Aug 25 2010

Where’s your pahtner?

Hey Kids.

Recently got back from Coconut’s nuptials in Antigua. It was beautiful, make no mistake, BUT there was ONE glaring hiccup for The Burrito: it was a honeymoon resort and I was riding solo.

Post touch-down at the VC Bird International Airport,  I squeeked through customs with Pork Sausage.  Since she was also traveling alone for the time being (Rice-r-Roni was catching a later flight) we clung to each other like Chelsea Handler and a bag of Dorritos.

It was a cacophany of Island crazies outside baggage but PS and I managed to make it to the hotel shuttle kiosk intact.  Apparently the hotel wasn’t used to singles. Or so we were about to find out.

At the kiosk, I was met by a deranged looking woman with a disorganized clip board chatting up someone on her cell phone. She laughed that laugh that losers laugh to advertise they have friends, then gave me the “one moment” finger.   I waited a beat, then after exchanging “fuck her” looks with PS, decided to gently butt in.

“Is this the Sandals check in?”

She looked at me like I’d just interrupted a threesome with her, Brad, and Angie, then slammed the cell phone shut mid-sentence (Bi-polar much?). With a cold island accent she hissed…

“Name!?”
“Burrito,” I said.

She flipped through the sloppy clip board with so much aggression I wondered if I’d said “Bitch, fuck your mother” instead of my name by mistake. I hadn’t, she just hated her life.

“You’re not on da list.” She stared at me for a moment and strummed her acrylics. I realized she expected me to solve this problem for her.

“I have the confirmation number here.”
“I can do no-tin weet dat. Ah need ah name.”
“Miss Talking Burrito”
“I oolready looked fer dat one. Whaz yer pahtner’s name?”
“My pahtner?”
“Yer Hoosband! Yer boyfrin! Yer pahtner!”
“Oh! Oh oh oh oh no. No no. No partner. Just me. Single. Solo. Solomente.”
“Yeh don have a pahtner!?!”
“Not at the moment, no. Again it’s Burrito, Talking.”
“Yeh sure it con be unduh any oodah name?”

Then it popped into my head.

“….Errrrm…..Spam? Maybe Spam? BUT I took his name off the reservation 3 months ago AND I booked it under MY name with MY credit card so I can’t imagine that–”
“Ahhhhhhhh der we go,” She got so saccharine that I skipped right over theorizing about a bi-polar disorder and went straight to diagnosing her as a sociopath. “Mr. and Mrs. Spam! I found it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I dead panned.
“Yooll be taken dat van ober der to dah Mediterranean side. Welcome to da Island!”
“Can you fix the name? And isn’t it weird to have a Mediterranean side on a Caribbean Island?”
“Geet goin now!”

I died a little, gave her a look like she’d just farted, and did an about face. Pork Sausage immediately made eye contact with me from across the clusterfuck and mouthed “ouch.” You said it sister.

While PS checked in under her partner’s name (naturally), I produced a designer dew rag from my carry on and tied it to my head with a defiant Arrrrrrgh.  The theme score to Pirates of the Caribbean played in my I head. I needed rum, a sword, and someone to stab… Jack Sparrow too if he was available.

Puffing out my AA chest, I wheeled two heaving TUMI bags towards the van that sociopath had gestured at. A big sweaty man in a Tommy Bahama shirt was leaning against the sliding side door. As I approached I could see him looking at my bags with dread.

“Hi! Is this the van to Mediterranean?”
“Yes.”
“Could you help me with my bags?”
“Where’s yer pahtner?” AGAIN with the partner shit!
“I don’t have a partner.”
“You done have ah pahtner?!”
“Nope.”
“Everyboody got ah pahtner.”
“Apparently not.”
“WHY? Why done you have ah pahtner?”

He asked me this question with genuine curiosity and intrigue, like I was a world mystery to be solved. Seriously!? Did he only read about single women in the Bible?! I’m not a reformed prostitute on a Jesus binder, just your average 20 something with a bag full of vibrators! But of course I didn’t say that. Instead I said…

“Ummmmm just keeping my options open in case I meet a nice man like yourself.” He seemed confused at my insult, so I pushed the more important topic. “Care to help me with these puppies? Better get ‘em in the back before space fills up!”

He looked at the luggage really angry-like. I had a feeling the handle with care tag would go unnoticed.  And, since I didn’t want my bag of vibrators (that part wasn’t a joke) to get bruised, I grabbed Tommy Bahama by the collar, pulled him close, and whispered…
“Alright you got me.  I lied.  I’m not here alone.  Boyfriends in the bag. Fucker couldn’t afford the fare and wanted me to ‘help him get to Antigua.’  Don’t rat us out. We’ve made it this far.”

He couldn’t tell if I was joking, but I thought I’d take advantage of his “thinking” moment and jumped in the van.  He finally snapped out of it and cautiously went to pick up my duffel. I waved at him and cooed…

“Be extra careful with that one!”  Wink wink.

BURRITO