At the Airport 

by June Hunter

There’s a man lying on the tarmac.  He’s not dead, because I can see his head moving beneath his flower-pot hat.  After the announcement that our flight had been delayed by three hours, he took big gulps of air, stamped his feet, and pushed his raging, sweating body out of the queue.  Now there he is lying on the tarmac.  Does he think he can stop Flyinair using our London flight to replace the plane with the mechanical issue, and sending it to Frankfurt instead?  The woman next to me is convinced it’s because Flyinair prefers Germans to Irish.  Two baggage handlers have lifted the man off the tarmac and escorted him, with dragging feet, around the side of the building.

I feel sorry for that young family trying to get to Barcelona.  The mother looks gorgeous in her primrose, wrap-around dress, all ready for the Spanish beaches.  The father hasn’t lifted his head from his phone since they got in the queue.  The kids’ little eyes are full of anguish as they look to their mother for answers.

Back we all trundle, into the Arrivals Hall where the fourteen-year-old-looking official doesn’t know what’s going on.  I’ve found myself at the front of the group and people are looking to me for leadership.  Me!  You’re joking.  I make my way out through the arrivals door and the passengers follow. 

At the Customer Services desk a twelve-year-old-looking employee shuffles about behind the counter and I see he’s left the door at the back open so he can bolt if things turn nasty.  “We’re printing your vouchers now,” he says, with a tremor.  I’m first to get mine.  ‘€5.00 (in bold letters) to be spent on anything. Non-alcoholic (in insipid letters)’.   The Flyinair-prefers-Germans woman grabs hers and rushes off.  “Better get a seat at the cafeteria,” she shouts as she shoves, “it’s going to be packed.” 

A queue has formed and the Flyinair-prefers-Germans woman has spent her €5.00.  “There’s no seats left.  You’ll be lucky to find anywhere.”  I’m glad for her advice and ask for my tea in a take-away cup.  “That’ll be €2.50,” says the cafeteria lady, who does look old enough to have a job.  I hand her my voucher.  “We can’t give you any change,” she says.  “Would you like a packet of crisps?”

I pick my way over bags and children to the back corner of the room where there is one person bent over her laptop, at a table for four.  “No, there’s no one else sitting there,” she tells me as she moves her belongings closer to her, and she doesn’t mind at all if I join her. 

At the next table two women have babies on their laps.  The babies slap the table and dribble while the women search their phones.  “We could get them to transfer us to the Luton flight,” says one.  I’m wondering how that’s going to help, since the Luton flight leaves only twenty minutes before our new departure time.  “We’ll do that,” says the other.  The babies continue to bash and dribble.  “Will you watch our stuff for us, please?”  Then they’re off to talk to the twelve-year-old at the Customer Services desk, leaving me in charge of their belongings.  I’m glad they didn’t ask me to watch the babies.

The man-who-lay-down-on-the-tarmac has appeared and he’s heading for the bar, waving the €5.00 voucher that he was given to spend on anything that isn’t alcoholic.  I watch as he pushes his way through the happy, jolly, ‘let’s-have-another-one-hahaha’ passengers, and see him throw his arms in the air when the barman pushes the voucher back to him.  I half expect him to stretch himself across the bar. 

I remove my book from my Flyinair regulation sized handbag.  “Would you mind watching my laptop while I go to the canteen?”  I nod and smile at the one-person-at-a-table-for-four, then bury myself in the book.

Two tables down is a loud woman who says everything twice.  The second time even louder than the first.  “That’s it!  They’re shutting the door!”  She shouts.  “Shutting the door!”  She bellows.  I’m not sure what she’s on about, but the lady with her is laughing.  Their conversation quietens as her companion speaks, and I’m better able to concentrate on my book.  “Yes! It’s the last day!”  Shouts the woman-who-says-everything-twice.  “Last day!”  She thunders.

The let’s-transfer-to-the-Luton-flight women are back, their babies tucked under their arms like rolled up towels on the way to the beach.  They retrieve their paraphernalia and then they’re off, pudgy baby legs kicking behind them. 

Twenty minutes later an announcement requests passengers for delayed flight RA702 to London to go to the gate.  We are delighted!

The man-who-lay-down-on-the-tarmac is behind me in the queue, his face red beneath his flower-pot hat.  He’s wondering what’s going to happen with the duty-free bottle of whiskey he bought the first time around.  “They’ll probably confiscate it,” I say, just to see his reaction. 

I’ve got the middle seat, near the back.  The man by the window takes no notice of me, and the woman in the isle is so miniscule she’s hardly there at all.  I read somewhere that middle passengers, by right, get to use both armrests, so I spread my elbows, let my head rest against the back of the seat, and close my eyes.  As the aircraft trundles down the runway miniscule-woman whispers to me “I’ve heard we’re on the plane that had mechanical difficulties.  I hope it’s fixed now.”

Bio:
June Hunter lives and writes in Sneem, County Kerry, Ireland. Her work has been featured in various publications including Flash Fiction Magazine, Reflex Fiction, Potato Soup Journal, Blue Nib, Strands Publishers and Bloom. She facilitates the Sneem Writers’ Group, and participates in – Clann na Farraige Writers’ Group, Kenmare; as well as taking part in the monthly Deadlines for Writers online writing challenges.