The Rum Diary. The Long Lost. Novel by Hunter S. Thompson

Wait a minute! I shouted. Another passenger! I watched un­til she reached the bottom of the steps. Then I turned around to smile as she came on. I was reaching for my typewriter, thinking to put it on the floor, when an old man shoved in front of me and sat down in the seat I was saving.

This seat’s taken, I said quickly, grabbing him by the arm. He jerked away and snarled something in Spanish, turning his head toward the window.

I grabbed him again. Get up, I said angrily. He started to yell just as the girl went by and stopped a few feet up the aisle, looking around for a seat. Here’s one, I said, giving the old man a savage jerk. Before she could turn around the stew­ardess was on me, pulling at my arm.

He sat on my typewriter, I explained, helplessly watching the girl find a seat far up at the front of the plane.

The stewardess patted the old man’s shoulder and eased him back to the seat. What kind of a bully are you? she asked me. I should put you off!

I grumbled and slumped back in the seat. The old man stared straight ahead until we got off the ground. You rotten old bastard, I mumbled at him.

He didn’t even blink, and finally I shut my eyes and tried to sleep. Now and then I would glance up at the blonde head at the front of the plane. Then they turned out the lights and I couldn’t see anything.

It was dawn when I woke up. The old man was still asleep and I leaned across him to look out the window. Several thousand feet below us the ocean was dark blue and calm as a lake. Up ahead I saw an island, bright green in the early morning sun. There were beaches along the edge of it, and brown swamps further inland. The plane started down and the stewardess announced that we should all buckle our safety belts.

Moments later we swept in over acres of palm trees and taxied to a halt in front of the big terminal. I decided to stay in my seat un­til the girl came past, then get up and walk with her across the run­way. Since we were the only white people on the plane, it would seem quite natural.

The others were standing now, laughing and jabbering as they waited for the stewardess to open the door. Suddenly the old man jumped up and tried to scramble over me like a dog. Without think­ing, I slammed him back against the window, causing a thump that silenced the crowd. The man appeared to be sick and tried to scramble past me again, shouting hysterically in Spanish.

You crazy old bastard! I yelled, shoving him back with one hand and reaching for my typewriter with the other. The door was open now and they were filing out The girl came past me and I tried to smile at her, keeping the old man pinned against the win­dow until I could back into the aisle. He was raising so much hell, shouting and waving his arms, that I was tempted to belt him in the throat to calm him down.

Then the stewardess arrived, followed by the co-pilot, who de­manded to know what I thought I was doing.

He’s been beating that old man ever since we left New York, said the stewardess. He must be a sadist.

They kept me there for ten minutes and at first I thought they meant to have me arrested. I tried to explain, but I was so tired and confused that I couldn’t think what I was saying. When they finally let me go I slunk off the plane like a criminal, squinting and sweat­ing in the sun as I crossed the runway to the baggage room.

It was crowded with Puerto Ricans and the girl was nowhere in sight. There was not much hope of finding her now and I was not optimistic about what might happen if I did. Few girls look with fa­vor on a man of my stripe, a brutalizer of old people. I remembered the expression on her face when she saw me with the old man pinned against the window. It was almost too much to overcome. I decided to get some breakfast and pick up my baggage later on.

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