Lucky Days

The Wonders' home has been very quiet for the last few weeks. Your agent recently embarked on a cross-country, work-related jaunt. A week later, Mrs. Wonders departed for the sunny, socialist sands of Cuba.

Sack-related news has been accumulating, despite these absences. After all, suburban shenanigans wait for no man. At press time, however, these news items still hadn't been sorted for quality or relevance. Despite being a mere pinprick on the blogging landscape, we must still maintain a modicum of standards.

So while the quality assurance department does its work, today's offering is a diversion from Sack-related tales.

***

Awakened by the alarm clock, I stumble from bed at the ungodly hour of three o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Wonders does not stir. At this time of day, she will only hear sounds that are helpful to her. This, she has told me, is an inherited trait.

Just after four-thirty, a nondescript minivan appears in the driveway. It's the airport taxi that will propel me on the first leg of my journey.

***

Settling into the back seat, I'm almost overwhelmed by fatigue. It's pitch dark outside and the roads are barren of traffic. The illuminated dials on the taxi's dashboard are reminiscent of the alarm clock's red glow in our darkened bedroom. I would like to go back to sleep.

The taxi driver is a friendly man of African origin. He apologizes for being five minutes past the appointed time for our drive to the airport. The original driver, he explains, was stopped by the police and was rendered unavailable. Speeding, according to the driver, was the likely cause of the police intervention.

The driver goes on to explain that he was originally scheduled to pick up a different customer. Apparently, the fare had been cancelled on the previous evening, but the dispatcher had failed to notify him. He only learned of the cancellation while parked outside the customer's home.

"So, there I was," the driver says, looking in the rearview mirror at me with a grand smile, "all dressed up with no place to go."

Several minutes after hearing about the cancellation, he learned about his colleague's dilemma. So with great haste, he made his way to the Wonders' home.

"So, it has turned out to be my lucky day, after all," he adds. Then he gave a deep, full laugh.

***

The taxi driver tells me that he hails from Angola. He fled to Canada during the bloody civil war that plagued his homeland for many years. Despite his heroic escape, the cost of his decision was steep. For almost fifteen years, he lost complete contact with his family of origin.

"I can't imagine how difficult that must have been," I say to the driver. I tried to read his name on the cab's identification card, but it was too dark.

"Yes, my friend," he replies, with another broad smile, "it is not a pleasant thing to lose touch with your family."

***

About seven years ago, a church minister from Angola paid a visit to the old town. Moved by the driver's story, the minister pledged to make enquires about his family when he returned to their homeland.

The minister remained true to his word. He prepared copies of a letter outlining the driver's identity and the names of his family members. He sent the letter to churches all across the country. Hopefully, someone among these congregations might recognize the driver's name or those of his family members.

More than six months passed without any news. Then the driver's phone rang in the middle of the night. It was a cousin calling from Angola. At the end of a Sunday service, his minister had read out one of the aforementioned letters.

***

After the initial joy of recognition, the driver said to his cousin, "Please, tell me all the bad news first."

His cousin complied and the driver listened intently to news about the difficulties during the civil war, the bad economic situation and many other troubles experienced by the people during the driver's estrangement from his homeland.

The driver was naturally saddened by these tales, but he suddenly felt surprised and elated that no mention had been made about the deaths of his parents or other immediate family members.

"It was then that I realized that my parents, brothers and sisters might still be alive. I could not have dreamed that this could be true."

***

So the driver posed the question directly to his cousin. He asked about the welfare of his family. And indeed, it was true -- his eight siblings were still alive. Incredibly, his parents had also survived the years since his escape from Angola.

"That must have been an incredible moment," I said to the driver. Despite the early hour, my fatigue had vanished as I listened to his story.

"Oh, my friend," the driver replied with enthusiasm, "that was my lucky day."

***

The drive to the airport takes about forty minutes. But the time passed very quickly as the driver told me more about his life in Canada and his hope of visiting Angola during the next few years. He also said that he speaks with his mother by telephone at a prearranged time every other Sunday.

When we arrived at the departure area of the old town's airport, the driver extended his hand and wished me a good journey.

"I hope your days ahead are very lucky ones," he said warmly.

"Thank you," I replied, "I hope so, too."

***

My journey would take about thirteen hours. I was travelling from the old town, which is located on the Atlantic coast, to the shores of British Columbia on the Pacific coast. It's a marvel of modern travel that one can see two different oceans on the very same day.

During the trip, I would see the interior of four different airports. The interior characteristics of each would prove to be remarkably similar. At least, that's one's perception when traveling through so many locations in a single day.

In Toronto, the first stop on my route, I purchase the local tabloid. By nature, I'm a newspaper junkie, so this is usually one of the first things I do when arriving in another city. This particular rag has a right-wing, hysterical slant, but its dimensions make it easier to read in crowded areas. And besides, when one is a newspaper junkie, one's itch must be scratched, regardless of content.

As I wait for my connecting flight to Calgary, I lean against a pillar with one foot crossed over the other, perusing the latest news from the Big Smoke. Since I'm also prone to fantasy, I imagine that I'm waiting for a train in the 1940's, clad in a suit and grey fedora with a cigarette dangling from my lips.

Checking my watch for the time until departure, I notice that my hands are horribly ink-stained from the paper. This, I tell myself, is the penalty for reading trashy, right-wing tabloids. I seek out the nearest men's room and wash my hands thoroughly. Then I return to my pillar post.

***

Divested of the newspaper, I engage in some casual people-watching. Now I'm a plainclothed agent of the state, on the lookout for the arrival of a treasonous, white-collared criminal.

Suddenly, from the seats in front of the boarding area, a rumpled, pale, middle-aged man staggers hastily across the terminal toward the washrooms. Both of his hands are cupped loosely in front of his mouth. As he tries to navigate through the throngs of people walking past, a voluminous spray of greyish vomit lurches from his mouth. Unable to contain the vile mixture with his hands, it splashes noisily on the tiled floor.

Curiously, only a few people seem to notice this unfortunate drama. These individuals look away in discomfort. The sickly traveller has disappeared into the men's room, but a treacherous pool of vomit has been left behind in the high-traffic walkway adjacent to the boarding area.

This emerging scenario, I say to myself, bears further observation.

***

It does not take long for someone to step in the greyish vomit.

Several victims are oblivious when this occurs. A few others look back in mild annoyance and make brief attempts to wipe their feet on the floor. A number of people spy the vomit at the last moment and dance around it. Some do this awkwardly, while others do so with great agility. One particular man, who does not look prone to such nimble movement, does a Fred Astaire-like spin and continues on his way without a second glance.

Patience, however, will always be rewarded.

Two men, both the very picture of corporate success, are walking boldly through the terminal. They're wearing crisp, dark suits and colourful ties. Their black shoes are expensive and well polished. One of the men is toting a small, boxlike briefcase. It sits on a wheeled carrier that he trails behind him.

The other man is carrying a rich-looking leather satchel. He's wearing a small headset, with earpiece and microphone. One can only imagine the grand importance of the phone calls that emanate from such a contraption.

The two men appear to be in deep conversation as they approach the offensive liquid that looms in front of them. For a brief moment, at least from my vantage point, the entire terminal becomes silent. Aside from the two businessmen, everything else is in a state of suspended animation.

The man with the leather satchel is first to reach the pool of vomit. The heel of his leading foot skids through the liquid, extending his leg wildly in front of him. Losing his balance, the satchel hits his companion in the mid section. This happens at the same time his companion begins to slip through the vomit.

Both men land awkwardly on the floor. In the commotion, the wheeled briefcase was loosened from the second man's grasp and stands forlornly several feet behind them. The man with the leather satchel has taken the brunt of the damage. The back of his suit is clearly marked with the ghastly mixture of vomit. His companion had fallen on his side, although he has partially broken his fall with an outstretched hand.

This hand, unfortunately, lands squarely in the vomit.

***

Both men are quick to regain their feet. Expletives escape from their mouths as they make sense of their demise. They are suddenly conscious of the stares of their fellow travellers. One of the men points quickly to the nearest washroom and heads quickly toward it with his companion behind him.

As they near the entry to the washroom, Vomit Guy, the unknown source of their misfortune, makes his exit and passes by them.

Vomit Guy is looking much better now.

***

As soon as the men disappear into the bathroom, the boarding call for the next leg of my trip is made. It will be a four-hour jaunt to Calgary. After a further two-hour wait, I will take another flight to my final destination in Victoria, British Columbia. In all, it will be an eleven-hour journey.

As the plane nears its readiness for departure, I settle into my window seat. The two seats beside me are empty and I'm silently hopeful it will remain this way. Air travel is rarely a comfortable experience, especially with one's kneecaps resting under one's chin for a four-hour period.

A flight attendant passes by my row. She glances at the empty seats beside me and smiles.

"It looks like this is going to be your lucky day," she says amiably.

***

Alas, my hopes for a more expansive seating arrangement are quickly dashed. Two more passengers have emerged from the terminal and are heading toward my row.

It's the two businessmen from the vomit pool.

They stand in front of my row as they store the boxlike briefcase and the leather satchel in the overhead bin. I glance at the men, looking for signs of vomit stains on their clothing. Surprisingly, I can find no evidence of their mishap.

Finally, they settle into their seats. Paying no heed to your agent, they begin to converse about business matters. There is no discussion about vomit.

Vomit, however, is soon very much on my mind. Within a matter of minutes, it's all I can smell. Although the businessmen may have been successful in hiding the overt evidence of their experience, the offensive odour has defied their cleansing attempts.

A different flight attendant comes by after the plane has taken off. He asks us if we would like something to eat. The men order sandwiches and wine. I politely decline the offer and gaze out the window for the next four hours.

Something tells me I should wait for my arrival in Victoria before eating anything.

***

With work-related matters complete, I set off for my return to the old town.

I take the so-called red-eye flight out of Victoria. It will be another exhausting experience, but it will leave me with plenty of daytime rest when I eventually arrive in the old town.

On the flight from Victoria, I sit beside a man who works in the oil business in Calgary. He tells me that he has recently returned to Canada after working overseas for six months. He said it was a harrowing experience and considered himself fortunate to have returned home safely. Apparently, there was growing unrest in this particular country toward those from foreign oil companies.

Out of curiosity, I ask, "So what country were you working in?"

"Angola," he replied, "And let me tell you, it was my lucky day when I got out of that place."

***

Eventually, I reach Toronto again and connect with my remaining flight to the old town.

As the plane begins its descent, the pilot announces that we must circle the airport, due to an accumulation of other planes that are trying to land. For about half an hour, we fly around in broad circles. Suddenly, the plane increases its speed and begins to gain altitude.

About five minutes later, the pilot announces that the old town's airport is enshrouded by thick fog. All landings, he adds, have been aborted. Instead, the plane will continue to it's next destination, St. John's, Newfoundland.

Two days later, after flying back to Toronto, St. John's and then Toronto again in an attempt to reach home, the old town's infamous fog finally lifts. I arrive at the old town's airport physically and mentally fatigued. After locating my bag, I walk outside to seek a taxi for the final ride back to the Sack.

An attendant directs me to the first available cab. Standing beside it is my Angolan friend. He greets me with a warm smile and takes the bag from my hand as he asks about my welfare. After placing the bag in the trunk, he flashes another brilliant smile and says:

"It's so very nice to see you again. This must be my lucky day!"

***