There is nothing more annoying than traveling, and if I had had any other job, I would not have to do it as often. I also probably would not find it as annoying either, but that is mostly speculation.
“Oh, but traveling enriches the soul and enlivens the spirit…” codswallop! Those damn crumb-stompers have no idea what they are talking about, as the closest thing to traveling that they have ever done, on average, is go from Pittsburgh to East Pittsburgh.
I’m a bit of a “traveling salesman,” you see, and as such have to go far and wide to find new customers. My wares aren’t exactly “conventional,” and so I can’t rely on the internet or anything like that for reaching customers.
My last trip, hopefully not my last ever one (for I am writing this sitting in the cell of my captors) was one of my worst ever.
I was making my way towards to Customs and Immigration clearance gate when I was pulled aside for a “random inspection” and interview. Right. With my skin-tone and bone structure it TOTALLY wasn’t profiling. (If you believe that, I have the deed to a nice resort on the dark side of the moon to sell you.)
Their drab, dimly lit office was rank beyond belief. How it was even possible, I still don’t know. It smelt of hot wet garbage. A gagging cacophony of fetid stench wrapped itself around me as I was dragged into the room, robbing me of my ability to think.
I was slammed down into the skeletal frame of what was once an expensive oak chair that had been worn down through years of abuse and neglect into a splintered and battered memory of a chair.
“Ok-scum-we-have-some-questions-to-ask-you-and-if-you-answer-them-correctly-and-honestly-then-we-will-let-you-go-and-there-will-be-no-problem.” The main interviewer, a giant of a man spat out at me like a machine gun.
“What? I don’t understand.”
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“Whatsamatta? Youdon’ Speakenglish?” His partner, a spindly thing, arms and legs too long for a person, like a four limbed Daddy-Long-Legs spider, hissed.
“It’s been a long trip, I’m sorry. What can I help you with, officer?”
I know, you’re never supposed to cooperate with five-0, but I just wanted to get out of there. Something felt wrong about the whole situation; they looked a bit off, I had been to that airport several times but had never seen that area before, and the way that they were speaking was also odd. Strange accent and the words had an ethereal quality to them, as if they were being unnaturally formed and then breathed out through a mile long air-tube.
“Whassss Th-isss” scream-whispered Officer Spindly as he held up my old iPod Nano in its unnaturally-too-large hand. It fumbled with the buttons, smashing into them with the delicate precision of an elephant using a typewriter, until it turned on and the sounds of my “travel sleep” playlist poured through the headphones.
“That’s my iPod. I listen to it when I travel so that I don’t have to use my phone. My sleeping playlist is what’s making that noise “whale lullaby.” It helps me sleep on the plane.”
Officer Longlegs stared at me with his freakishly gaunt face and blinked. The shadows played a weird trick on my sleep deprived brain that made it seem as if there was more than one set of eyes on his face.
“Whot Arrhe th-e wha-les sinjing about?”
I looked up, and up, and up at him, trying to figure out where this bizarre interview was heading, and all that I could see on his face was teeth. Sharp, dripping, too-many teeth, like a shark combined with a garbage disposal.
“Thirsssty? Wantta drink?”
Spindles reached under the desk, pulled out an overflowing trashcan, and started rummaging through it. Banana peels, candy bar wrappers, the contents of an emptied ashtray, half-eaten chicken bones (yes, the BONES were half eaten), and crushed soda cans flew around the room like remnants of Dorothy’s twister to Oz. Finally, he stopped vaulting junk into the air and pulled two crushed, ancient paper cups out of the bottom of the bin.
I watched in horror and disgust as he placed the cups on the desk, picked up the now mostly empty trashcan, and carefully poured the liquid into the cups. Gingerly, like a sommelier sampling a new vintage, he (it) raised a cup to his (ITS) nose (fuck, no, it didn’t have a nose! Where its nose was supposed to be) and took a hard sniff. A (too many teeth) smile spread across his (ITS, DAMNIT!) face, and he (NO, NO, NO! IT!) offered me the other cup of dumpster juice.