This is your final boarding call

I can hear my buddies sniggering in the background at something I know is really stupid but yet I laugh uncontrollably along with them.

“Où c'est? Où c'est?” I let out another snort of laughter. “Me le donner,” I take the joint from the guy sitting next to me and bring it to my mouth. I take a long drag and fall back onto the couch, handing it to the next guy. After another couple hours of drinking and smoking I remember no more.


My head pounds as I squint open my eyes. I look around, hoping to see some familiar surroundings. Luckily, I recognize the couch that my body is half strewn over and the guy passed out on the floor next to it.

“Christian, quelle heure est-il?” What time is it?

I shake him a little and he finally raises his head enough to glimpse at his watch. His head drops back onto the floor boards.

“It’s eight a.m., man.” I hear him say in muffled French.

Eight a.m.? Motherfu-!

“Come on, get up, I need you to drive me to the airport.” I practically yell to wake Christian up from his stupor again. I rush around his apartment looking for my things. Thank god I decided to bring all my bags over to his place so I wouldn’t have to make a stop at my own.

“Now? Why?” He keeps his forehead firmly planted on the floor.

“Christian! Get the hell up! I’m going to miss the damn flight!” I try to ignore the queasiness in my stomach as I stomp around the apartment, knocking over empty rum bottles.

“Fine, fine. Calm down.” He peels himself off the floor and stands there in the middle of the room wearing rumpled and nasty smelling jeans and a t-shirt, looking at me like an idiot.

Ten minutes later I propel myself out into the August sun and literally run to the car. Christian trails behind. The woman from the apartment above him stands on her balcony waving energetically.

“Bonjour, Christian!”

He smiles up at her goofily. “Bonjour, Madame!”

“Christian, get in the car.” I tell him sternly. He can be hopeless sometimes.

We finally make it to the airport. Christian pulls up next to the curb in front of departures.

“You’ll regret leaving Québec, man.” He says to me with a sly smile on his face. “I’ll give you one month. One and a half, tops.”

I smile back and give his shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll see you at Christmas, buddy.” I hop out of the car and hurry into the terminal.

The End

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