‘No, not now! Not now!’ Kenneth Johnson tried not to slow his gait as he fumbled around, searching for his phone in the pocket of his windbreaker. He glanced at his watch. He had even less time than expected, as his connecting flight was less than an hour from now. As he entered the Immigration Hall, he froze in dismay and stared at the horde of people in the hall.
I’ll never get through this in time to catch my flight!
Kenneth’s attention was brought back to the present by the incessant ringing of his phone. ‘Hello?’
A blur materialised from the oncoming throng of passengers and knocked Kenneth’s wallet from his grasp to the ground, scattering his passport, credit cards, immigration and customs forms across the tiled floor.
‘Hello! Hello! Hold on! Hold on! I have to pick up my things. Give me a second.’
A woman with wide hips and a large bottom, dressed in high heels and carrying a very large bag, came bustling by Kenneth. Kenneth shouted.
‘Stop!’
Too late! The heel of her right shoe landed on a credit card, causing the woman to slip violently. In an effort to regain her balance, the woman threw her arms out in front of her, resulting in the bag that she was carrying being thrown high into the air.
Dezray Veronica Charles was the last to get off the flight. With much difficulty, the Air Jamaica attendant had helped her with her bag. The flight had left Montego Bay late because Dezray, who liked to be called DVC, had insisted, very forcefully, that her bag had to be properly secured and protected from damage. Initially, the first class flight attendants had wanted her to place it in the overhead compartment, but DVC informed them that if her very expensive vase broke, ‘dem would ‘ave hell fe pay. Yuh nuh know seh she was DJ Little Shrimp’s baby mother!’ After the Captain joined the heated discussion, it was agreed that the bag would be placed in one of the front compartments, with blankets placed around it to cushion it from any turbulence.
Now she was making her way towards the immigration hall, quietly cursing herself for her over-indulgence. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she got carried away by the dream of seeing herself on the cover of Home and Garden magazine, in front of their new home in Palm Beach that Little Shrimp bought with the proceeds from his latest tour. When she saw the vase she knew that she would look fantastic standing beside it by the mahogany front door, with the new white Lexus in the background. She knew exactly where the cameraman needed to set up to get the right shot. She must remember to ask the gardener to plant some roses nearby to add colour.
‘Cho! Dis bag so damn heavy! How dem nuh have no trolley fe me carry me sing ting dem? A wha’ kinda airport dis? Cho!’
As DVC made the long trek towards the Immigration Hall, she slowed, ‘Whoa, my corn a bun me! Cho!’
DVC sighed in relief when she saw the signs for the Immigration Hall, only for her hope to be dashed when she saw the waves of people approaching an already crowded hall. ‘Rhaatid! Mi nah ‘tan up in dem yah shoes fe hours a wait pon nuh line!’
She quickened her step and lengthened her stride. Despite the weight of the bag, she was determined to get to the shortest line before the sea of people who had just arrived in Miami. DVC saw a man off to her left stooping down on the tiled floor. She wondered for a moment what he was doing, but then refocused on her goal at hand, that being, getting to the front of a line as a quickly as possible. She redoubled her efforts and lengthened her stride even further. She heard a shout, but DVC could not make out the words over the noise in the Immigration Hall, when suddenly, her right heel slipped out from under her. In her attempt to regain her balance, DVC threw her arms forward and lost her grip of the bag. In horror, DVC watched her bag flying high into the air, towards the white ceiling with its recessed florescent lights.
‘No! Mi bag! Ketch mi bag!’ she screamed as she fell to the floor.
Norman loved Star Trek. Jean-Luc Picard was his favourite captain, although he thought Spock was the coolest ever. Last summer he had tried to stretch his ears so that they looked like a Vulcan’s. He couldn’t understand why his mother over-reacted the way she did when she walked into his bedroom and caught him trying to hang himself from his ears. He had worked out that his body weight was just enough to make his ears stretch appropriately, but his mom would not listen to his theory or look at his calculations.
Mothers!
Norman could not believe his luck when he walked into the book store in Heathrow airport and saw the Star Trek Chronicles on the shelf, a series of six books in one package, including some great artwork. Thankfully, he had enough of his spending money left to cover most of the price, and he begged his Dad for the rest of the money.
It was awesome!
He was now reading the book as they walked towards the Immigration Hall. It had been a long flight, and even with the book, Norman had trouble finding things to keep himself entertained throughout the entire flight. He had slept for about half the flight, watched a movie, and then read for the remainder of the time. He had asked his Mom if they were there yet once, and the expression on her face convinced him that he shouldn’t wake her to ask her that question again for the rest of the flight. They had been delayed on the tarmac after landing, something about there being congestion on the ground, but Norman had taken the opportunity to get fully engrossed in his Star Trek bible. Norman had put on his headphones and turned up the sound on his iPod just loud enough that he could hear his mother’s voice, but not hear what she was saying. He wanted to concentrate on every fact and detail in the book, and he was finding it hard to do that with all the hubbub from the passengers, and his Mom and Dad talking. The light got a lot better for reading as they got closer to the Immigration Hall, with its very high ceiling, white tiles and walls and the innumerable recessed lights. Normally, Norman would have stopped to count the number of light bulbs, but he was getting to a really interesting part of the story.
Captain Kirk’s Starship Enterprise was under attack from the Romulans. Disaster was imminent, because the Romulans had deployed a new device called a Refraction Bomb that could be used at even warp speeds. Norman was trying to understand the technical explanation of how the bomb worked, and admiring the artist’s impression of the bomb, when he saw something rise above the rim of his book, flying towards the ceiling. He glanced at it, and back at the artwork of the Refraction Bomb.
Wow! That looks just like the bomb, he thought.
Norman excitedly tugged at his mother’s dress and shouted, ‘Hey Mom! Look, a Refraction Bomb!’
Squatting, Kenneth could feel the wave of silence coming towards him before he heard it. He could see the confused expressions on the faces of many passengers as they slowed down. Hushed questions were being asked.
‘Bomb? Bomb? Did you hear someone say bomb?’
Kenneth’s attention was drawn to the bag, as it reached the peak of its flight. Its rapid descent reminded Kenneth of a rollercoaster, and even though Kenneth braced himself for the landing, he was unprepared for the sound, which seemed to be amplified by the unusually hushed atmosphere in the hall.
Everything stopped.
The large-bottomed woman screamed, and then pandemonium broke out in the Immigration Hall.
‘Bomb! Bomb!’ were the screams from the panicked passengers, as they ran towards the exits, ignoring the armed personnel. Those who were too slow were knocked aside, or knocked over. A loud siren blared, and a loud speakered voice instructed people to be calm and follow the guidance of the officers.
Minutes later, Kenneth uncurled his muscular six foot two frame from the fetal position he had adopted to protect himself from the stampeding people, and looked around the hall. Astonishingly, it was empty, except for the wide-hipped woman who was sobbing a few feet away from him. There were passports and papers strewn across the hall, and for a moment Kenneth felt a wave of panic. He frantically looked around and sighed when he saw his passport and wallet neatly wedged against a column, almost as though someone had placed them there out of harm’s way. There was no sign of his credit cards, but that was OK. As long as he could get home, that was the most important thing. He could always get replacement cards. Pain racked his body as Kenneth got up and gingerly made his way over to pick up the passport and wallet. As he bent down, he sensed a presence. Kenneth slowly repositioned his body so that he could see who was standing behind him.
The first thing he saw was the barrel of a gun. With some effort, Kenneth adjusted his focus to the fresh face behind the gun.
Rhaatid! Is wha dis? Kenneth thought. He ran his index finger and thumb over his stubble-length moustache and goatee beard, as he pondered the situation.
‘Sir! Can you stay where you are and not move!’
‘I’m just picking up my passport. Is that OK?’
‘Sir! Please don’t move!’
‘Can I stand up?’
‘Sir! Don’t move!’
‘Look! I can’t stay in this position much longer. Either I sit down or stand up. Which would you prefer?’
Kenneth could see the confusion in the young man’s eyes. He glanced from Kenneth to the woman who was still on the floor, with the trampled bag now some distance away. Despite the momentary confusion, Kenneth noticed that the young man’s eyes were steady and focused, and his hands did not shake as he kept the gun trained on Kenneth, but his stance was not what it should be. His weight was too over-balanced over his left leg. For a moment Kenneth thought about taking advantage of this weakness, and then remembered where he was, and decided against it.
‘Look kid …’ Kenneth glanced at the ‘U.S. Customs Service 1789’ emblem on the shoulder of the young man’s uniform, with its scales of justice and a key, and quickly corrected himself. ‘… Sir. I don’t want any trouble. I’m going to raise both my hands over my head, slowly turn around and then stand up.’
Kenneth started his manoeuvre, being sure to maintain eye contact with the officer. The young man shifted his position, stepping slightly backwards as he watched Kenneth. As Kenneth completed his manoeuvre, he could hear running booted feet approaching from behind the column. In a blur, Kenneth was handcuffed and bustled through the Immigration Hall. Kenneth was dumped in a small room with only a wooden table and chair in one corner of the room. His muscles complained. An overweight man with grey thinning hair limped into the room within seconds of Kenneth’s arrival.
‘You’re in big trouble mister,’ he announced triumphantly.
‘Oh?’ Kenneth said. ‘For what?’
The overweight man pulled up his trousers’ waist and glared at Kenneth. ‘Terrorism!’