The other night at SFO, we were a little late in sending my mom off to Vietnam. The check-in line was already packed with more people than Tinkle’s swollen arsehole. It was quite the sight. Boxes, suitcases, and hordes of Orcish, elderly Vietnamese spilled out of the S-shaped waiting area, while a knee-wilting odor of Eagle brand medicated oil wafted amongst the shawls and peeling permanent eyeliner. As more late arrivals thronged the third-world position grubbing, I ducked out of line and intentionally lingered near some Swedish girls looking somewhat curvy and lost. I made sure my time would not be in absolute agony.
I rejoined them 50 minutes later as my parents had just reached the service desk. Three EVA Air agents stood lazily about at the Evergreen Club section while the economy line tapered off near the exit doors of SFO. The next stop was the ticketed security checkpoint. It was a mess. There was that one old woman who was still picking her hairy nose, up to her second knuckle. To make matters worse, some overly bloated boxes collapsed and out came little combs, scissors, and thread spools. The wait was not helped when my mom was the winner of a random security check. They told her to take out her syringes (diabetes) and they investigated each of her little smelly ointment bottles. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. A hemorrhaging of short, squat, Vietnamese people grew behind her.
Just as my mind was about to go mad with impatience, I heard the sound of syncopated stepping. My head snapped to the origin of the noise, and saw a line of green approaching the checkpoint. There they were. Tall, beautiful flight attendants with amazingly tiny waists, splendored in fresh green, floated by, followed by their slim, compact travel cases. They had delicate almond shaped eyes that bejeweled their perfect cheekbones and small ruddy lips. The equally stunning Singapore Airlines flight crew followed closely. Goodness. A group of security guards rushed to the center security point to open the gates for this retinue of Elven beauties. And just like that, they were gone. My gaze returned to the struggling, restless crowd and my mom’s explicit interrogation scene.
“I tell you this for my diabetes,” my mom blubbered, apparently annoyed with the man’s groping of her mushrooms and tea leaves.
They finally let her (and us) go. On the way home, my dad spoke in the “now it is peaceful” voice and reminded me that I would have to work hard in life to expect anything good. He was in full super-martyr mode.
“My life, there is no more happiness, only suffering. My only happiness in life now is to reduce the suffering. Life is very tough.”
It certainly is, especially as a short, pushy Vietnamese man with glasses.