I think that these folks—no insult intended of course, salt a the earth and alla that—but I think these folks are under the impression that old Wrongway is a coupla planes short of a squadron, if you get my drift. Did I ask them to fix up the Spirit of the Bronx? No, I most certainly did not; far as I was concerned, the old girl was doin just fine right there where she was in the jungle, and so was I. It was quiet and peaceful, without nobody tellin us that we was backwards or just plain wrong alla time… what's not to like?

Did I miss flyin? Well, yeah, 'course I did, and I'da liked to have finished my round-the-world flight before my little unplanned detour into the Pacific islands, just so's I coulda said I done it, and maybe wiped that smug look offa Lindy's face if I'd broke his record like I looked on track to do when I crashed. But, hell, that was thirty years ago, and I'm just plain not the sort to hang onta disappointments that are old enough to buy a beer. It happened, it was done, and what good was lookin back and stewin over it?

But anyhow, here I was, and alluva sudden, here they was, and next thing I knew they was swarmin all over me and Bronxy like we owed them money. I couldn't say I minded the company. Two pretty girls aren't anythin to sneeze at, and conversation had been a little thin on the ground for a coupla decades now; it was a real nice change of pace.

And that smart fella, well, he told me he thought he could fix Bronxy, but if I'da said I really believed him, I'da been lyin. But he sure proved me wrong. He got her goin, all right, fixed her up good as new without much more than spit and stubborn and a few bits of boat engine, and while I'm certainly impressed, for a while there I wasn't all that sure whether or not I was grateful. Still not all that sure, if you want the real truth. I had to take her up and away, though; no way was I trustin that Gilligan kid to take her anywheres but straight to Davy Jones, and that's only if he managed to get Bronxy off the ground without runnin her straight into a tree or somethin. Poor fella. Tried hard, I know, but when it comes to airplanes, he'd better stick to boats. Lettin him try to take her back to Hawaii woulda been flat out murder, so there just wasn't no other choice than clockin him one and takin her up myself. And flyin again after all that time on the ground... it was glorious. Ain't no other word for it. I was whole again, and I was free, back up there where I belonged. Me and Bronxy, both. It felt like God hisself was smilin at us. I shoulda known it was all too good to last.

Not sayin the hero's welcome in New York wasn't enough to turn a fella's head; who wouldn't like alla that stuff? Ticker tape parades and interviews with alla the newshounds and radio jockeys and my ugly mug splashed across the covera Life Magazine. All that fuss over me. Me, old Wrongway. Who'd a thunk it, you know?

And then it all starts goin sour on me; they took the old girl away and locked her up in the basement of some stuffy old museum where she couldn't even see the sky no more, and if they coulda put me in that museum alongside her, I'd probably be starin through the glass at little kids on school field trips right this minute. And after I'd brushed the ticker tape offa my shoulders, and the newspaper johnnies all put their cameras away, I found out that there wasn't nobody actually wanted me for nothin. All my old pals was dead, and nobody was hirin some old barnstormer who'd been outta circulation since the Depression. I was flat broke, and all alone, and let me tell you, bein all alone in the middla two million people takes some doin.

Bein all alone when you are all alone is one thing; turns out I didn't know when I was well off. It wasn't even how different everythin was from how I remembered it; the air was dirtier, the cars was faster, the music noisier, the skirts—well, civilization wasn't all bad, I guess—I'd pretty much expected alla that. It was worse. Walkin around that city was like bein a ghost or somethin. Nobody cared about the old bum in the flyin leathers. Wouldn't give a fella the time a day if they was standin in the middle of a watch factory. And they didn't care about each other, neither. Looked right through each other, pushin and shovin their way into wherever they was goin and devil take the hindmost. It's no way to live, I tell you.

And after that first rush of popularity, I didn't have nowheres to go. No handy caves in Manhattan to sleep in, rent-free, and no more pickin your dinner off the nearest banana tree, neither. And there I was. No home, no friends, no food, no job, no Bronxy, no nothin.

So I come back. Stole Bronxy right outta that museum, and no one's gonna tell me she wasn't glad to go. We just pointed our noses northward, and we carved ourselves a path through the warm tropical clouds till it started lookin right, and we landed—and I do say landed, not crashed, cause this time it wasn't no accident, and it wasn't no mistake. And so here we was, and, of course, fifteen seconds later, here they was, and if I said I thought they was overly happy to see me, I'd be lyin again.

It's all 'Wrongway, we wanna go home,' and 'Wrongway, you gotta go get help,' and not never 'Wrongway, you deserve a chance to be happy.' Nice folks, alla them; I ain't got a bad word to say for any one a them, and we could do real well here if they'd just stop and think for a minute, but they won't.

They're doin everythin they can think of to get me to help them get outta here, and fact is, they're bein so awful I'm almost tempted to do it. But I know better than to hand a baby a blowtorch, no matter how bad he thinks he wants it. I'm not cruel enough to do what they're askin.

Which isn't to say I'm not gettin kind of a kick outta watchin them squirm. The Skipper put on a dandy of a show with his fake appendix troubles, and I'll remember the look on his face when I reached for that monkey wrench till my dyin day. But Gilligan stole the show, that's for sure, with his phony jungle fever. Remarkable how every time I just so happened to 'recall' another symptom, he'd suddenly develop it then and there. Remarkable how clever they musta thought they was bein. Remarkable how much of a chump they musta thought I was. Credit where it's due, though, the kid fainted real good, collapsed like a ton a bricks right on cue. I am glad I 'remembered' that the nosebleeds wasn't no part of the fever; a joke's a joke, but there's such a thing as goin too far, and the Skipper looks like he's been through a bar brawl or two in his time, and come out of them a winner.

Wonder if they ever tried that 'medicine' I brought back? That was pretty top-shelf gin, if I do say so myself. And I do. And seein as how he sure didn't look sick—musta been some kinda miraculous recovery, wink wink, nudge nudge— by the time me and Bronxy landed, a celebration was in order anyways.

But for now, hey, let them play their games if it makes them happy; I'm not leavin home again. There ain't nothin good left back in civilization, nothin worth leavin for. It's crazy out there, I tell you. And maybe they don't know it yet, and maybe they don't appreciate what I'm tryin to do for them, but they'll figure it out eventually.

They already got what I'da done anythin to have; a buncha nice people all together makin a world for themselves. A good world, fulla clean air and the time to breathe it. Eden without no snakes. I'm in no hurry to leave paradise, and I won't have it on my conscience if they get themselves thrown outta the Garden. Maybe I flew the wrong direction thirty years back, but it's gotta be the best mistake anyone ever made. I ended up in the right place.

Just gotta make them understand that they did, too. They wanna be saved? I'll save them. I'll save them from themselves.