“Yes, Mom.”
“You know they have mountains there Samantha,” said Dad. “The roads twist.” He made a twisting motion with his hand, nearly broadsiding a semi trailer truck in the process.
“Remember that summer you visited Aunt Francis in Big Bear?” Mom mimed a violent vomiting episode.
“Yes, Mom.”
“And don’t underestimate the pollen from the trees,” saidDad, checking his side mirror for the seventh time before changing lanes. His blinker had been on for the past ten minutes. “Your allergies.”
They were acting as if I were going backcountry camping in the untamed wilderness. But I wasn’t going to Colorado to live off the land. I was going to Colorado to be pampered like a princess and get paid a king’s ransom to do it. “I’ll grab Benadryl and Dramamine when I get there,” I said. If nothing else, I would sleep well.
“And don’t exert yourself,” said Mom. “The elevation will make you dizzy.”
“No worries there.”
“Do you want your father to stop and buy you a bottle of water? You have to stay hydrated.”
“I’m pretty sure they have water there.”
“And watch out for the meese.” said Dad. “So many meese in Colorado.”
“They’re called moose.”
“One moose, lots of meese,” Mom countered.
“It’s still moose,” I insisted. “Moose is singular and plural.”
“What about goose and geese?” asked Dad.
“That’s different.”
“Why is that different?” Mom asked.
“It just is.”
“What do you know about mooses, anyway?” Mom gave another snort of dismissal.
“Nothing Mom. I don’t know anything about moose. Or mooses. Or meese. You realize I’m staying at a luxury resort, right? Not camping in the wilderness.” Unless they had a moose working the reception desk of the full-service spa, I had no intention of putting myself in a situation where I would be anywhere near the things.
After my parents dropped me off at the curb, I raced through Los Angeles International Airport without a minute to spare. I didn’t even have time to stop for coffee.
When I got to the gate, doubled-over, out of breath, waiting for the aneurysm, I didn’t see any people lined up. I asked the gate attendant if the flight had already finished boarding. She gave me her corporately trained smile, one that conveyed ‘oh you poor dear’ and ‘you’re fucked’ simultaneously. “I’m afraid there’s been a slight delay.”
By slight, she meant four hours. Apparently, some poor seagull kamikazed into an engine intake valve. The bird had lost, obviously, but the plane didn’t exactly win either. While I waited, I developed an encyclopedic knowledge of the duty-free shop’s perfume selection and memorized every ceiling tile in Gate B23.
Once on board, first class did its best to compensate. I’d nursed two perfectly chilled mimosas before we even left California airspace. By the time I finished the third, watching Bachelorette Season 21 (the one where Brittany dates the secret billionaire disguised as a plumber), my blood alcohol content had reached the sweet spot where my anxiety started to blur.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our descent into Aster Park Regional Airport,” the pilot announced, his voice crackling over the speakers. “Current temperature is 68 degrees, clear skies, and light winds.”
I returned my seat and tray table to their upright and locked positions as the flight attendant, Tiffany, collected my empty mimosa glass. “First time to Aster Park?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, squirming in my seat in a futile attempt to dislodge the silk thong that had spent the last two hours trying to bisect me. “Work trip.”
Tiffany’s face went from cheerful to sympathetic. She gave my shoulder a gentle pat, then leaned over and whispered. “I’ll get you one more mimosa before we land.”
The plane touched down with a bounce that sent my stomach into my throat, then rolled to a stop on what appeared to be a glorified country road. Complete with pot holes. I looked out the window. “Oh boy.”
Aster Park Regional Airport was, and I use this term very loosely, “quaint.” No jetways here, just a patch of tarmac in the middle of an empty field, surrounded by mountains and pine trees.
