Jose Rodriguez - Snapshots of Modern Love

Shit… Come oooooon…

The engine popped and fire shot out from the exhaust pipes. Give it power, slowly. Oil pressure is up. Right engine now… Comeooooooooooon baby.

"Let' s get the fuck moving!" Ken heard Tony shouting from the tail section. At that moment a distant cracking noise came over the noise of the running engine, and tracers started to draw paths of fire in the humid night. A report of automatic fire came from the tail section. Ken figured it was Tony hanging out of the door returning fire into the incoming headlights.

The right engine caught. Ken advanced the throttles with full brakes applied; once the engines reached full R.P.M., he released the brakes and aimed the Beech' s nose straight ahead between the marker lights for a take off that would have to use only over half the available runway. The tracers converged on the plane until the airframe shuddered and clinked with the impact of bullets striking aluminum.

Shit… Ten degrees of flaps… The old Beech roared down the runway heading into a solid darkness filled with unknown obstacles, but Ken had no time to ponder that; they were taking fire from the Cubans, and all that mattered was full power. Balls to the wall, now!

Twice Ken tried to lift off, but the heavy plane settled back on to the ground as the runway lights quickly and forever disappeared behind him. At the third attempt the plane remained airborne. Ken retracted the gear and kept the airplane in ground effect, rushing towards a darkness he remembered contained a line of palm trees beyond which awaited the ocean. He flicked the landing light on just in time to see the trees growing bigger by the second. He pulled on the joke gritting his teeth and praying for enough speed to clear the palms. The scrapping noise of vegetation came through his feet but the old plane cleared the tree wall in one piece. Ken lowered the nose and skimmed the top of the waves at full power, heading for Florida followed by a whirl of sea spray that rose on his wake.

A few minutes passed before he could release his shaky sweaty hands from the yoke. He thanked God it was a clear night and the horizon had a sharp edge to tell him which way was up. He climbed to 500 feet, throttled the engines back to cruise power, trimmed the aircraft, and checked his instruments. All needles stuck in the green. Fuel gages read almost full, so he was not leaking fuel, at least not in huge amounts. Fucking luck.

"Tony?" Ken yelled in the direction of the tail. No answer.

"Toooony!" Ken shouted many more times, but no answer came from the rear. The airplane felt tail heavy, so Ken knew that Tony was back there. No autopilot; not even an old fashion win-leveler; the instrument panel had an empty space where the autopilot was supposed to be. Flying the old plane at low altitude demanded Ken' s constant attention, and he could not release the yoke to check on Tony.

It would be a long trip, and Ken felt sicker by the mile.

Debbie' s van rides westward on I-20, flanked by flat expanses of cotton fields. Her windshield is dusty, and the sunset diffuses its rays into a fan of golden light slathered across the glass where the wiper' s path is demarcated by a lighter hue. The road stretches and shows the way to a dying sun, and Debbie tries to catch up with it, but she can' t.

Like many other things she had always tried to catch up with, this one also slithers out of her reach, she thinks. But not to worry; tomorrow, the same sun will pop on the east, then it will vault to its zenith and will catch up with her. Things always turn out fine, one way or another, she tries to convince herself.

She does the speed limit, no need to attract nosy cops. A big Buick stands still on the freeway' s shoulder. A white haired old man, dressed in his best Polyester, is looking under the hood. A white haired old lady stands beside him, and both look lost, like if they were gazing at some incomprehensible riddle that had usurped the engine' s place.

Debbie pulls off the highway, stops, and backs up to where the old couple stands like shipwrecks on a raft in the middle of the ocean.

"Hi there," says Debbie as the old man approaches her window. "What' s the problem?"

"The darn car died on us," says the old man, tall and skinny like a pole.

"If you want I can give you a ride," offers Debbie, her cute smile a flag of friendliness and good intentions.

"We would really appreciate it, ma' am."

The van is back on the road. The old lady, Edna, sits on the bench seat behind Debbie, beside the empty child seat. The old man, Bob, seats on the passenger seat at front. By the time they reach the next exit and a gas station, both Bob and Edna have concluded that Danielle is a delightful young lady, so perky and generous, and they thank her and wish her the best of things as they get out of the van.

"Such a nice girl," says Edna.

"God bless her," says Bob.

Debbie continues towards Dallas, happy of having helped the old couple, thinking of the money she will get after she delivers the five kilos hidden inside the sliding door' s cavity. Her butt hole itches when she recalls John' s damned habits, also awaiting, but pain is bearable when the money is good.

The shuffling of feet and the whispering of condolences fills the rented chapel. Steel and U.A.W. workers and their wives in their Sunday' s best pay their respects to Tony' s parents who stand unconsoled in front of the open casket. Ken stands beside them, thankfully wearing a one hundred dollar suit from Sears, and not some expensive double-breasted number ala Dave Letterman. He has the money for it, but not the courage to show it.

Explaining things had been very hard. More than explanations, they had been excuses. More than excuses they had been lies. Plain lies, maybe white lies, but lies, fucking lies.

Big callused hands shake his. "I' m sorry," echo dozen of lips. Ken shakes hands and bows his head at each "sorry."

After the plane stopped, he hurried to the back. Tony lay dead in a pool of black blood. A pungent smell of fluids and shit filled the cabin, and Tony' s open eyes looked into his. He got hit in the gut; the Dade County Coroner found three bullets lodged in his burst intestines.

"What the hell happened?" asked Ortega. Ken sat on the dirt in front of the plane' s door, waiting with puffy eyes and a sickened face.

"Fucking Cubans, they wanted money, and Tony got into a fight with them."

"Bastards. I never trusted them. Fucking bastards," said Ortega. He turned to his men and motioned them to remove the body and unload the coke. "I' m dealing with the Panamanians from now on."

Ortega' s men dumped the body under the tail, complaining about the smell and the mess.

"Mister Ortega," said Ken. "I want to ask you a favor."

Ortega nodded.

"Tony' s parents are Polish, and very Catholic. They will want his body back for a church burial. Can you dump the body where it can be found in good shape?"

"Tony was not too bright, but he had guts," said Ortega. "I will take care of it."

"Thank you, sir."

Ortega did as promised. The cops found Tony next day leaning against a Dumpster like a wino suffering from a hangover. The cops came around asking questions. "This guy Tony, he had a belly full of thirty caliber bullets, East German, you know, AK stuff. How do you suppose he got them?

"I have no idea."

The detective looked into Ken' s eyes," Yeah. No idea."

Ken flew back to Youngstown with the body as luggage in the belly of an airliner, and he brought the cleaned up, ready-for-display body to his parents in a nice coffin, the best one money could buy on a short notice. Ken paid the undertaker to put Tony’ s best suit on him.