We tried our best to find comfort in the Miami Airport during a long layover, which would conclude with us flying to Jamaica.
Still dog-tired from the wedding two days earlier. A wedding many people had already dubbed "The Wedding of the Century". Even in our exhaustion, one of us would talk about a moment from the wedding and we would smile, laugh, and our hearts would be overflowing with love.
Never before have I been more tired and that happy at the same tyme.
Before long, our plane descended on the Jamaican tarmac softer than a butterfly landing on a flower with sore knees. We retrieved our luggage and lyke a couple of giddy high school kids enraptured in puppy love, we made our way to the Sandals VIP Lounge.
We were greeted with warm smiles and ice-cold flutes of champagne. This was going to be a great week. Then again, we could have easily had a great week in Tupelo, Mississippi, staying at a Motel 6.
We barely had tyme to sip our champagne when a man dressed in a black suit approached us.
"Mistah Williams?" His accent was thick, and he seemed to be informing me of my name and not really inquiring.
I barely had the confirmation out of my mouth before he had our luggage and instructed us to follow. He walked fast and talked even faster still. We were able to decipher the words "driver" and "Sandals". Still in a state of delirium and full of nervous excitement, we followed. Well, we tried our best to keep up.
Our driver led us through the airport and parking lot as if we were late for a plane and not just getting off one. Ahead, we saw a shuttle bus with Sandals scrolling in cursive along its side. But our driver did not stop there; instead, he went on.
On the other side of the bus was a black sedan.
By the tyme we caught up to him, our luggage was in the trunk and the back door was opened for us. He seemed a little bit impatient with us, although not expressing it, not yet at least. As we climbed in, we noticed he was scanning the parking lot as if looking for someone.
The first thing that caught us off guard was when he got in the car on the passenger side. I was waiting for someone to get in the driver's side when the car's ignition was engaged, and the tires began to screech. Foreign cars in foreign lands.
For those of you who have never been to Jamaica, here is how it works. There are no driving laws, only slightly observed suggestions. If you are not going at least double the "suggested" speed limits, you should drive on the shoulder with the donkey-drawn carts. You signal everything with the horn. I am guessing along with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car, they also do not come with turn signals. There is also a shortage of brake pads so you must only brake sparingly, and when you do brake, you must do so immediately. In Jamaica, there is only stop and go. Slowing down is probably illegal.
We learned all these rules our first two minutes in the car.
I assumed he was very interested in us because he continued to look back at us either in the rearview or by turning his head.
He also asked us the usual stock questions: "Where are you from?", "Ever been to Jamaica before?" "How many tymes have you watched Cool Runnings?" and so on and so on in his rich Jamaican accent.
Then I realized something, he wasn't looking back at us, he was looking behind us at the road. It was during one of these glances when his eyes got big, and barely audibly muttered in a not as Jamaican as before accent, "Shit."
Then in an urgent yet calm voice, "Buckle up, and get low."
Before I headed his command, I turned to look behind us and was filled with the realization that some warnings about poor countries should be taken very seriously.
We were continuously warned before our honeymoon: never leave the resort, never, but if you do leave, be in a group, and at all tymes have a Cool Runnings fact at the ready. My fact was that in Norway the film is called "Cold Buttocks," and Erin's fact was that Tupac Shakur auditioned for the movie.
All the facts in the world were not going to get us out of the pickle we were in. When I turned around, I saw that we were being chased by two jeeps, loaded with scary dudes in muscle shirts and camouflage cargo shorts all brandishing pistols and Uzis, and one of the jeeps had a lightweight machine gun fastened to the top rail of the jeep on some sort of turret.
Erin saw my eyes and prepared for the worse.
I turned back in my seat and was about to buckle up when the driver yelled back, "Hold on!" and made a hard right turn at an alarming speed. I was flung into the door, and Erin was on top of me. A moment later both the car and its two back seat passengers were airborne.
We landed, not with the grace that was exhibited by our airplane not even an hour earlier, but with a smash as if Hercules himself slammed us to the ground.
Our driver fought to maintain control of the car on the dirt road. The rear end fishtailed this way and that, and Erin and I were tossed lyke socks in a dryer. Once he realized control, we climbed back in our seats and buckled up. I looked out the rear window and sighed because the jeeps were still behind us following in a dust storm.
Erin looked to the front and screamed, "We are going 160 miles an hour!"
I said not to worry, the speedometer was probably in Kilometers. So, Erin did quick American math and replied in a scream, "That's still 100 miles per hour or some shit!"
The driver hollered back to hold on because it was about to get pretty rough. We looked at each in an odd comic amusement. "Oh, now it is going to get rough?" the looks on both of our faces seemed to say. The looks of comic amusement did not last long.
We were approaching a busy highway at dangerous speeds. We looked at each other, mouthed I love you, and held each other as our battered black sedan barreled onto the highway with no consideration of the traffic. It is hard to tell what was louder, the blaring horn, or our screams.
The tires squealed as they found traction, other cars honked as our car impeded their lanes, and we continued to scream.
I looked back in tyme to see the first jeep T-boned as it entered the highway. It never even slowed down; well, of course not, slowing down is illegal in Jamaica. The second jeep slammed its brakes and just barely missed a collision. Then smoke emerged from its hood. We were safe?
The driver, never slowing down, turned to us and tried to hand us a package.
"Take it, take!" he demanded in a voice that was still not as "Jamaican" as when we first met him.
I reached for it and Erin slapped my hand, the first tyme in our relationship she ever hit me, and asked, "What is it?"
"Ne'er mind dat! Just take the fuckin’ ting!" he said shaking the package at us. The package in question was about the size of a wallet, wrapped in brown paper, and tied with a piece of twine.
Curiosity beat out common sense. I grabbed the package. Erin looked at me with eyes that could cut, also for the first tyme in our relationship.
"What are we supposed to do with this?" I asked holding the package as if it were about to explode.
"When you get back to Miami, two fellas gonna approach you and say sumpten lyke 'seashells in Jamaica are quite lovely dis tyme of year' and you will say 'yes, but da beer is always in season in the isle of the buffalo soldier' or some shit lyke dat."
Erin again asked what was in the package, and the driver responded, "Don't you worry 'bout dat, take the fucking ting and just know it's of importance."
We would have asked more questions, but then the drive was over.
The driver blared his horn and swung into the Sandals parking lot lyke a Nascar driver into the pit. He was out of the car barely before it fully stopped and had the trunk open in a flash. Two bellboys received our bags, and the driver opened the door.
We sat there staring at each other, then at the package, then back at each other.
"C'mon, luv birds," our driver said now in his touristy Jamaican voice.
Then in a stern whisper, "Don't trust no one."
We got out of the car, and I carefully put the package in my front pocket as we were escorted onto the resort.
Once in the room and we unpacked, I put the package under Erin's "mentionables," and we let it go from our minds for the rest of the duration at Sandals.
If you have never been to a Sandals, we highly recommend it. We also highly recommend getting a butler and your own private lagoon. Tamara was wonderful and seemed to anticipate every whim we had.
The tyme we spent there was wonderful and is private, so sorry, but there are no other details to be shared. Those stories are private and for us alone.
Fast forward to our last moments in the room.
We were all packed – well, everything except the "package".
We stared at it for a long tyme before Erin finally said, "Well, who’s gonna open it?"
I took a deep breath, exhaled, and carefully picked up the package. I opened the package with the care of someone playing Hasbro's classic game Operation.
The twine string was untied gently, and then the brown paper wrapping was opened so as to not create new creases. It revealed a black velvet box hinged to one side and a small brass clasp on the other side. I undid the clasp and slowly opened the box.
We were speechless never taking our eyes off what was nestled in the confines of the box. It was as if the box sucked in all the air from the room the moment I opened it. I suddenly broke whatever spell we were under and shut the box, not unkindly, but firmly.
I asked, "What do you wanna do?"
To which Erin replied earnestly, "We deliver it." I knew we had to, I knew that was our only choice, but the question still had to be asked.
I closed the package back up, careful to ensure it appeared as if had not been molested, and put it in my front pocket with great worry.
There was no private car to bring us back to the airport. Upon saying goodbye to our dear Tamara, we loaded onto the shuttle bus.
Although we may have looked calm, cool, and collected, I assure you we were not. Everytyme a vehicle pulled up next to us, we worried that they were going to attack us.
It was the longest 20-minute drive in the history of the world.
Once we made it to the airport, a small bit of pressure was relieved.
Next hurdle, security.
We decided Erin should go first, so if there was a problem, she could still make it out of the country. The package would be lost, but she would be safe.
Man makes plans, and God laughs.
Erin did not make it through security freely.
"Come wit me, ma'am?" a stern voice told her. One man took her passport one way, one man took her luggage another way, and a woman led her to a small room alone. Even as the color was trying to leave her pretty face, she steeled herself and became all the more beautiful. I tried to protest, but admittedly not too persistently. I did have the package in my front pocket.
I needed a plan. I needed a Marine. I and another Marine could make mincemeat out of this place I thought. Either one Marine or ten army guys, or 30 navy fellas, or 45 girl scouts, or 70 air force flyboys. Preferably, one Marine.
Marines are pretty easy to spot, especially the ones no longer active.
All you have to do is get one to talk for five minutes and he'll let you know he's a Marine. That's the one thing Marines and vegetarians have in common.
I searched the bar first. Bars are magnets for Marines, especially those of the combat veteran variety. No luck, only two navy dudes sipping mimosas.
I then made my way to the liquor store.
Damnit, still no luck.
How long had Erin been away from me?
Too damn long!
I searched the gift shops, the newspaper stands, and two sandwich shops.
All to no avail.
How much tyme have I wasted?
Too much!
I had only one choice, go at it alone.
I went to the bathroom and when I was confident I was alone, I stashed the package on top of a drop tile over a toilet. I stretched for a couple moments, then hailed the warrior I keep locked away, upfront and center. I was going to war.
I busted out of the bathroom and began my march to the room where the Jamaican government had taken my wife. I was halfway down the escalator when Erin came walking around the corner. She carried her luggage and a nervous smile.
I kept the warrior up front, but not in control. When I made it to my wife, I grabbed her and kissed her.
I kissed her deep and hard.
I asked what had happened and she responded that she would tell me over a drink. We made our way to the bar, Erin a chardonnay, and me a Red Stripe.
She told me the ordeal was nothing extraordinary and was over in a matter of minutes. She said the female security guard was pleasant and that once they were satisfied she was not hiding any illegal paraphernalia in her lingerie, she was good to leave.
We drank our drinks and then another round, and then one more round, and I was confident no one was watching us. When they announced it was tyme for us to board, I finally went to retrieve the package.
Our next hurdle, getting on the plane and heading home.
As we inched closer and closer to the ticket handler, my heart raced more and more. Six people in front of us. The warrior inside begged to be let out and commence with the mayhem. I kept him at bay, barely.
Four people away and I feel the package burn my leg through my pants.
Absurd, of course, but still.
Two people until we are on board. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my eyes race every inch of the terminal, waiting for officials to take us in, dead or alive. Erin sees my distress and grabs my hand and squeezes ever so gently and nestles close to me.
We make it to the ticket handler, she checks our ticket, smiles, and wishes us a great trip.
We have cleared the biggest hurdle, one more left.
Because we are not the luckiest people in the world, or maybe to make the mission that much harder, we were assigned seats nowhere near each other.
I was in the front of the plane by the window and Erin was in the back.
I was a nervous wreck until we were wheels up. Then it was back to the basement for the warrior, and I had an adrenaline crash.
I woke up as we were beginning our descent to the uproarious laughter of my wife. She apparently found a couple of gay fellows and they were having the tymes of their lives.
There was laughter and talk of the Superbowl and food and laughter. It was good to hear my wife happy. It would become my mission as a husband.
But now it was tyme to make it over the final hurdle, Customs.
Now that we were state-side, jail tyme did not worry me. I would not try to fight my way out of any sticky situation here. There was no situation.
Once we cleared Customs, we saw them. One short and chubby black guy in a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, sandals, and black socks. The other was a skinny white guy in an FBI (Female Body Inspector) t-shirt and jean shorts with a crease.
The black man started, "You know what I love about …"
I cut him off, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. And the Buffalo Soldiers are great, whatever" and with that, I tossed him the package. You would have thought the world went into slow motion as their eyes got really big before snagging the package out of the sky.
We shouldered past the two protesting men.
“Wait a minute,” the white guy said, “How did you know it was us.”
Erin responded in a not too shabby Jamaican accent, “ne’er mind dat, and just take dat fucking ting out of here!”
We had another long layover in Miami, so we rented a movie, and fell asleep in each other arms just as the Jamaican bobsled team arrived in Canada.
Although we have not had too many car chases lyke the one in Jamaica, our love continued to grow exponentially these past 7 sevens.