The Epstein Files

The Epstein criminal enterprise embodies a sobering truth. Specifically, that the justice system navigated by the rest of us bears little resemblance to the one encountered by the wealthy and powerful. Had Epstein been a mid-level trafficker catering to working-class Americans we would never be in this situation. Everyone involved would have been un-masked Scooby Doo style and subjected to criminal charges and the public scrutiny that accompanies them.

The irony is that the Trump administration has turned into its own wake. When they were on the other side of the presidential seal, the current FBI director, vice-president and even Trump himself alluded to a dark conspiracy perpetrated by the deep state protecting wealthy and influential clients of Epstein. The client list continues to be the political equivalent of Schrödinger's cat, somehow tangible enough to sit upon the Attorney General’s desk for review and yet never existing at all.

I am willing to bet that the list (if it does exist) is not populated by roofers, second generation farmers or shift-leaders at Dairy Queen. It contains CEOs, hedge-fund managers and political donors whose influence and reach would likely reverberate throughout the Federal government and both political parties. The only undisputed commonality of Epstein’s “clients” is that they continue to evade any repercussions for their crimes.

For every wealthy client who perpetrated a crime, there were countless others turning a blind eye to the most despicable form of commerce imaginable. They placed their own ambitions and influence over the safety and well-being of children. Whatever their political ideology, socio-economic status, or elected position; if they participated or enabled child trafficking they should be brought to justice. We can no longer claim to be a city on a hill while we continue to protect a shanty in the swamp.

Conspiracy Theories

 “You know dad, the moon landing was fake.” My eldest was around 8 years old when he came home from school and announced this to the family. To be clear, this information originated from playground banter rather than school curriculum. A classmate had informed some friends that his dad told him the truth about the moon landing after watching a video on YouTube. A few years later, my daughter would ask me why they had faked the sinking of the Titanic citing similar sources.

More recently, I had an experience with a gentleman who has been attending our church for several years and is of limited means. Occasionally I will take him to get some lunch after church and it was on one such Sunday that we found ourselves walking into a Subway whilst chatting about what he would want to drink.

He had been going on in some detail about how there was nothing better than an ice-cold Dr. Pepper so I suggested that he should have one with his sandwich. With only mild alarm, he looked at me and announced he had stopped drinking Dr. Pepper now that they “were putting AIDS in it.” It was at this point the Subway employee removed his AirPod and cast a reflexive glance at the drink fountain.

Certain that I had misheard him, I clarified and he was adamant that he had seen a video on the Internet that proved they had changed the formula a few years ago so that it included AIDS (in this scenario the release of Dr. Pepper Zero seems more ominous). Setting aside my burning desire to ask if the video in question had been uploaded by Mr. Pibb, I began what I believed to be comprehensive logical rebuttal to the Big K fear-mongering.

Most importantly, you cannot just add AIDS to something like it was aspartame. AIDS is the result of a virus not its cause, so the author of the video lacked a basic understanding of science (or beverages). This would be akin to infusing a Monster Energy drink with osteoporosis or selling apple juice with 20% less gonorrhea. Secondly, who would stand to gain? Perceiving that he remained unconvinced, we descended further down the rabbit hole. Turning my full attention to him, I began what I believed to be an unassailable case for AIDS-free Dr. Pepper:

Let’s pretend, for the sake of argument, that AIDS was something they could add into a drink. Why would a multinational beverage conglomerate, whose profits are contingent upon getting as many people as possible to consume Dr. Pepper as often as possible for as long as possible, follow a course of action diametrically opposed to their continued financial success and / or existence.

Feeling the intellectual wind at my back, I continued to assure him that there is no reason he cannot enjoy an ice-cold Dr. Pepper on a hot summer day. Guiding him toward the counter, I announced to the room at large that he should go get his Dr. Pepper while I speak to the resident sandwich artist who, although listening to our discussion, had so far refrained from comment. 

When my lunch companion rejoined me, cup in hand sipping on a cold beverage, I smiled and asked how that Dr. Pepper was treating him. He informed me that he felt more comfortable getting a Pepsi whilst mumbling something about not taking any chances.

I was telling this story to a group of acquaintances who joined me in laughing at the absurdity. One individual, still chuckling along with the rest of us, said, “That is crazy….But those government clouds are no joke.” Despite my instincts to the contrary, I decided this was a thread worth unraveling.

They explained that all cloud formations we see today were manufactured by the Federal government in order to best control the populace. When I expressed skepticism that Washington, DC was in possession of a meteorological vending machine, they admitted that they too had harbored the same reservations before a YouTube video had opened their eyes.

The cornerstone of this argument was a simple statement, “Thunder just doesn’t sound the same as it did 20 or 30 years ago.”  Encouraging me to think back, they asked if I could honestly say that the thunder I heard last week was the same as the thunder I heard in the 90’s.

I haven’t even memorized the names of all of my children’s teachers I met at open house that week, so I knew there was no way for me to objectively compare the volume, frequency, duration and tonal characteristics of a thunderstorm that occurred before 2Pac was shot.

I thought about reminding them that the composition of a thunderstorm varies wildly based on the atmospheric conditions that spawn it, but I was already on a losing streak and I did not want to tempt fate. Instead, I listened politely and wondered why no politician had ever run on an anti-tornado platform.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the government clouds / chem trail / cloud seeding scenario is that it often finds its audience with people who remain unconvinced that the actions of humanity have any effect on the climate or weather. Those Venn diagrams shouldn’t overlap. How does one believe that we have the capability to bend the forces of mother nature to our will and yet somehow humanity remains statistically insignificant regarding our environment?

What do I know? Maybe it is all connected. Maybe YouTube is right. Perhaps, during a routine recalibration in 1912, the GovWeather-O-Matic 4000 starting dropping icebergs in the North Atlantic. In order to distract the populace from the fact that President Taft was tinkering with the jet stream, the US government conspired with a British company to fabricate one of the greatest maritime disasters of the century. The secret was then handed down until it appeared that the Soviets were on the cusp of a sustained orbital presence above the earth which could provide irrefutable proof that America was exporting cumulus clouds and low-pressure systems.

The government then hired Stanley Kubrick to film a moon-landing on a studio backlot in the hopes of turning people’s attentions from the heavens to the Kremlin. Their plan worked until the widespread adaptation of cell phones allowed for the recording and scrutiny of GMO thunder against free-range organic thunder through social media platforms. Then, just as YouTube sleuths got wind of their plans, they started putting AIDS (also known as the 24th flavor) into a popular soft-drink.

Sometimes I want to fight the good fight and sometimes I realize that the best course of action is to stay quiet and let people enjoy their Pepsi.

The Facelicker

While I have already written about my daughter’s involvement with competitive cheerleading, my oldest son has a passion for competitive robotics. If there was ever a total opposite to a competitive cheerleading tournament, it would be a competitive robotics event. The only commonality is my inability to comprehend how either event is scored.

My understanding is that when you get into higher levels it is more sudden death battle-bots than collaborative Amazon warehouse drills. While both cheerleading and robotics are full-day endeavors, the S.T.E.M. crowd is more of my scene. The emphasis on engineering, science, and programming is needed more now than ever and I sincerely hope that programs like this continue to expand.

While I was walking by two gentlemen at the Robotics state tournament, I overheard a conversation I was unlikely to hear at a competitive cheerleading event. They were each laying out a case for which one’s offspring exhibited autodidacticism at an earlier age. “He was reading before he could walk” was a common theme. I fought the urge to downplay the achievements of their kids by telling them that my son marked his gestation by tapping out the Fibonacci sequence on my wife’s uterus.

There were a large number of attendees wearing NASA gear and robot-themed puns on shirts, but one older gentleman’s attire caught my attention. It was a T-shirt styled like college alumni gear. In arced script, it said “Facelicker” and underneath that was “Est. 1979.” For a split second, I entertained the idea of asking about the meaning and origin of his garment, but other tasks needed to be completed before we could retire to the hotel for the evening. Perhaps it was a small liberal-arts college whose primary endowment came from someone with an unfortunate surname or an obscure psychedelic jam-band. Whatever it was it would just have to remain a mystery.

The next morning at the hotel, I just happened to wander onto the elevator with the very same gentleman wearing the same shirt. Since it was just the two of us and a softball coach engrossed in his phone, I decided that there was no time like the present. I motioned toward his shirt and said, “I have to ask.”

His face lit-up with an intensity that let me know that his entire life had been leading up to this moment. Day after day he wandered the earth just begging for someone to give him a reason to tell his story and I was just the moron he had been searching for.

He set the scene for me. It was a 1979 worship service at an undisclosed denomination and he described sitting on the pew sandwiched between his wife and her best friend. His arms were around both of them when, at some point during the service, his wife leaned over to him and challenged him to suddenly turn and lick her best friend’s face.

If he had entertained any reservations about tongue-bathing another woman during the scripture reading, it was not conveyed in his recounting of events. I was fuzzy on the details of the wager itself, but whatever was at stake, he smiled broadly while bragging that he “got her from chin-to-ear” smack dab in the middle of exalting the Almighty.

At this point the third passenger, who had been absorbed in authoring a lengthy text message right up until the moment that “chin-to-ear” made its debut, looked up with what could only be described as involuntary revulsion. Unabated, Facelicker Jones chuckled as he said, “Boy, you should have seen the look on her face after I got done! At any rate, she went and had a T-shirt made to commemorate it soon after and here we are.”

There had been many scenarios floating around my head before hearing his tale, but tracing a woman’s jawline with your tongue in the name of the Lord had not been on my bingo card. As the door began opening and the softball coach all but threw himself from the elevator into the lobby, my mind swirled with questions:

How old was the shirt he was wearing and why did it not look worn at all? Did he have an entire wardrobe of these like the batsuit? What woman’s reaction to unwanted face-licking is to present the offender with a commemorative T-shirt? How did his wife feel that he continued to memorialize the moment he violated the sanctity of her friend’s neckline? Where was his wife now? Did he and the best friend get together and continue to regale strangers with their origin story? Can you imagine being out to dinner with them and stepping on that landmine? So, how did you two meet…..

Would she answer, “It was love the moment he turned away from his ex-wife during the fourth stanza of Shall We Gather at the River and baptized my jawline with his saliva. We have been inseparable ever since!”

After parting ways with him in the lobby, I found my wife and recounted the sordid tale as she valiantly attempted to continue consuming her waffle before ultimately giving up. She then made it clear that despite 22 years of marriage, when it came to Face-licking she did not think that we “were there yet.” Then, for what must have been the thousandth time in our lives, she gave me the, “This is why we do not talk to strangers” reprimand.

The Sandals Incident

Last year, my wife and I decided to celebrate our anniversary and her birthday by taking our first trip to a Sandals Resort. With the invaluable assistance of a good friend and travel agent, we planned a getaway to the beautiful island of Antigua. Our flight to Miami was very early, so we found a park-and-fly deal at a hotel near the airport.

We woke up at 4 AM to pouring rain and the news that our flight was delayed due to a crew issue. This meant that we would miss our connecting flight in Miami and there was only one other flight to the island that day. Even if we could get seats on the remaining flight, we would only have about twenty minutes to make it to the terminal once we landed. I explained our situation to a gentleman at the airline service desk who proceeded to type furiously on his keyboard while assuring me that he had secured our seats on this final leg of our journey. He reminded me that we would need disembark quickly in order to make it to the gate. I thanked him for his tenacity and invaluable service.

As our flight touched down in Miami, I opened the overhead bin before we were even at the gate. Normally a conscientious traveler, I was knocking over women, children, and the infirm in equal measure just to give us a fighting chance to make our connection. We had paid to spend that evening at a tropical resort and I was not about to let someone’s bad hip get in the way.

When we breathlessly stumbled up to the departing gate, I informed the desk agent that arrangements had been made because we had missed the previous flight. After a few minutes of typing, he regretted to inform me that the prior desk agent never actually did anything and they had no record of our tickets being transferred. I half expected to be told that the individual I spoke to was not even an airline employee and that the keyboard he was typing on had been connected to Keurig machine under the desk.

Undeterred, I reached for my cell phone as I had taken meticulous notes of my interaction with the previous associate for just such an occasion. It was then I realized that in my haste to make the connecting flight we were never actually on, I had somehow left my phone on the plane. This was clearly karma for my willingness to Samsonite-whip fellow travelers.

My wife and I then ran back across the Miami Airport to our arrival terminal only to be advised that the phone could not be located. It was, of course, still in airplane mode so my tracking options were practically non-existent. Accepting that my phone might be a lost cause, we ran back to the airline customer service desk and found that it would be two days before they could get us on another flight. Not to worry through, for the inconvenience they had secured us lodging at one of Miami International Airport’s finest hotels. She even gave us some extra meal vouchers to make sure that we lived like high-rollers during our extended stay.

Dejected but with plenty of time to kill, we asked how we could contact lost and found to see if someone had turned in my phone. We were told that there were two agencies to check with (one specific to the airline and a general repository for the airport) and we should make contact with both. The airline’s lost a found was friendly enough and we completed the requisite forms. The airport lost and found was a different story.

We walked down abandoned corridors in parts of the airport that no one should have to see. When we finally found the split-door nestled in a dark corner, I felt like I was trying to gain access to a speakeasy. A gentleman opened the top-half of the door and brusquely informed me that I would need to complete a form and they would “be in touch if my iPhone turns up or whatever.” I did not get the impression that they facilitated many successful reunions. I suspected that the entire department had been disbanded years ago but no one in upper management had been able to locate the employees to tell them.

We decided to go back to the hotel to regroup. Upon entering the room, we were greeted by warm, moist air and the unmistakable scent of human waste. I made the front desk aware of the sewage sauna situation and began attempting to access to my Apple account so that I could at least mark the device as lost. Because I was attempting to login from an atypical device in an unusual location, Apple kept sending a text message to the lost iPhone in order to allow me the ability to mark said iPhone as lost. I called Apple customer service to share that I had discovered a flaw in the system and they suggested that I find a Verizon dealer and transfer my service to a new phone so that I could receive the messages to mark the original phone as lost.

Meanwhile, a very capable maintenance technician had determined that the shared AC / sewer drain was clogged and began loudly pumping the sewage into a chum bucket on the floor. The putrid smell combined with the slurping noises emanating from the hand-operated sump-pump served to create a slightly different atmosphere than we had expected on the first night of our romantic getaway.

I called back to the front desk and asked if we could be transferred out of the excrement suite. Unfortunately, the hotel (like the flights for the next 48 hours) had no vacancies. Amid the grunting and gurgling in the background, I called Verizon customer service and explained the situation. They informed me that I would need to pay almost $500 to satisfy the balance of the lost device and cover the upgrade and activation fees for the replacement. I begrudgingly agreed and was told that there was an affiliate retailer just 6 blocks from our current location and everything would be ready when we arrived.

The affiliate was a small, family run affair and as it was the Sunday before Memorial Day, we were the only customers. Relieved to see the device in a bag with my name on it, I informed the proprietor that I was here to retrieve the order and I would be on my way. He checked the screen on his computer and informed me that Verizon had not paid him yet, and until they do, the phone would remain where it was. I showed him the digital receipt on my wife’s phone and he patiently listened before explaining that he was not questioning whether or not Verizon got their money, he was only interested in when he was going to get his. It would appear that the trickle-down economics model was not held in high-esteem within the Miami wireless community.

Exasperated, I called Verizon customer service back and finally explained the entire situation over again while pacing the floor as an employee mopped around me. It was 4:58 PM by the time I got a manager and he informed me that I would be placed on a brief hold while he got to the bottom of this sordid business. He then promptly hung-up.

My lovely bride, whose face had been buried in her hands for the duration of the call, reminded me not to throw the only working phone we had through a window. My eye started twitching as I requested just a little more time from the manager to sort this out. He said I could have 10 minutes because he had plans to attend a cook-out (probably with the customer service rep that had just hung-up on me).

I immediately called the customer service number again only to be subjected a recording informing me that while call center was closed due to the holiday. They would be happy to assist me the following Tuesday.

I was now the proud owner of two Verizon iPhones and somehow was not in possession of either of them. On the plus side, the AC in our room was now functional and the poo-pail was gone. We were then told by the onsite restaurant that all of our meal vouchers combined would be just enough for one of us to be allowed into the buffet line. It was as if the airline had issued us currency from a Third World nation on the brink of economic collapse.

We briefly toyed with the idea of one of us getting a plate and slipping the other one rolls and mashed potatoes under the table while no one was looking but instead we DoorDashed some food and ate in our room as my wife and our travel agent worked furiously to find another flight.

Once she was off the phone, I winked seductively at my bride and told her that while it was not a beach-front resort, it would be a shame not to take advantage of the rapidly dissipating smell of feces and the questionable comforter. She politely declined my romantic overtures with an eye-roll. I made a mental note to check and make sure I had packed some supplemental rizz in my overnight bag.

Miraculously, we were able to find a flight out of Miami the next day and landed in beautiful Antigua. The resort was gorgeous and, after a short delay, we were being led to our room. After about ten minutes inside, we realized that the “windows” were simply plantation shutters with bug-screens open to the common area.
The lack of glass allowed sound to travel easily between the courtyard and the bedroom (along with demoting the air-conditioner from an appliance to a wall-decoration).

When I walked outside our door, I could clearly hear the woman in the room next to us showering and requesting a loofa from her companion. If either of them consumed some bad jerk-chicken, the entire unit would be forced to bear witness to the aftermath. It was clear that there were not going to be a lot of secrets at Sandals.

In addition to the immediate privacy issues posed by this configuration (both carnal and gastrointestinal) it was very humid in the room. I began opening the wardrobe to see if I could locate something to stuff the windows with and while reaching to the top shelf for the extra pillows and blankets, I discovered another man’s shorts.

Under different circumstances, this discovery would have been a powerful conversation starter at couple’s-only resort. Since we had only arrived, I sat aside the mystery drawers and continued stuffing the windows with decorative pillows until I achieved some semblance of privacy and climate control.

I then called the customer service desk and explained the situation. I expected the prospect of missing window panes and mystery garments to elicit something close to at least feigned indignation. Instead, my story was met with a long pause before the woman asked firmly, “Are we sure they are not your shorts?”

Did I give staff the impression of being so disconnected from reality that I would unable to identify the attire that had just recently adorned my no-no square? I jokingly assured her that she was more than welcome to come to our room and launch a full investigation. Before I realized it, she had hung up the phone and was at our door.

I displayed the enormous shorts in front of my waist in a pose that I imagine looked like an online ad for a weight-loss program. She nodded in acceptance and agreed to take possession of the linen man-trunks. We then discussed the window situation and she seemed genuinely surprised at my distaste for open-air bowel movements. She explained that this was an older section of the resort and they had not yet retrofitted it with modern windows.

I politely requested that we be moved to another room and was told the resort was full “what with it being a holiday and all.” Undeterred, I tried another employee who also echoed the same sentiment. Defeated, I fell back onto the mattress next to my glistening marital companion who had already discovered that the bed was carrying a lot of nocturnal trauma. If our bed was originally manufactured with springs and padding, they had both long since gone on to glory.

I called the front desk and requested a mattress-topper which generated a surprising bit of push-back. I suspected that word about us had made the rounds among the employees and they were worried that I was going to disembowel it and use the foam as window insulation. They said that they only had a few but they would see what they could do. I would later find out that, due to miscommunication, our pad was installed on Loofah Lisa’s mattress next door.

We walked out and enjoyed the immaculate grounds and the beautiful beach. We spent the next few days enjoying our time together and consuming delicious meals. It was about our third day there when I walked out onto our patio to discover several of the “resort cats” lounging on our chairs. While similar to the domestic cats we had back home, these semi-feral creatures possessed unique facial structures that made it clear there was a pronounced fork in the family tree. They were pointed out to us during orientation and their housing unit was visible from back of our room.

As I reached out for one of the towels we had left out to dry, the nearest resort cat bit my hand without warning before settling back into its nap as if performing an expected courtesy. It was deep enough to draw blood and I became concerned that an infection might set in, so we located the Sandals nurse station and made our way over to see if they had some Neosporin.

It was a small room packed with enough supplies to triage a small military offensive. There was an unadorned desk and a friendly woman emerged from the back to ask how she could be of assistance. While listening to my situation, she was very conspicuously searching for a paper form which she then handed to me on a clip-board. I explained that I was not requesting an invasive medical procedure, I simply had not packed an antiseptic and thought she would have some.

She again insisted that I complete the lengthy “incident report” and be as detailed as possible. After turning “A cat bit my hand” into a dramatic essay, she insisted that my wife sign as a witness to assure everyone that I had not invented the story with nefarious intent.

I was somewhat offended that they suspected that my wife and I had booked this trip as part of a master plan to defraud an international resort chain by fabricating an attack by an on-premise pack of animals I only learned about upon my arrival. If I was going to play the long con, I think I would have gotten more traction by alleging psychological damage hearing our next-door neighbors evacuate their colon shortly before rekindling that loving feeling.

Upon inspecting the form, she the curtly informed me that I would have to purchase the requested first-aid supplies in the resort gift shop. I was sure I had misunderstood. I motioned toward the Grey’s Anatomy starter kits along the wall and requested some antibiotic cream and a band -aid. She again directed me to the resort gift shop. Upon arrival we found a “travel tube” of Neosporin for $14. I reminded my wife to stay close to shore because if this purchase was any indication, we would be financially unable to procure a shark-bite kit without collateral.

The beaches were public so there were several local vendors and most were friendly. There was one entrepreneur who approached me and cheerily asked if I needed some marijuana. I thanked him for his consideration, but assured him that I was not in the market. Taking my disinterest as something else, he leaned in closer and said, “I got you. I figured you were more of a cocaine guy anyway. How much you need?”

Beginning to wonder if my new beach attire was giving off the wrong vibe, I assured him that I was not a “cocaine guy” and after several more attempts and assuring me of his powder’s unmatched potency, he left.

We spent our days lounging along the shore and I was quickly reminded why I had fallen so hard for my amazing wife. A local tour-guide took us all over the island and we learned so much about the rich culture. We discovered that the people of Antigua love them some Shaggy. We heard “It Wasn’t Me” so often I just assumed it had been adopted as the national anthem. We also learned that it is illegal to wear camouflage in public. Our guide informed us that the law stemmed from a brazen armed robbery where three men presented themselves as military personnel and relieved motorists of their valuables for several hours before being arrested. I couldn’t help but feel that somehow Chompers the Resort Cat had masterminded the entire scheme.

We learned to never complain about the hardships of the pandemic to the resident of an island whose entire economy relies on tourism. When he told us that they became desperate and people did not have food, he meant it in a way that I am blessed never to have known. It was a needed reminder that when we visit these nations, our worst financial situations would often qualify as someone else’s aspirations.

Our flight back was fortunately non-eventful and we landed in Miami right on time. Having completed all of the customs paperwork during the flight, we expected to breeze through and get a bite to eat before our final flight. Passports in hand, my wife and I approached the customs official and he processed her first. We exchanged pleasantries, but his cheery manner faded as he looked at his screen and declared that my better-half was going to be held for further questioning.

Completely misreading the situation, I joked that if she was going to be detained then I was just kidding about being married for twenty-one years and we had just met on the plan while making-out during some turbulence. Taking my passport from my hand, he said, “You’re going too, funny boy” before another officer emerged to escort us into large waiting room with stainless-steel chairs bolted to the floor.

Unsure what to do next, we took inventory of the room around us. There was a Hispanic woman with an infant in the row in front of us and off to the right were several customs officers. It became clear that we were to wait until one of us was called up for further questioning. I watched as a Chinese national sat stone-face while the customs officials attempted to corroborate that he was indeed the regional sales manager for a manufacturing firm and in Miami on business. I wondered how many people they tripped up with the “business or pleasure” question. Have they ever had someone lean in and respond in a menacing voice, “Neither. I am here for carnage and insurrection”?

My wife thought we should request an attorney but I felt like we might be blowing things out of proportion so we waited. Finally, one of the agents called my name and when we both arose from our chairs, he indicated that he was only requesting me. My wife, undoubtedly terrified that our collective fate now rested in my ability to navigate a customs incident without making the situation worse, slid back down into her seat.

The officer was already holding my passport and asked me several questions, the answers to which I was certain he could have gotten from his computer screen. Where do you live? What is the zip code there? Where were we coming from? Why were you there? I got the impression that these were warm-up questions, so when he began asking if I had any declarations, I felt we had arrived at the heart of the matter.

I insisted that the only thing we had brought back from the island (other than the world’s most expensive tube of antibiotic ointment) was a gift for each of our three children: A hat for our youngest son, a dress for our daughter and a stuffed animal for my oldest son.

He eyed me warily before asking again if there was anything else I would like to declare while he was giving me the opportunity. Anything at all? When I again repeated my list of the three souvenirs, he then said, “To be absolutely clear, it is still your contention that there are no narcotics or controlled substances in your luggage?”

My first thought was that maybe I did look more like a cocaine guy than I realized. Then my mind wandered to the stuffed animal we had purchased from a beach vendor. What if it was full of uncut Caribbean powder? What if I had unwittingly become an international drug mule? Had they already found cocaine? Would my wife wait for me on the outside?

My anxiety began to grow and when I get nervous, I will often resort to poorly-timed humor. With a laugh I told him that we only bought the three items I had already disclosed and I did not know how he was raised, but where I come from kids had to get their own narcotics. His face remained stoic and he said “very funny” in a way that made me think he contemplating tasering me just to see if I would wet myself.

My mind then wandered to the cell phone I had left behind and a terrible thought occurred to me. What if it had been picked up by a mid-level distributer of illicit substances while my wife and I were away at the beach? What if my number had been used to facilitate enough shipments to trigger an investigation? I then blurted out that I had lost my cell phone at the airport on my way to Antigua which also sounded like something a cocaine guy would say.

Finally, he smiled and handed me back my passport. Without ever speaking to my wife, he motioned that I was free to go collect my luggage. As we approached the carousel, looked around half-expecting someone to arrest me the moment I touched the handle. I asked my wife if she would stick by me if things went down and she assured me that she would be in an Uber headed for a new life before they even got the cuffs on.

In what can only be described as a holiday miracle, the airline lost and found had my phone and I was able to prove ownership because my wife’s phone had the same wallpaper photo of our kids that appeared on mine. I was astounded by the amount of electronics left on planes. It looked like a Best Buy scratch-and-dent sale back there. I immediately began calling Verizon to get a refund on the replacement phone that I was never allowed to pick up. I almost lost it when the rep asked me, with a slightly-condescending tone, why I had placed an order and never bothered to take possession of it. For the second time that week, the phone in may hand was in danger of being propelled through the nearest window.

Perhaps for our next anniversary, we can up our game and get on INTERPOL’s radar (or at least actually make out during the turbulence).