Page 198 of Left on Base

Fork Guy doesn’t stop there—why would he? He offers “relationship advice” to every couple within two rows (“Never split a cheese plate at altitude, it’s bad luck”), and reads tarot for a honeymooning couple who don’t speak English but nod politely while he insists their “chakras are extremely compatible.”

Around hour six, he tries to trade his seat for first class by offering a “rare, vintage safety card from Spirit Airlines” and a slightly melted Toblerone. The flight attendant laughs—until she realizes he’s serious.

About halfway over the Atlantic, security comes down the aisle. Not for Jameson and Callie, still fighting about armrests, but for Fork Guy, who’s now reading tarot for the flight crew in the galley. “Sir, please return to your seat and put the cards away,” the lead attendant says, but Fork Guy grins and asks if she wants to know her moon sign.

Jameson and Callie’s fight hits new levels somewhere over Greenland.

“You’re making too much noise,” Callie hisses.

Jameson groans, eyeing the emergency exit. “Yeah, well, your mere existence pisses me off.”

“Same, boy. Same!” Callie huffs, shoving in her earbuds and staking her claim to the window—her window, apparently.

King spends half the flight asleep, drooling on his tray table, and the other half trying to talk Brynn into a second bathroom rendezvous.

My mom? She’s up near the front, blissfully unaware that her son’s friends have turned Emirates Economy into a flying frat house.

By the time we land, Fork Guy’s charmed three attendants, invented and won a trivia contest, and been politely threatened with “official documentation” if he tries to swap seats again. He’s still clutching that neck pillow and tarot deck like a man who’s found his calling.

We haven’t even set foot in the UAE and this trip is already group chat legend.

We landin Dubai at sunrise, the skyline looking like someone hacked reality and cranked up the graphics. Skyscrapers everywhere, glass shining like it’s been polished by angels. The airport is a marble-and-gold palace, and I immediately lose all sense of direction. Fork Guy tries to barter for a camel ride at customs. Brynn almost gets arrested for accidentally calling the officer “bro.” Callie declares she’s moving here because the airport bathrooms “smell like a spa.”

It’s a blur of signs in five languages, endless walkways, and a fountain that probably costs more than my tuition. Mom’s striding ahead like she’s running for office, waving passports and barking our itinerary into her phone. Camdyn and I trail after, dragging suitcases and trying not to look like lost tourists—which is tough, because that’s exactly what we are.

Fork Guy, undeterred by his failed camel negotiation, is now reading the energy of the customs line with his tarot deck. “I sense a journey of great importance for you,” he tells a businessman who looks like he hasn’t slept in years.

The customs officer gives Fork Guy a look that says: try me. He slides the deck away with the smoothness of someone who’s been forcibly ejected from airports before.

Jameson grumbles about the exchange rate and the fact his suitcase apparently took a separate vacation to Istanbul. King’s still half-asleep, sunglasses on, dragging Brynn by the hand. Brynn’s apologizing to the officer, swearing she meant “sir” not “bro,” and trying not to burst out laughing.

Callie spends an hour in the bathroom and emerges with a review: “Ten out of ten. Heated seats. Mood lighting. I’m never leaving.” She snaps a selfie with a gold-plated hand dryer and declares herself an influencer now.

Miraculously, we all make it through without anyone getting deported or recruited into a cult (though Fork Guy says he “felt a calling”). The baggage claim is a mess of designer luggage and lost tourists. Our group huddles around the carousel, and Fork Guy starts dealing tarot cards on top of a Louis Vuitton suitcase—much to the horror of its actual owner, who shooes him off with a hissed, “This is vintage!”

We finally tumble outside into Dubai’s heat, like inhaling air from a hair dryer set to “desert inferno.” There’s a driver holding our name, looking both bored and slightly terrified as we approach like caffeinated wolves.

“Welcome to Dubai,” he says, sounding like he’s said it a thousand times. “First time?”

Fork Guy grins, neck pillow askew, tarot deck in hand. “We’re here for enlightenment,” he announces. The driver nods like he’s heard weirder—which, in Dubai, he probably has.

As we pile into the van—Mom already planning the itinerary, Callie rating the AC, Jameson refusing to sit near her, Brynn and King wrestling for a window, Fork Guy offering to predict the outcome of our whole trip—I realize we’re just getting started. If the airport was any hint, Dubai has no idea what’s about to hit it.

Our home baseis the Burj Al Arab—Dubai’s iconic sail-shaped hotel, like someone designed it just to scream “luxury.” Mom’s hotel points have blessed us with suites so fancy I half expect the furniture to start talking. Camdyn and I have our own suite, balcony over the Gulf, a bathroom so big it has its own bathroom, and a bed like a marshmallow cloud.

Fork Guy’s room connects to ours by a private door—because apparently “emotional support fork” is a thing. He keeps popping in unannounced, armed with midnight snacks and unsolicited pep talks about “manifesting good vibes and great sandwiches.” I’m convinced he’s got the staff thinking we’re an influencer entourage, especially after he tried to tip the bellhop with a tarot reading and half a Toblerone.

Jameson’s standing in the hallway, arms crossed, refusing to set foot inside our chaos. “I’m getting my own room,” he announces, like he’s dropping a rap album. “I need space. I’m booking a desert safari—alone. Don’t text unless it’s an emergency or you need bail.” He’s already got the concierge on speed dial, asking about quad bikes and whether the camels come with WiFi.

King’s figuring out which elevator button delivers him straight to the rooftop pool, Brynn’s marveling at the free toiletries. “These are full-sized! I’m stealing everything!”

Callie is sprawled on the couch taking selfies with the gold-plated minibar. Mom’s in her element, sipping tea and interrogating the butler about “life-changing shawarma.”

All I want is five uninterrupted minutes alone with Camdyn. Just five. But every time we sit together, Fork Guy appears like the world’s most annoying genie. “Don’t mind me, just clearing the space of negative energy!” he says, waving incense he probably smuggled through customs. “Jaxon, your aura is extra spicy today. Camdyn, want a card reading? On the house.”

Camdyn laughs and drags me out onto the balcony, finally away from the madness. The view is insane. The city looks like sci-fi, and for a second, it’s just us, the sunrise, and Fork Guy in the background loudly trying to order “room service hummus for spiritual purposes.”

If this is luxury, I could get used to it—assuming Fork Guy ever lets us have a moment alone.

---