Joe Stevens Mocks a Llama
A Novella by
David D. Hammons
Copyright 2012 by David D. Hammons
“Do we have tickets?”
“No.”
“Are we staying in a hotel?”
“No.”
“Will there be tacos?”
“It’s Egypt, Joe.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, there will not be tacos in Egypt.”
“If there aren’t tacos you know I won’t be going.”
“Joe, we don’t have tickets; there is no way we’re paying for a hotel, nor for pretty much any other kind of amenities, and there will certainly be no tacos. Now, do you want to go to Egypt or not?”
“Most definitely!”
“Great. We leave tomorrow.”
This was the conversation that began my trip to the edge of the world. Now, while I suppose it was only naïve innocence about the affairs of the world at the time that made me see Egypt as an initially viable destination, I’m sure that Freddy saw it as a challenge he would never ignore. Of course there was no way he was going to face it alone, nor would I miss out on the chance to face it beside him.
So after literally minutes of planning and long seconds of consideration, Freddy Baxter and I were shuffling up to the airline counter in Humansville, Missouri to catch our first flight on the long path to Cairo, Egypt. It was four a.m. The airport had literally just opened for the day and I swear I saw a squirrel look up at me from the darkness-shrouded windows to shake a tiny fist at me for turning on the planes so early.
I was still fighting off the lack of sleep as we stood in line. We’d spent the previous evening packing and talking. I’d maybe gotten two hours of restless sleep so with one hand I was scratching up against the little nylon rope that defined the ticket counter line, and began smacking myself awake with the other.
“The trick to standby flights,” Freddy said as he adjusted his enormous hiking backpack, “Is to be as polite as possible.”
“I’m polite,” I said, fighting back a yawn as I casually stood with my regular-sized backpack strapped against my shoulders.
“That wasn’t an accusation, Joe, it was just a statement. These people have the authority to kick us off the plane if they want. We’re not ticketed passengers – we’re here as a privilege offered through the airline and we should humbly respect that.”
“I’ll do a dance for them if it’ll get us to Egypt in one piece.”
“I don’t think dancing will help.”
“You haven’t seen me dance.”
“Yes I have. And I have yet to get any coffee so please don’t – you brought your passport right?”
“Of course,” I replied, tapping the little zipped section of my backpack that contained my passport. I didn’t think to ask Freddy if he had his. I knew he had his passport. Still, after I’d shown him the pocket where mine was, Freddy quickly threw off his enormous backpack and went after two padlocked zippers to free his own.
The action of tearing his hiker’s backpack off actually knocked over one of the nylon line-markers. It also knocked aside Freddy’s glasses and caught the attention of the ticket lady just now coming to open the counter.
“Sorry about that. Last minute travel documents – want to make sure everything’s in order before we get to you,” I said with a smile.
The ticket lady, skinnier than seemed healthy and with piano teacher-blue hair, frowned at Freddy and I.
“Nice morning we’re having isn’t it?” I said with another smile. The smile fell flat but thankfully the old lady behind the ticket counter began paying attention to turning on her computer and not us. “See, Freddy, I can be plenty polite.”
“Where is it?” Freddy asked the inside of his backpack, dislodging various shirts and papers from his pack as he tried to shove his head inside its dark confines.
“What, your passport?”
“I could have sworn I packed it in here.”
“Why did you pack all this stuff anyways?”
“We’re going to be gone ten days, Joe,” Freddy said, looking up and adjusting his glasses. Perhaps it was the shock-filled worry that finally woke him up and allowed him to see the comparative difference in our two packing devices. He tilted his head and pointed at my much lighter pack. “You’re just bringing that?”
“Hey, I’ve got over two pairs of underwear in here,” I said, punching my backpack with enthusiasm.
“Oh, over two. Remind me to…ah! Here it is.” Amongst what looked to be three different photo-copies of his passport, was Freddy’s actual passport. “I knew I kept it someplace safe.”
“Safe but inaccessible. Is that my passport?” I bent down and picked up a piece of photocopy paper that had been spilt from the contents Freddy was hastily re-folding into his pack.
“I made it as a backup.”
“Why does it say my name is Mohammad Omar?”
“I made it as a very last-minute backup.”
“If you’re going to fake a travel document, Freddy, you should make it from a more fake-able country. US documents are very tough to fake. And who’s going to believe my name is Mohammad?” I held up the forged passport copy up to my face, using my average build and probably-less-tanned-than-would-pass-for-attractive skin to show that I in no way resembled a man named Mohammad.
“Don’t say stuff like that out loud,” Freddy said, grabbing the fake passport photocopy out of my hand and stashing it with the others as he approached the ticket counter. Freddy, shorter and rounder than I, and even more pasty white, also did in no way resemble a Mohammad. I suppose he’d forged a document that said his name was Achmed or something. Of course he didn’t look like an Achmed either. He looked like a Freddy. Or a Wally – he could pass for a Wally.
“How many other documents of mine did you fake, Wally?”
“What? Joe…”
“Don’t worry,” I said to the elder lady behind the ticket counter and handed her my passport, “This one’s real. And my name’s Joe. What’s your name?”
“Delores,” the ticket lady said in a subdued tone that did nothing to alter my perception of her as a piano teacher. I even began tapping Fur Elise onto the ticket counter.
“Hi Delores. I’m only doing carry-on baggage today.”
“Final destination is Cairo, Egypt?”
“Yes,” Freddy interjected, visibly sweating and casting worried looks at me.
Apparently we were sufficiently not Achmed nor Mohammad in appearance for Delores to bother worrying over Freddy’s demeanor.
“His bag can be carry-on,” Delores said, pointing to me, then to Freddy, “Yours will have to be checked.”
“I know,” Freddy said, laying down his enormous hiking backpack onto the little conveyer belt that would carry his bag to the plane. As he did, he unclipped a smaller, miniature version of the pack that was about as big as mine. This he shouldered, nodding that it would be his carry-on.
“All good?” I asked Freddy as our boarding passes were printed.
“Yeah. Let’s go get some coffee.”
We made our way through the security line at the Humansville National Airport with little difficulty. That is, we had to rush to get into the security line before a gaggle of old ladies got there. It took about three minutes for Freddy and I to get through security but I could hear the sounds of annoyance from the other ticketed passengers who’d been caught behind the old ladies who just didn’t understand why they had to take their shoes off to get on a plane.
One of nine gates, half of them never in use, had our small plane casually parked beside it. The grounds crewman, nothing else to do, was making a very awkward attempt at flirti
ng with the gate attendant. The crewman didn’t realize that the attendant was asleep, however, so neither his approaches nor his attempts to load the bags onto the airplane were successful. Still, it provided some entertainment as we waited.
“Of course these aren’t really boarding passes,” Freddy explained as we watched the grounds crewman shuffle once more back to the snoring gate attendant, inaudibly mumbling something about getting coffee later.
“They look like boarding passes,” I replied.
“They’re a ticket to get a boarding pass. This gets you past security, but since we’re flying on standby we don’t get an actual boarding pass until the very last second. They let everyone else board, then if there’s any seats left they call standby passengers.”
“What if there’s no seats left?”
“Then we wait for the next plane.”
Turns out, there was not enough seats for all the people waiting for our plane. The ticketed passengers all lined up and got on, shuffling onto the tiny jet-ramp to get inside the tiny jet while Freddy and I grew ever more worried. I think Freddy was going to wear a hole in the ground he was pacing so hard.
When they finally announced standby passengers I nearly jumped in excitement. Freddy actually did jump, but more out of shock. What Freddy had forgotten to tell me was that there is a hierarchy to standby passengers. There were three unsold seats, and four standby passengers, Freddy and I and a young couple. The hierarchy is based on the employee status of the ticketed person. Relatives of pilots and people who’ve been with the airline longest get first dibs. Since Freddy’s aunt got us the tickets, and she worked as an airline booking agent, our status was apparently lower than the young couple.
Just as Freddy and I were debating which of us would take the lone seat, expressions of “I’m not going without you, buddy!” exchanged with noir enthusiasm, there came an announcement that someone had missed the flight.
One passenger, one guy who slept in too late, or some poor fool who forgot his departure time, was the difference between Freddy and I making the flight and being stranded in Humansville.
“Should we feel bad about this?” I asked Freddy.
“No, just get on the plane before he shows up,” Freddy said, guiding me toward the jet-ramp where we were issued freshly-printed boarding passes.
The gate attendant smiled at us as we passed, freshly awake and completely unaware of the grounds crewman’s dejected stares.
The whole time I was on the plane, I didn’t trust that I actually would be allowed to continue onto the flight until the flight attendant shut the door. I honestly thought there’d be a guy running down into the jet and say “I’m here! I made it!” and then a flight attendant would say “sorry, Joe, but you’re in this guy’s seat.” Then they toss my face right back into the terminal.
I continued to have this image right until the moment the plane left the ground. The image got ever more ridiculous the further skyward we got. Finally, when I realized that the man who’s seat I’d taken would not fly up to the jet wearing rocket boots and toss me out the window, I relaxed with the conclusion that we were in fact going to make it to Egypt.
Of course, this was only the first leg of our flight, a short regional jet that would take us to Atlanta. The real flight was from Atlanta to Egypt, and this flight we had to run to catch. Past the row of terminal fast food counters, running down tiled floors that had a million scuffmarks of a million disgruntled business travelers, and one komodo dragon being carried on a leash. I swear I actually stopped at gate E38 to see a lady feeding a komodo dragon a bagel with cream cheese.
“Come on, Joe, we’re gonna miss the plane,” Freddy insisted, tugging on my arm when I’d stopped to stare at the large pet.
“Why would you put cream cheese on the bagel? Just give it to him plain. Is he really gonna notice the difference?” I asked.
“Don’t think about it too hard – let’s go.”
With Freddy’s insistence, I ignored the bagel-eating reptile and ran down the gate. After leaping over spilt luggage, slip-sliding along ‘caution wet floor’ areas and ninja-ing our way through a wall of fat people boarding a plane to Las Vegas we finally made it to our gate.
“Have they announced the standby passengers yet?” Freddy asked the attendant at the gate. At least that’s what he tried to say. But Freddy’s not in the best shape, so what came out was like, “Huffthenunced stubbahs yeh?”
“What?” the male airline employee asked.
“Where’s the plane?” I asked, noticing that there was no plane outside the enormous windows. There was supposed to be a large aircraft capable of traveling over the Atlantic Ocean and delivering us to Cairo, Egypt in a matter of hours. Instead, at the base of the ramp two grounds crew workers were chasing a squirrel with those flashlights they use to guide planes to the gate.
“You didn’t hear?” the gate attendant asked.
“Does it have something to do with the squirrel?”
“Look behind you.”
I half-expected to see a squirrel behind me. Instead of a squirrel or even a halfway cute mammal, I saw a television set hanging above the gate’s seating area. The TV was turned to a cable news station and was showing Tarhir Square in Cairo, Egypt. What looked to be thousands of people were throwing rocks, getting shot, and being surrounded with various quantities of smoke and fire and very unhappy rioters. I’m mostly positive it was not squirrel-related.
“Can we still go there?” I asked the gate attendant.
“You, crazy?” the attendant asked, “All flights to Egypt are cancelled.”
“Why?”
“Do you see the fire on the TV?”
“It’s not at the airport.”
“Joe, we’re not going to a country in the midst of revolution,” Freddy insisted, “We’ll get killed!”
“Says you.”
“We’re not going to Egypt.” Despite Freddy’s adamant statements, I could see a little bit of resignation in his eyes. He looked absolutely terrified of what was happening on the television screen. At the same time, he could not look away. “It’s not even an option anymore.”
“So what options do we have?”
“What?”
“What options do we have? The standby tickets aren’t boarding passes – they just get us past security, right?”
“Right.”
“So we can go on any flight in the airline, right?”
“That’s true, but…”
“Sir,” I said, tapping the back of the gate attendant.
“Wuh?” the attendant asked, turning around. Apparently he’d also become aware of the grounds crews’ attempts to chase the squirrel currently occupying the runway and had been ignoring us.
“What international flights do you have today that have open seats?”
“Where are you trying to go?”
“Joe, what are you doing?” Freddy asked, “We should get on the next flight home.”
“I didn’t wake up at two in the morning to just run around Atlanta,” I told Freddy as the gate attendant typed into his station’s computer.
“All I have is two open seats on a flight to Lima, Peru,” the attendant said, “All other international flights are over-sold.”
“Freddy, do they have tacos in Peru?”
“The flight boards in five minutes. Gate D Twenty.”
“We’ll find out about the tacos when we get there. Come on!”
Running through the terminal and dragging a reluctant Freddy along with me, I did my best to dash through the parting walls of people.
“Joe, what are you doing? We’re not going to Peru!” Freddy insisted, though he still ran behind me.
“Yes we are!” I countered.
“But we don’t have any planning. Any hotels or even money! I don’t speak Spanish!”
“We can worry about that stuff after we get the taco situation sorted.”
“They don’t have tacos in Peru, Joe.”
“What do they
have?”
“I don’t know, llamas?”
“Llama tacos it is!”
What I discovered while racing toward Gate D Twenty was two-fold. First, if you speak confidently enough, your best friend can be easily convinced that you know what you’re doing when you insist on venturing to a new continent with little to no planning. Second, if you run through the Atlanta airport yelling “Llama tacos!” people will give you a wide berth. One day I’ll see if this works at all airports.
Running through the parting crowds, we reached gate D Twenty just in time to see the last of the ticketed passengers walk past the gate attendant and onto the boarding ramp. Putting on my best smile, I walked up to the attendant as Freddy crashed into the floor beside me.
“Hi,” I said, handing my passport and standby ticket to the attendant, “Would it be a terrible bother for my wobble-legged friend and I to be issued the two remaining tickets on this flight?”
“He okay?” the attendant asked, looking down as Freddy tried to get back up, shaking his head.
“He’s splendid. Just a little bit excited. He heard there were really good tacos in Peru and just couldn’t wait to try them.”
Freddy was still panting but stood up, passing over his travel documents to the attendant.
“Didn’t know they had tacos in Peru.”
“We hope to discern that mystery as well.”
“Mmhmm.” The attendant printed us a couple boarding passes, nodding her head after seeing that there actually were two remaining seats, and handed us back our travel documents. “Have a nice flight.”
“Thank you ma’am, we hope it is pleasant as well. Come along, Freddy. The llamas are waiting.”
And just like that we were on a plane bound not for Cairo, Egypt, but Lima, Peru.
“So what’s there to do in Peru anyway?” I asked Freddy as we took our seats.
“Oh man, we’re actually going aren’t we,” Freddy said, looking out the window at the rapidly moving runway.
“Yup.”
“Joe?”
“Yeah, Freddy?”
“You’re either a genius, or I’m going to kill you.”
“I can only hope that by the end of this trip you’ll realize that both of those statements are true.”
Joe Stevens Mocks a Llama Page 1