They're Finally Here

The night air in the airport clung to my skin like a dirty sweat. People were everywhere mulling around me, dressed in bright clothes, beads or flowers around their necks, welcome banners custom made rolled up in their hands.  They were waiting for someone, their hero – the local kid who had made it big in the NFL coming home to a hero’s welcome – one of them, but now all moneyed up and famous, bringing with him a cohort of recruiters and coaches, all searching for the heir apparent, the next thick necked, broad shouldered, flip flop wearing diamond in the rough. 

 

But not me. I couldn’t care less about Mr. NFL whatever is name is (Troy Polamalu). On some level I suppose I’m glad that he’s done well, hasn’t forgotten his roots, but I was waiting for the arrival of my wife and kids – it had been nearly a month -- and Mr. Big Time’s big return was just making things harder for me.

For a week I had been chasing leads, trying to find the right person that could give me a special pass to get through security and into the baggage area so I could help my wife and kids with eight suitcases, seven pieces of carryon luggage, a baby, a toddler, four just past toddler age toddlers, two strollers, a car seat, and whatever else they brought with them.

The first guy I contacted about access to the luggage area no longer had the authority to grant passes. The second guy sent me to the third guy. The third guy had to talk to the fourth guy who never got back to him. The fifth guy new a woman who is related to the fifth guy, but she either forgot to call him or he was off island. I can’t remember.

So, the day of my family’s arrival came and I had no pass. I imaged my wife and children, huddled in the corner of the airport, collapsed in exhaustion, roaches and rats crawling around and over them while their luggage circled endless on the conveyor belt, too impossibly heavy and voluminous for them to even attempt gathering. 

I had one last hope. A friend from work was coming with me to the airport to help get the luggage home. He knows everyone on the island, or so it seems whenever we are in public and in a rush to get somewhere. Surely he would have some contact, some string he could pull, some favor he was owed that could get me through.

I explained the predicament. He understood.

“Come with me,” he said.

I followed as we made our way, stopping ever few feet for him to greet friends, toward the customs office.

Inside the ceiling fans did little but push the flies back down. A group of men in pale blue uniforms sat behind desks, slumped and lounging, swatting at the flies, percolating small shining beads of sweat on their brows.

“I just explain to them, okay?” my friend said with a laugh. He always laughs.

The exchange began. Why weren’t they speaking in English? Where they trying to hide something from me, or is this just how “special” deals are made, favor’s granted?

I tried to read their faces. They laughed. Is that good? Just small talk or have negotiations begun? Do they find my predicament funny, my appearance (I was wearing a lava lava). Now my friend’s eyebrows were pinching together above his nose. Not a good sign. More laughing. Hum. The guy who seems to be the leader of the blue shirts is shaking his head. More explaining from my friend. Everyone is nodding. This may just work. A miracle in the eleventh hour. More laughing and then my friend turns to me.

“They say we have to talk to the Treasurer.”

Great the old deflect and dodge technique. I’ve seen this one before. My heart sank.

“We go find him. He is here,” my friend said.

I smiled at the blue shirts and waved. They waved back. Nice but not particularly helpful.

Back in the crowd my friend informed me that he had seen the treasurer earlier that night and that he knew him -- but not very well. “But it’s okay,” he told me. “We’ll find him.”

Making our way through the crowd, my friend stopped to greet people. Was this the treasurer? They were speaking in Samoan. They said good bye. We moved on. A few more greetings, some men, some women, no Treasurer. Finally my friend turned to me and said, “I think he is maybe in the VIP lounge.”

Great I think, off to the VIP lounge we go. But, apparently, we are not VIP material. So is that it? Game over? Sorry Monson family we gave it the old college try. My friend shrugged, “We can go wait for them over there.”

We took our position at the end of a long tunnel that leads up from the baggage area. The crowd suddenly moved with a collective gasp and then cheers. My friend pointed to a TV screen and there was the football star coming down off the plane. I watch the screen intently, waiting to see an exhausted woman and six tiny children come tumbling down the stairs behind him. But they don’t come.

“Maybe you go a little closer to look for them,” my friend said.

What’s the point I wonder, but I go anyway.

Just a few feet away the customs officials were loitering, mostly watching the TV screens or talking to the people holding banners. I checked to see if they were carrying guns. Don’t see any, but even the smallest of them easily outweighed me by a few hundred pounds.

I watched them for a minute. They didn’t care, they weren’t watching, who would it hurt really if I just walked down? Then again, I would get hurt if I got tackled and deflated under the crush of 400 pounds of Samoan flesh, but things were getting desperate. I checked the TV again. Passengers were now flooding down the stairs, forming a slow moving river of bodies flowing out of the plane and into the customs and baggage area. My wife and kids could already be out. Time to act.

I checked the guards again and then walked forward briskly, looking straight ahead, trying to make it look like I was on official business. It was a technique I had used at jobs in the past to make myself appear busy. It had worked then but the stakes were higher now.

Past the first few customs officials. They didn’t even notice or if they did, they didn’t seem to care. The baggage area came into view. Almost there. Focus. Stay on target. Don’t look nervous or uncertain, just march straight in there.”

“Stop.”

Oh no.

“You can’t go in there sir.”

I turned. A Samoan stepped in front of me.

“Just for ticketed passengers.”

“My wife and kids are traveling, they have bags -- eight or ten, they need my help.”

“But you can’t.” He put a hand up to my chest.

“You don’t understand it will be physically impossible…”

Just then I saw the head blue shirt from earlier. He sees me. I give up on the I’m-on-official-business façade and shoot him the most desperate, pathetic, raised eyebrows, scrunched shoulders, palms up expression I’ve got in my bag of expressions.   

He frowns one of those poor-sucker friendly frowns and waves me through. The beefcake Samoa guard tells me to stop.

“No, look, he says it’s okay.” I point to the head blue shirt with me eyes. Beefcake has apparently heard that one before, but at my insistence turns and sees the head guy. "Okay," he says, "go on." Bless you, I think to myself, a thousand blessing to you and the large family that is waiting for you at home.

After scanning the baggage area and not seeing the wife and kids, I turn to the luggage rack. Coming toward me are bags with bright colored ribbons tied on their handles. Instantly I know they are ours, I know it the way I know my son, Daniel, will tell me he loves me “super duper” as soon as he comes through the gate, I know it the way I know my daughter Emma will say “dadeeee” and cry when I put her down to finish getting the luggage, I know it the way I know my wife will be exhausted but some how under control. And I am right on the luggage and the other things too.