Sleepwalking my way through life: The rewritten beginning.



The rewritten beginning.

I stepped onto the plane, a smile on my face and a skip in my step as I embarked on what I hoped to be a good journey. The flight was quite full due to me being late to board, and my seat (Unfortunately the middle seat of three) was already surrounded by two men, so I walked up to the seats and waited on the edge, expecting the one closest to stand up and let me in.

He did not.

He merely tucked his legs in as to indicate that I shuffle past. I complied, and shunted my way past and landed in my seat before depositing my bag under the seat in front of me and slipping off my shoes. The man on my right, by the aisle, was quite a short man, with a gaping toothed, yellow smile and a smell that resembled an unchanged nappy. The man on my left, by the window, was a very large man with glasses who had the nasty habit of sucking his teeth. Both of them seemed to have tired arms, for all the arm rest was taken in their support.

The plane took off, and we settled in after being served the most disgusting coke ever. I am never drinking Dutch coke again. So I started reading my book for English, looking for quotes and whatnot when Smelly, the guy to the right of me, farts and picks his nose. I turn away from him and continue reading my book, trying to ignore the foul smell in which I'm immersed in. Meanwhile, my ears are filled with the sucking sounds of Fatty, to the left of me, who is determined to pull his teeth out with his tongue. I can handle this, I think to myself. But as I finish this though, Fatty belches, brings his foot up, takes off his sock, and scratches his bunion.

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce you to the worst flight ever.

The rest of the flight was filled with me feeling sick, not being able to sleep, feeling sick some more, using the Lapdancer to alleviate my boredom, feeling sick again, crying with frustration about not being able to sleep, retching, sleeping for ten minutes before being kicked by Smelly, feeling sick, retching again, almost sick in fumes of breakfast, ate a ton of Minstrels, threw up, landed.

So I trudge off the flight, bag over my shoulder and a bottle of water to my lips, and sit down opposite the gate on an empty set of seats. I watch as people pour out of the plane and head off like a mass of sheep as they hurried to get a good spot to collect their bags. Soon I was all alone and out of the nice tasting fruit water, so I decided to get to work. On the flight they had issued us with a form to fill out for immigration. I filled it out, making sure to use block capitals and that my eights resembled eights (And not sixes like some people have cared to point out), but then I hit a speed bump.

Nationality : "BRITISH"
Time of stay : "22 DAYS"
Address of residence you'll be staying at : "OH FUCK"

I emptied my bag, I emptied my jacket, hell, I emptied my SHOES in the search for the little slip of paper that revealed the secret of my dad's location. It's not there. I search through all the papers that I had printed out, not there. Could it be on the plane? I think desperately as I look up to the gate, hoping for a chance to dash out and search my seat. But as I look up they begin to shut the doors, and a glance to the window showing the plane taxiing away out of sight, and my piece of paper with it.

So I pack up and slowly make my way to immigration with a small slug of panic brewing in my gut. Here I was, stuck in a foreign country with no way back for three weeks. Come to think of it, I wasn't even IN a foreign country. I was in the godless loophole between countries. I was in an AIRPORT.

I shuddered at the thought and made my way down the escalator towards the immigration desk. I was the only one there and the people behind the desk eyed me suspiciously as I walked up to one of them. I handed my passport with my form and he checked it over intently. There was a small glimmer of hope in my stomach that led me to believe that I could make it through at this point. That I could get by here without having to know dad's address.

"I can't let you by, you haven't written down an address."

Turns out the glimmer of hope was nothing more than a spot of indigestion.

"I'm sorry," I say, taking back my passport, "but I don't know where he lives."

"Who are you staying with?"

"My dad."

"You don't know where your father lives?" He asked with an incredulous eye.

"No, it's my first time seeing him."

He seemed to accept this. "You have a phone number?"

"A mobile number if that helps."

"Go over there," he pointed, "free local calls. You call your father and he gives you the address. When you come back, you don't need to queue."

"Thanks." I say and shoot off.

The phones look like your typical payphones and I grab my notepad and pen in the preparation of taking down his address. Things were looking up, I'd be out of there soon. I flipped open my phone and after the song and dance of unlocking it and waiting for it to load, I check dad's number.

"6597....." I dial.

"Beep beep beep beep"

"6597......" I dial

"Beep beep beep beep"

Oh shit.

"65... pause... 6597"

"Ring ring. Ring ring."

YES! Score!

"Hello?" A female phone answered on the other side.

"Hello?" I replied, confused.

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

"... Hello?"

"Sorry, I've got the wrong number. Bye." And I hang up.

I dial again. I must've pressed a button wrong somewhere. The phone rings, and someone picks up.

"Hello?"

You have got to be kidding me.

"Sorry, me again. Wrong number. Bye." And I hang up.

I phone that poor girl three more times before I realise something is wrong. I hang up with a confusedly sore head to turn around and see a flood of people heading down to immigration. Another flight had just been let in, so I gathered up some courage and asked a Singaporean family for help.

After gathering up some more courage, I asked a Singaporean family who spoke English for help. I showed them the number I was trying to dial and they laughed with merriment and told me to leave out the "65" seeing as it was the international area code. And I dialed...

"Hello?" A gruff, male voice answered.

"Dad?"

"Joe? Is that you, where are you?"

"THANK CHRIST!"

He gives me his address and I'm finally out of there. Later that day I found the slip of paper I needed in a recess of my wallet. I have never felt more like a fool.
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2 Comments:

At 5:13 pm, Anonymous Marie said...

That would have been mightily distracting and entertaining if it wasnt oddly familiar Joe.

 
At 12:17 pm, Anonymous Dan said...

Joe, I would've actually shat myself if that had happened to me. *shudders*

Dan x

 

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