Dear God, please don’t let me puke
GRIN # 33
I thought of something else I don’t do well with: scary stuff.
The carousel at Tweetsie Railroad makes me sick. Criminal Minds gives me bad dreams.
And yet I pitched a story, called “Will fly for pig” about a barbeque restaurant in Carthage, N.C., the Pik N Pig, that’s located on an actual airstrip. My friend Denny Mercer, an 80-year-old man who’s been flying since he was 16, agreed to fly me there in his single-engine plane from Apex, just a 15 minute flight. And that sounded like a great idea, for some reason.
Denny was a great pilot, and he explained why we had the turbulence we did. I can’t really remember what he said, something about hot air meeting cold. I wasn’t listening because, frankly, I wasn’t feeling so hot. When we got there, I made peace with my stomach with a plate of pig, a big Diet Coke and a piece of chocolate pie.
When it was time to go, I steeled myself for the ride back. I could do this. Denny was telling me all about the make and model of the plane, an acrobatic plane, meaning it could do flips and such. Right in the middle of his speech, Denny flipped that damn plane, and I came face to face with the grass and trees of North Carolina.
It’s hard to describe the sound that came from me–something between a belch and a screech. My stomach took up residence in the back of my throat and threatened to come out and introduce itself. I prayed harder than I had in a long time. Please, please, God, don’t let me throw up on this nice 80-year-old man in this tiny plane. Please, please, please. I found the air vent and popped it wide open, hanging my face in front of it, panting like a dog in labor.
“You don’t look so good,” Denny said. “Are you sick?”
“Pretty much,” I said.
“Are you going to be sick?” he asked.
“I hope not,” I said, praying some more. Please, God.
And I wasn’t. Not until I got home. Then I was sick for a good long time. My husband laughed. The bastard.
But I didn’t put any of that in the story. Puking does not a happy ending make.