Flight to New York

The flight to New York was a little bumpy. I was coming back from England and I couldn't remember for the life of me whether I was to land at La Guardia, Kennedy, Newark or Stewart. My friend called to chide me for not visiting, as he apparently thought that my flight to New York was the day before. Whatever, he's silly.

When I got to the airport - which was La Guardia, by the way - a familiar guy in a wide-brimmed hat with an unlit pipe in mouth asked me through his engaged teeth, "How was your flight to New York?"

I told him I didn't know, and that was the last we saw of each other. I purchased a fine biscotti and soda water at the airport cafe, rented an adequate Camaro, and I was out of there for good I tell you. I called my friend and said, "I don't want no interruptions. Pass the word along to Friedman and the rest."