Thursday, May 21, 2009

this one time (Part Three)

I swear I am almost done. Truly. 

So I walk in the airport, Max following me with such strong voodoo that I can feel my back being stabbed again and again by his mental knives. Ah, Max. Good guy. I said goodbye again but we both almost started laughing when I did. He just shook his head of shiny hair at me and told me "Just go. Get on that plane. Please!"

At the little cage, I, trembling uncontrollably, hand the uniformed gun toting frowner my brand new ticket, my passport with new visa and my last hopes of surviving my trip to Moscow. I am not sure if it was the lack of protein or some drug in the Moscow water, but I swear there were dozens of troops lined up behind the cage all watching expectantly for what kind of debacle I would initiate this time. 

The guard takes the ticket and looks at me with a smile. An actual smile. He laughs and turns to say something in Russian to another soldier. I do not smile. Still smiling, he stops his dialogue with his buddy and I see his eyes get bright for a moment. He is looking at my passport. "WHAT?" I demand. "Shtoh? Eh? Hey man, Shtoh?" 

He holds my passport up to the glass to indicate to me the missing visa. Staple still there, but visa with the new stamp completely missing from my passport. This time he takes my passport and gives it to the old guy with a gun who I assumed was the captain or whatever. Then that guy disappears into a little room. The guard hands my ticket to the woman at the Lufthansa ticket counter and she proceeds to look at it, listen to him, look at me, then smirk as she RIPS UP MY TICKET.

sigh. I am nearly too tired to go on. 
But I must. 
So I will.

I scream at her that my bags have already been loaded on the plane (which was leaving in mere minutes). She tosses my ripped up ticket into my hand and shakes her head. I fly down the airport yet again, more curses shaking the foundation of the building. Once again, I see Max shopping for .... YUP... purses. Anyway. 

He turns white. (Now Max is already a pale fellow. Think Edward. Yeah, you know who I am talking about. Dont try to deny it. I know you read them. Ha!) Back to the story. Max was turning white with rage. He whisks me out of the purse store and I follow him as this time HE curses every Russian in his way. And this time they DO understand and everybody stares as the stylish young man with eyes of pure deadly venom march right past the awful ticket ripper at the Lufthansa counter, right past the still laughing guard in the little cage, right past the two heavily armed soldiers at the final gate. He walks up the stairs to the captain's office, opens with no knock and makes me wait outside while he goes in and closes the door behind him. 

I hear yelling. I only make out little bits about how they caused my visa to expire, they killed my grandpa, they made us sore from sleeping on his Grandfather's floor, and how if he had to ride the damned bus to the airport again they would all die, stuff like that. I do not know what went on in there. I do not know what the look on that captain's face was. I did not care. I was too weary. I just stood there leaning back and forth, swaying with the weight of a very long ordeal. 

When Max came out, he was followed by the captain. Max carried my passport and a certain smirk on his face. Max walked me down the stairs, past all the guards and to the walkway. He hugged me and waved me onto the plane. The captain and all the guards looked around at each other, wondering who would shoot me first. Past the guards and gate I did not know what to do. I had no tickets. So I just walked down and got on the plane and sat in my seat. 

Fully expecting to see the guns come back on the plane again and drag me off, I did not breathe for seventeen minutes. After that the engines roared and I felt myself go diagonal and then I fell asleep. Hours later, as I stepped off the plane in Frankfurt I heard a, "Mr Watson?"

Knowing it was the neoKGB or whatever Russian government agent that had been sent to collect the ticketless, visaless flyer, I turned around and followed the black suited stranger into a very tiny room with a desk. I said nothing. Just fell into the chair and waited. 

Eventually a smiling woman came through the door dressed in white. Ah, I thought. Now I am dead. This angel is hot. Sweet. She proceeded to tell me how sorry Lufthansa was about my ordeals and that they had rerouted me directly to LA so I could catch the remaining family there for my Grandpa's funeral.  I asked no questions. I just got on the flight to LA that the hot angel walked me to. I slept for seven and a half hours, waking only when the people next to me stood to get their bags. 

(Almost done. But ... not quite.)

I hauled my one carry-on bag to  pick up the rest of my checked luggage and guess what? Yeah. Of course, all my bags had been flown to NY or somewhere other than LA. So I walked down the corridor to the customs gates. I could see my family on the other side between the frosted glass. So close. 
The large customs agent took my passport and asked, "You say you were in Russia? Where is your visa? Looks like something has been ripped out." 
I, tears in my eyes, began to try to tell him the story. He stopped me and said, "You know, I dont care how you got out of Russia without a visa. Just open up your bag, son." 

Now, since I am bored of typing, let me just say that my choice in souvenirs was odd to him. As was the style of my hair, my clothes, my face. He was not a fan of the pipe I bought for my dad, the knifes I bought for my brother, the chunks of black jade I bought for whatever reason. Basically not a big fan of Jesse. What he found most interesting was the bulge in my pocket. "What is THAT?" he asked. 
"A Bible," I said. That elicited a very classic look based probably on his assumption that someone with little dreads and dressed in a dashiki would never tote around a Holy Bible. "What KIND of Bible?" he asked. 
"What do you mean?" I said. "THE Bible." I shrugged. 

He took it and proceeded to open it, which was a mistake as dried flowers rained down onto his desk. "What the? What is this? Drugs?" he snorted. He then started to read all my little notes I had sketched in there. After a while, apparently having delved a little too deeply into the psychotic inner life of Jesse Watson, he slammed the bible down into my hands and told me to get all my stuff and get out of there. "I dont know what kind of prank you are pulling, Mr. But next time you plan on telling someone you are holding a Bible, you should look a little more... a little more... respectable or something." 

And with that last blessing on my way of life, I stumbled out of the customs doors into the brilliant Los Angeles sunshine and the smiles of my beautiful family who were all there to greet me.