by Megan Mimiaga
The BBQ chicken flatbread pizza at the Four Points Sheraton bar isn’t half bad. Their recipe includes pineapple, which I realize is controversial, but the sweetness is a good compliment to the bold kick of spice.
I was actually here only two weeks ago. Well, not here here at a bar, but landing at LAX after a 42-minute flight out of Las Vegas. I’m proud to say I still had time to finish a Bloody Mary at 39,000 feet. I guess I was at a bar in that case.
The time before that was a redeye flight departing at 4:00AM. Luckily for me, I got to experience the worst food poisoning of my life at 3:00AM. But this was our Griswold-style Hawaiian Christmas and I wasn’t going to miss it. I have something important to say about airline barf bags and it’s this: they are not, and will never be thick enough to hold barf. My lap however, held barf pretty spectacularly.
My brother eats the last piece of BBQ chicken pizza. Did I mention my brother? He’s been here the whole time. Next to me in the hotel bar, losing at Blackjack, laughing at my vomit-soaked jeans. I remember as kids we’d tie blankets around our necks as capes like royalty. But I always carried the bottom edge of his like a squire so it wouldn’t drag on the unsacred ground. Tomorrow he will board a plane to the opposite end of the nation to be stationed for a while, and I don’t know how long a while is.
“This is FUBAR,” I joke.
“Thanks for the ride,” he says. We don’t speak much. We don’t hug or take a last photo together because that’s not who we are. We just share pizza.
