Wanderer of the Los Angeles Airport

CHAPTER 2

It was a sunny fall morning and the Los Angeles International
Airport terminal was crowded with people behind schedule. In front of
the Burger King, there was a young man named Gordon Lee waiting for a
flight to Hong Kong where he was to begin a new executive career in the
plastic cup trade. There was also a woman named Cristi Wright who was
going home to Baltimore after getting extensive plastic surgery done on
the outer tips of her eyebrows (even though she really ought to have
gotten a nose job). There was also a 90-year-old renegade by the name
of Andy Haner who was fleeing from his nursing home because he didn't
like the Jello. However, there remains one unmentioned individual who
remains even more interesting.

He was a thin man, medium height, with blonde hair. His idea of
dressing casually was to wear a straw hat, sunglasses, a Hawaiian
shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals (all with the price tags still
attached to them). He tried walking casually as well, but all he really
accomplished was a sort of duck waddle and loosely dragging his arms
toward the floor. At the moment, he was just wandering the Earth with
no particular destination in mind. And, as it just so happened, he
managed to wander inside the Los Angeles airport.

There was a queue of individuals who were dressed similarly to him.
He decided that was a good place to get in line. Where would this queue
take him, he wondered. He stood behind an overweight woman with
self-styled curly hair whose Hawaiian shirt she donned, he thought, was
very nice. With more intrigue, he observed that she was gripping the
thick imitation leather straps of an oversized handbag, which must
weigh somewhere in the vicinity of ten pounds. He took the tail end of
her Hawaiian shirt and began to rub it with his forefingers.

"Nice fabric," he said to himself in an unnaturally crisp American
accent. He then lifted up this woman's arm to examine how the sleeves
were done.

"Hmmm," he said quietly, letting go of the woman's arm. He lifted
his own arm and thumped the price tag that hung down his sleeve. "I
wonder why she doesn't have one of these."

At this point, he noticed that the woman was now turned around and
staring quite venomously into his eyes. She was breathing like a boar.
Without a word, she took her 10-pound handbag, swung it, and hit him on
the cheekbone, knocking him down to the hard, polished tiled floor.

As one might have guessed, this individual was not from around Los
Angeles. In fact, wasn't from around the Planet Earth. His name was
George George, extraterrestrial secret agent. (A fringe benefit of
having such a job was he was allowed to pick his own name, and he liked
the Earthian name George so much that he decided to repeat it for
effect.) At the moment, he was on an important mission for his planet.
Not only would its pending success provide his people with all sorts of
important information regarding Earthlings, but also there were
extraterrestrial bigwigs with hit squads who invested money.

Before George George could truly begin working on the meat of his
assignment, he thought it would be a good idea to assume the guise of
an Earthling who commands respect and authority among other Earthlings.
On his planet, chefs were the premiere authority figure, because if you
cross one of them, he or she would soon sprinkle a bit of arsenic on
your mashed potatoes (or his planet's equivalent of mashed potatoes,
anyway). Nevertheless, George George realized that Earthian society
wasn't quite as advanced as his people, and there was probably a
different sort of figure that they looked up to.

George George thought he was on the right track with the tourist
get-up, because that similarly dressed woman who had sent him flying to
the floor had quite an influence over him at that moment. Just the
same, what was she doing behind all of those people in the queue? If
she were really an authority figure, she would simply work her way to
the front of the line by mowing everybody in front of her down with her
10-pound handbag. "No," George George thought. "She is not an authority
figure. Or, at least not a major one." He rubbed his cheekbone, which
was still throbbing with a numbing pain. He stood up and resumed his
position in line.

***

When the pain in his cheekbone had dulled enough that it was
negligible, George George found himself at the beginning of the queue.
There was a woman sitting behind a counter who was staring at a
computer monitor. With an oddly chirpy voice, she greeted George George
by asking "How may I help you?"

This question presented a poser to George George. What could
possibly have prompted that woman to ask such a question? Did he appear
to be an Earthling who was in dire need of help? George George squinted
and scratched his chin.

"Sir?" she said trying to break the odd silence they had been having
in the duration of their non-conversation thus far. "Don't you want to
purchase an airplane ticket?"

"An airplane ticket?" George George repeated in confusion. He
certainly knew what an airplane was. (Frankly, these Earthian airliners
are rather poorly designed.) But, he wasn't quite sure what buying an
airplane ticket would gain him. Just the same, George George was trying
to get accustomed to the planet, and if purchasing an airplane ticket
is what people do in airports, then that's just what he's going to do.
At any rate, he had nothing to lose. He had a credit card. The sole key
to commerce on this planet.

"Yes," he finally said to lady. "I would like to purchase an
airplane ticket."

"Good," she responded, flashing an artificial smile. She peered
beyond George George's shoulder. The dozens of other travelers wearing
Hawaiian shirts were impatiently stomping their sandalled feet while
studying their waterproof wristwatches. "Where would you like to go?"
She looked straight into the monitor, and positioned her fingers on the
keyboard, ready for George George to quickly spout out a location.

He had no idea.

"Where ought to I go?" George George asked.

This single question dumbfounded her more than any other question
has during her illustrious six-month career of selling airplane tickets
(including the one guy who asked what channels he ought to go through
to get his on-flight vegetarian meal served with beef).

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Where ought to I go?" he repeated. His manner seriously looked as
if he desired for her to choose a place.

"Don't you know where you want to go?" she asked, shocked, with her
eyes wide opened. The half-inch red-painted nail on her index finger
was lightly tapping on the 'G' key.

"No," George George reassured. "Where can I go?"

"Uhhhh?" she stuttered and her eyes darted about. "Well, let's see.
Honolulu? The Virgin Islands? American Samoa? Guam? Fiji? Tahiti? ?"
George George gazed at this lady blankly. She quit naming off
destinations. "Do any of those sound nice to you?" George George took a
moment to think about this.

"Not really," he responded frankly. "You choose a place." The
dumbfounded ticket salesperson looked over George George's shoulder and
noticed a particularly annoyed man with bushy eyebrows and about eight
pounds of flesh gooping underneath his chin who was grumbling.

"How about Tahiti?" she said hurriedly. "I've always heard that's a
nice place."

"Tahiti?" George George said.

"Tahiti," she repeated, reassuringly.

"Tahiti?" George George repeated, this time appearing to look off
into the distance. Somewhere relatively nearby, an airplane took off.
There was a loud roar and it gently vibrated the place for a few
seconds. Airplanes sure don't do that where he comes from.

"Tahiti," he repeated once more in awe.