This is their arrival. Again. They’ve thrown handfuls inside their suitcases — stuffed them…they’ve chalked their suitcases, allowances of one per person unless you’re prepared to, and can, pay for your excess — this limit though not inclusive of any garmentbags, carryons, and toiletrycases, one per person as well; they’ve stuffed themselves, also, with itineraries and with reservations numbers: too many numbers this trip to remember, none of which, though, is to be their date of return. Then, groggy from the flight, lagged and on empty, they’re linedup two-by-two, with some of them to the left, others to the right, to be stripped of their names upon their identification with those of the passenger manifests, the arrivals platform yelled through with a language of mispronunciations, corrections to, corrections to corrections, again — then, to be given a stripping number, yet another, who can remember, who can’t, and they wait.
Funny, you don’t look Unaffiliated…or so these darkuniformed, imperious Officials joke at their foldingtables, just past the baggageclaim, the signage for. A Mister & Misses Pigger pass through, manage a parting wave behind them at what’s their names, from Sunnyvale, Sunnydale, Sonny I forget, husband #4675-89, wife #4675-90, whom the Piggers had talked to the entire flight across two seats and an aisle. At a check in desk halfway around the world, the globe this destination shares, too, at a desk resembling in all of its details the receptiondesk here, both of them made of the same materials, in the same nowhere and on the same day (they’re from the Garden, bought before the fire as a government favor, repurposed to the present), the attendants had been supplied with bags of coal, amply: each passenger of a given sample Group, and each plane a Group, had had a lump stuffed up into him, into her; shifting on their seats, in transit, they’ll squeeze these lumps into service, ensuring mostly unoccupied bathrooms this flight, and centuries of constipation; that is, if only they’ll survive, which is unlikely, and then…diamonds — which are yours to keep, an attendant reminds them over a loudspeaker, until.
They follow the white lines for disembarkation…beyond the desks, receiving a welcomebasket, also, complimentary, gifted with oodles of ointments to apply to their new tattoos (add them up, subtract, make a mountain, sustain); they receive scraps of yellow circles and crosses and circles within crosses within circles, which are still symbols though they might symbolize nothing save the quality of having once meant, which they’re to attach to their new clothing with the needle and thread they’re provided, and display prominently at all times, everafter; they receive spoons, too, then they receive knots of rope in unpredictable lengths with which to hold up the new pants of their uniforms, predominantly comfortable, casual separates; they’re burdened, overburdened, with gifts (one per person, per family, it depends, what’s my mood), and everything’s dutyfree, save their own duty, which is to follow, then die. They-that-went-to-the-right are to report immediately to the baggageclaim; they-that-went-to-the-left, mostly the ill, the already neardeath, in wheelchairs, on crutches, stretchers, and hooked up to tubes and to tanks, are to remain where they are, as if they could do anything else, as if they would, being alone and barely able to remain at all, anywhere, to be met by a representative, shortly, we promise: the pairs are being split by a cast of Selektors, only the finest blue eyes for talent Holywood ever had.
Those who’ve arrived single are forgiven, always are.
Then, there’s Customs to worry about — upon a return that’ll never be, they’ll have everything to declare.
There Is No Monorail Service Today, an announcement, announcing itself, We Regret Any Inconvenience. Thanks, appreciated, sure you do. Menschs with anxious lowerlips and insomniac, daywide eyes stand at Arrivals holding placards with numbers on them, laboriously inked: #’s 4677-18/19, a wave/smile, a smattering of currencies and courtesies, the couple formerly known as the Hicks find their driver. These signs lead the responsorial of welcome: Hello, how was your flight, let me help you with that; the natives are almost excessively kind. The Sandersons meet their mensch: he has the face of a bird, once a bomb landed on his turnedaround cheek, don’t ask, you’re forgiven, he’s forgotten — and are soon en route, motorcaded. Now, drivers are giving them all their first of two options, either I can point out points of interest along the way, explaining to you notable history and geography, what else, architecture, economics, the fine arts, geology, local plant and animal life, you name it, no problem, or I can keep my two hands on the wheel and quiet, your choice. First the tour of this world then, arrival in the next. All their expenses have been paid, by them. They fixed the place up real nice, didn’t they?
Impressive.
