, go back to the car and wrap my cat in it. I got back in my car and sped off to the vet.
Once there I talked to the receptionist and she told me to wait there, and the doctor will be with me in a minute. When the doctor walked out with a man and the man’s dog.
“Now Mr. Corleone, you need to be more careful about your hunting. I don’t like pulling bullets out of Leroy there, and next time he might not be as lucky.” The doctor said to whom was apparently Mr. Corleone.
Picking up a clipboard, he looked at me,
“Mr. Myers, come, let’s see how,” he glances down, then resuming eye contact, “Shadow is doing.” As we walked into the examining room he says to me in a slightly subdued tone, “That man, Mr. Corleone, is in with the mafia and he doesn’t hunt.”
A half-hour later, after I had to put my cat to sleep, I walked out, got in my car and drove home.
At a stoplight, I looked over and I saw an old woman with a bag of groceries, I rolled down my window and asked if she would like a ride home. I just felt like being kind and doing something to take my mind off what had just happened. Well, the old woman looked at me, and it was the same little old lady from Wal-Mart. She started to be obscene, and so I just rolled up my window. The light turned green, so I started to drive away when I heard a loud crash. I stop, look back and the little old lady was throwing her groceries at me. And what was worse was that she threw a bottle of wine through my rear window! I raced home and pulled the bottle out and looked at it. It was a very expensive bottle, so I put it on top of my freezer for when I am actually twenty-one and I have company.
You maybe wondering how I got here three days later, looking at the small tunnels of one death, with my back an open door to the cold, dark Pacific a few thousand feet below. Well, the day after that horrible day, one of my friends had an extra ticket to Hawaii after a friend cancelled on her. It was quite sad though, her friend’s grandma died. But that was good news for me. I spent the next two days packing, tying up loose ends, and getting time off. I had high spirits this morning as I got on the plane with Amy. We have been friends for over three years, and this was going to be a great trip.
About ninety minute after we left the airport we were over open ocean. I got up to go to the bathroom. When I was walking by one of the emergency exits that the flight attendants so kindly pointed out during the safety lesson, a man put some thing in my hand. I looked down at it and the man jumped out the door. The vacuum almost pulled me out. And that is how I got here.
The co-pilot and a male flight attendant are point their guns at me and shouting. One of the fight attendant motions for me to move away from the door. So I do, and he shuts the door. I look back at the co-pilot and he still had his gun pointed at my chest.
“What is going on?” I ask.
“What do you have in your hand?” He shouted back.
I look down to what is in my hand. I look back up and start explaining that it is not mine and how the guy that jumped out of the plane had given it to me and pleaded that I didn’t want to die.
A man stands up from the second row back and walks to me. Looking in my hand he says,
“The grenade won’t explode as long as the spoon in still held down. I need some tape.”
“The what” I ask.
“The little metal thing. Get me some tape.”
As the man took the grenade from my hand and taped the spoon down, and the co-pilot went back to the cockpit to turn the plane around, the flight attendant handcuffed me to a chair. Man, I thought, Amy is going to hate me.