I am in hurry to go to the airport but am still in my cubicle talking to Brendan. The desk has been cleared, nothing is left but the plain light beige wood slightly scratched up after I removed the computer and pencils and things, but Brendan won’t stop talking.
He waves his long blonde locks as he speaks, so that they fall in his face when he bends his head forward a little.
Under the desk I have a red petrol can and a dark blue roller case. The case is small enough to fit in the overhead cabin. I put on a red fluffy dressing gown. It us oversized and warm, and it’s my hint to Brendan that I need to go.
Then he stands up and makes to leave. I turn my back to him and with the can and roller case in hand I walk round the partition and into the corridor.
Only I forgot to tell Bill that I am going back to London. After having just returned.
I am going make an excuse. Last time I was there it was to see mum because she was sick with pneumonia and it was unlikely that she’d make it. But she’s still alive and this time I am just going for a holiday.
What will he think of my going again?
Last time I requested leave, it was a no brainer and he just said “Go fish!”
I walk over to his office and from the approach I see him through the doorway.
“I have to go back to London,” I tell him. He’s standing next to his desk.
“My mother’s sick again.” He looks over at me, he always has that handsome gait and even his greying hair works, though it’s thinning and brushed back from his temples.
“Go fish!” he says again.
“Thanks,” I reply and I walk back along the corridor to my desk again. Maybe this time they’ll fire me anyway.
Then I realize.
“Shit, I am naked again!” even though I am wearing a big dressing gown. I can’t go on the plane like this, like last time.
I tip the roller on its side and unzip it enough to insert a hand and pull out a pair of slacks. The slacks are a charcoal blue and they’re shiny but they will have to do. I won’t even look for underpants, I don’t have time and nobody will notice anyway.
I am sitting under the desk, the chair is pushed away and I am pulling the slacks over my naked feet, aware that the cloth will feel weird against my privates; but I can’t be bothered to get some underpants and maybe it will feel OK.
Then I stand up. I should have ordered the Uber, it will take a bit of time. I roll the case to the elevators, the petrol can still in hand but when the elevator arrives I notice that the roller case is leaking.
A thin spurt of gas is jetting out from halfway down, where the zips meet. Then there starts two lines of gas like taut threads spurting from the case. I won’t have time to fix the problem.
The first elevator is full but the second, the workman’s elevator has room. I get in and the walls are covered with painted red and black plywood, the paint slapped on carelessly. I turn to face the iron trellis doors. Someone tries to pull the doors shut, but another man stops him. The man puts a large hairy hand in the way, while another person hands us a baby, pushes the baby through the gap in the doors.
Oh come on! I don’t have time for this. It’s just as well I didn’t order the Uber.
The roller is still leaking, there are more spurts, and a puddle is forming on the elevator floor, a dark puddle. I hope that no one will notice, and that the leak will stop once the level of the liquid drops below the level of the zippers.
We get out at the lobby and I push through the circular doors into the parking lot. A car is waiting, its back door already open. An old Toyota from the 70s with an angular shape, painted an old chrome maroon. I throw in the petrol can and in the boot goes the roller case.
Then the taxi heads off to the airport, it’s not far, only 15 minutes and the British Airways desk knows me by now. As I climb the long escalator to the check-in counter they can whisk me through.
My passport is already in hand.
Photo by Bil Simser via Flickr
