Wishes Washed Away

I'm on the plane surrounded by normal people. A woman with a baby. A businessman. A couple. Did I mention how much I hate plane rides when I don't have service on my cellular device? I'm sitting, unable to text back the tens upon hundreds of emails, chatter, and text messages on my sidekick. Give me new and improved.

Flash.

Give me impatience.

Flash.

Give me "flight attendant, I'd like some scotch please."

Flash.

Underaged, but I show her my face from beneath my hat. She smiles all of a sudden and takes off, most likely in search of the hardest liquor on this damned plane. I continue to skim the messages sent by Raquel, Anthony, and Edward. Raquel, of course, wore the blue dress, and now, I'm sure it's covered in sweat and various other stains I don't want to know about.

Rule one in picking best friends: Don't pick a slut. She'll ruin all of your clothes.

The stewardess is back, smiling with her very white teeth as she gently places the scotch "on the rocks" on the makeshift plastic table. I smile back, autographing my napkin. I hand it to her, and she thanks me quietly, the woman sitting next to me snoring away. The man across the aisle eyes me suspiciously, but I pull my hat down and my shades up.

Some more hours of reading and hearing a baby cry, the plane lands. We step out into the airport, and I still have no service. New and improved really don't describe the new sidekick. It's been hours, and my phone still doesn't work. Anthony's been sending me messages, asking rhetorical questions, and filling me in on the filming thus far. Edward is telling me how the paparazzi are asking for me, and I don't bother reading Raquel's messages.

After grabbing my royal blue and pale pink luggage at the baggage claim, I haul my things outside, looking for a pay phone. I clean the receiver with one of the hand wipes from the airplane, and I dial Anthony's number, which I now have memorized.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"Hey, this is Anthony R. Reum. I'm unavailable at the minute, but if you leave a message, I will try to get back to you as soon as possible."

"Anthony, it's Maggie. I'm here in Nevada, and I'm going to wherever it is now. I'm hoping it's nice. I'll call you again later." I hang up, and attempt to hail a cab. The man throws my things into the back of the Crown Victoria, and I'm about to punch him in the face. Give me pissed off.

Flash.

Give me stupid taxi driver.

Flash.

Give me "do you know who I am?".

Flash.

I climb into the front seat, and the man speeds off after I hand him the address. "Got family down here?" he asks, his voice scratchy. The Crown Victoria smells of smoke. I nod, holding in a breath.

"Who are you staying with?" he croaks, trying to make polite conversation.

"My uncle and his girlfriend," I reply, hoping to enter a neighborhood in the next twenty seconds. I take in another deep breath, trying my best not to use my nose. I crack the window open slightly, and I feel as though I can breathe again. "How long will it take to get there?" I point to the paper.

"About fifteen to twenty-five minutes." I watch the meter go up steadily. "What's the rush, babe?"

Babe? I'm disgusted.

"It's getting late, and I just thought we could both use some time with our families." I see bums out in the streets, holding out their hats for money. Oh, it feels good to be rich.

It's silent as he drops me off at the quaint home. Not a summer house; it's in middle-class suburbia. I check the address to make sure I'm in the right place, and I am. Where's the giant pool? The jacuzzi? The five million dollar mansion?

I'm stuck in a dump for three weeks?

I glare at my new incarceration and step into the house, leaving my bags in the foyer. It seems pretty neat, aside from the dishes stacked up in the sink, the family room has newspapers and magazines everywhere...

Does someone live here?

I find the staircase and go up, trying to see if any of the rooms contain traces of life. At the last step, I see a pair of feet. I look up:

A guy with dark hair glowers at me, but he doesn't look too menacing with his white towel around his waist.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?"

Give me awkward.

Flash.

Give me confused.

Flash.

Give me "who the fuck are you?".

Flash.