"Jesus, Michelle, way to lay on a guilt trip!"

Over the phone, I hear her alto voice giggling madly. It's been twenty years since I last seen Michelle, but I can remember every aspect of her. Her father was Italian, a doctor with a thriving practice, and a luxury home deep in the Appalachian mountains. Her mother hailed from Cuba, graduated from Havana University as a RN, got political asylum in the US in the late 70s, then married and had three children. Michelle was oldest, and by right of hybridization, the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on in all my sixteen years. (She was in my graduating class, Class of '99, yet I was two years older than she was.)

That wasn't just my opinion though, well over half the male student body got chubbies watching her walk past. I'm still quietly surprised there wasn't a robust trade of shower stall pics in the school cafeteria. Unfortunately for me, but also most of my graduating class, we were not worthy of her affections. I only became her friend, and permanently banished to the friendzone, after performing an act of chivalry. (I rescued her school photos in eighth grade from some rogue whose name I now forget.)

"Come on, Stevie," she chided, "EVERYONE'S gonna be there. It just wouldn't be the same without you."

Not many people get away with calling me "Stevie." I reserve that right to family; anyone else gets to see the Black Irish in me. Trust me, it isn't pretty.

Sighing, I close my eyes and say, "Okay, Michelle, I'll be there. I don't know WHY you even need to see me there, but never let be said I would abandon my friends in times of need."

"Yay!" She squeals, loud enough I need to remove my cell from my ear.

"Careful there, <mon cheri!> This old wolf's ears as sensitive as ever."

"I didn't make you deaf in that ear, did I?"

"No, but you came close. Warn me next time!"

Another giggle, "♪Sorry!♫ Just remember, Clark Summit Ballroom, 8 o'clock. That's Eastern, for you."

"Copy that," I confirm, "keep a kegger of Pepsi cold for me."

She laughs, that tinkling melody I had grown to adore but have now almost forgotten, then she says, "<Oui, mon ami!>"

Her and the French language. I hate French, but I never said anything. I even learned quite a few phrases of it, just to be close to her. (Fat lot of good that did.) I also never understood her obsession with The Beatles. That was a band my dad listened to. I was more into Nirvana and Soundgarden, with a little Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre thrown in. (Nowadays, I find myself gravitating towards dubstep. Shameless, right?)

Then line beeps, and she's gone. From what I've gathered over the years, she lives in New York now. She has a husband, but I'm unsure if she has any children. Maybe she finally found what she was looking for, but I'm still a bachelor, Damn near everybody I know from high school has moved on. Lisa, the pretty ginger in the Color Squad, got married two years ago. Katie, the kooky drummer chick from band is living in Paris and has hooked up with some Parisian douchebag. Melissa, Corey, even frumpy little Sarah have got families of their own. I want to be bitter about it all, but it's not as if some of my failings in the dating world weren't my fault. Oh, well… The reunion isn't for another month, but I book my flight and get a rental car ahead of time anyway. Given my job, it's a safe bet I won't make either.

To me surprise, and chagrin, I do have the weekend of the reunion off. So at five in the morning, I'm up, getting breakfast before I shower. By six, I'm dressed, teeth are brushed, my stubble shaved clean, and my bags packed into my Blue Bullet. The Bullet has been my best friend for a year now. The CR-V gets where I'm going without fail and keeps cash in my pocket thanks in part to it's fuel economy. The other part of those saving is not worrying about a CD changer; I can link my Galaxy S3 with a 3.5mm cable and have wubs for even the shortest drive. Getting to San Antonio for my flight will hardly push the Bullet to its limit, but I fill up the tank anyway. Going 70 miles per hour down IH35 has a way of eating precious fuel.

From Laredo to San Antonio is a three hour drive, so when I get into town, my legs are stiff and my neck is worse. Baggage claim takes upwards of an hour, security nearly twice as much. I gotta say, those x-ray machines really give me a terrible case of gooseflesh. There's something Total Recall about those machines… Orson Welles would be terrified.

By the time I finally boarded my plane, Southwestern Flight 616 to Philadelphia, I'm hungry, worn out from standing still for so long, and a migraine is building in my head. It doesn't help that the lady in front of me is wearing copious amounts of some noxious perfume. In the cattle market that is Coach, I'm wedged into the window seat overlooking the left wing by a pair of yuppies with serious Napoleon complexes. They insist on moving my day bag to another overhead bin and I swear, if weren't for this migraine that keeps building, I would go SO medieval on them.

The flight isn't delayed by any weather or traffic, so we take off just after two in the afternoon. I figure with Daft Cunt and her partner, Dozy Prat, blocking my way to the restrooms, I may as well drift off for the entire flight. Won't be like I'll miss much. I'm proven wrong, when at 4:18 EST, the captain comes over the PA and announces we'll be hitting some turbulence. It's no big deal, he tells us, but to be on the safe side, buckle back in. I've flown quite a bit before, so I can handle turbulence. I get car sick, not airsick.

Two minutes later, I'm eating that thought as the plane lurches side to side in a drunken dance. The pilot comes on again, telling us the turbulence is worse than expected. He makes it plain that NO ONE should get up from their seat. Given the way the plane is cantering this way and that, I'm inclined to agree. Not so with Ms. Daft Cunt and Mr. Dozy Prat. They INSIST on getting up and grabbing their carry ons. There's important stuff they need to get out of them and they are fragile. I hear, between the lines, "Don't tell me what to do! If I want to get my laptop out while we rollercoaster in the sky, that's just what I'll do."

I have a scathingly snide remark to issue them, but the opportunity to give it goes away. That's because, in the midst of the thrashing about in high winds and dense clouds, the right wing of the plane shears off. Take a minute to consider that: THE RIGHT WING OF THE PLANE SHEARS RIGHT THE FUCK OFF. The plane is now down down two engines. I see the cabin attendants lifted from their feet and smack hard into the fuselage walls. Mr. Dozy Prat takes a header into the pretty brunette two rows up and Ms. Daft Cunt doesn't fair much better. She gets thrown into a bulkhead and her head gets turned to pulp. I'm not sure if we're in a tailspin or if we dropped into a free fall. I don't get an answer to that pressing question, because one of the left engines explodes…

Everything is really bright for some reason. I can hardly hear anything, but I guess that should've been expected. The engine that detonated was the one closest to my window. I guess I should be dead. That doesn't add up with the pain in my back, my arms, my left leg… Wait, am I dead? I don't believe in purgatory, none of my fellow Latter Day Saints do, but could it actually exist? That might explain why I'm writhing in agony, but it doesn't cover everything. My ears are ringing; if I were dead, my ears wouldn't ring, would they? Neither would it be so bright out here… Wait a minute here. 'Out here?' Am I outside? Hell if I know, but when I open my eyes, I see a dazzling sun overhead punching through a canopy of leafy green. If this is what Purgatory is like, sign me up!

Although, I would like to know why in Purgatory my body should hurt so. I can see, which means my eyes are intact. Maybe I should look around… Okay, that was not a good idea. One look at my left arm, and my gorge rises. The flesh on the appendage is ragged and bloody; bone peeks out from the more serious lacerations. That wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't noticed my left leg and what was missing from it. My left calf is… is… GONE. There's a bloody stump just below my knee where once there was my size fourteens. It's then when it hits me: if I wasn't dead from the explosion, the arterial spray from my leg WILL kill me.

What I did next, I'm not too proud off. I screamed. Not some manly bellow, not some girlish squeal, but a childish bawl. I screamed and screamed until spots turned up in my eyes and a fainting spell threatened. I was going to die, alone, in this God forsaken woodland, crying and carrying on like a toddler. It's a wonder I haven't crapped my pants, yet. With all the crying and screaming I've done, I'm hoarse like nothing else. I would have been better off if that explosion killed me, I muse.

I'm in such a state, that I don't hear the rustling of underbrush from behind me. I don't register the concerned voice that looks at me like a fledgling baby bird fallen from it's nest. All I can do at that moment is bawl. Bawl and pray that my end will be short, swift, and painless…

It's HIE, it starts relatively benign, and there will be blood and sex and profanity. Please be nice; I'm experimenting here.

Additional Note: To clear up some logistical hurdles, Steve is 35 and should have graduated high school in 1997, but he flunked his sophomore year twice. It wasn't because he was stupid, far from. He's just an exceptionally bad student.