When Santa Claus Drove Me to the Airport -- Part 2

With the mini-van’s open door looking like a black hole leading to hell, I had to summon all my strength to go through the black hole. I start recalling all my victorious, glamorous moments; the heavy weights I conquered in the gym, the pizza bets I won, the Freebird’s Super Monster burrito that I ate, and the street races that I won without killing myself. Oh Allah help me. And I stepped in the mini-van.

As soon as my foot stepped in the van, I felt a gush of air toward my face. I retreated backward, protecting my face with my right arm as if I am on the receiving end of a jab. Regardless of my “professional” boxing techniques, the air gust landed a couple of jab and a left hook on my face. Despite the instantaneous damage to my nose, I could smell what he had for lunch for the last week or so. Though, whether his lunch from two days before was a big Mac or a Chipotle is still a mystery.

Once inside, a slight beam of hope shun over me. He had removed the middle row seats and only left the seats in the back of the van. “Great, I am as far as I can be from him in this van. I may well survive the ride.” But getting to the seat was a challenge. The floor was colorfully planted with all kind of shapes and colors of stains. Some of them looked as fresh as couple of hours ago, and some of them dated back to the van’s factory of birth. With some serious twisting and maneuvering, I made it to the seat. I made sure that there are no dinner leftovers on the seat before I sat down. However, there was no time for relief. As soon as my bottom made contact with the seat, he, HE, started talking.

I wasn’t sincere, nice, or very caring about his human nature when I tried to figure out what was he mumbling. I only wanted to know why he was circling around the block for the third time. I didn’t know. But what are my options? No, I wasn’t going to jump out of the window. No. I don’t miss Fency! (my beloved arm cast.) Meanwhile, I realized that he does own a hair brush. It was over the piles of clothes and papers on the seat next to him. Where they his laundry or his closet? I don’t know. I had bigger problems to worry about; breathing.

Yes, breathing. See, the air felt as heavy and greasy as that Double Mac he probably frequently has (he seems more like a Mac guy, not a BK guy!) My nose and lungs just could not handle it any more. I started playing games with myself, seeing how long I can hold my breath. That was not very smart, because after 30 seconds of holding my breath, the air flooded my nose. It was more painful. My nose threatened to send all the smelling buds home and never get them again if I don’t stop this air attack on them. My nose gave up. I dropped down my jaw, and started gulping that air down. It was rich in flavor.

By the way, HE was still talking. I took out my book and started reading. He was still talking. I put on my headphones. He was still talking. I closed my eyes and dropped my head on my shoulder. He was still talking. I don’t think there was any way to convey to him that I don’t feel like chit chatting. I gave up, again. Put on my headphones, my eyes on my book, while I frequently sent out a “mhm … haha … aha.”

For good five minutes, there was piece in the van. He was talking. I was pretending to listen. We were all happy. Until HE decided to slam the brakes, jerk the steering to the right, sending me rolling on the Vans floor. I stuck my neck up to see what happened. But it was just your average I-phased-out-and-forgot-to-look-up-front-until-the-last-minute-when-I-realized-there-is-a-car-infront-of-me-and-braked-hard case. I survived the incident, no broken bones, and none of the stains on the floor rubbed on my clothes. Now, I had to make sure none of my hairs are on the floor of that Van. I don’t want to be explaining to a team of CSI agents why my hair was found in this van.

The airport was in-sight, and I started seeing the light in the horizon. At the terminal, I rushed out of the van, got my luggage, and handed him the AmEx. When he gave me the receipt, I looked at the tips box. Looked at him. Looked back at the receipt. Looked at him again. Then, scribbled my signature and 20% tips. HE knows where I live!