... In your dreams!

Part Six

The crowd at Schiphol was at its peak. Unfortunately, the train station’s exit is in the middle concourse of the airport, and the British Airways check-in desks are at the far end of the terminal, a five to seven-minute walk on a quiet day, but at this rush hour, it took Parsons almost fifteen minutes to negotiate that distance.

He stopped to reposition his rucksack on his shoulders and change the wheelie bag from his right to his left hand. Parsons then continued his way.

As he drew nearer Security and Passport control, he noticed two persons, a man probably in his late thirties, early forties, and an oldish looking woman careering towards him. The oldish looking woman had the panic-stricken face of someone who suddenly realised she was at the wrong end of the airport and within minutes of her flight closing.

The man next to her, with a David Seaman like moustache, spectacled, and thinning blonde hair was fidgeting with a folder and shouting something that sounded like German on his mobile phone. They almost seemed to be racing each other.

The oldish woman careered past Parsons, missing him by a couple of inches and not bothering to apologise for almost knocking him over.

One down, no damage done...yet. One to go.

Parsons was unable to move in time to either side as he had a column and a railing to his right and another railing to his left. The clash was imminent. The whole episode seemed to unfold in slow motion, like the build-up to an accident sequence in a disaster film. Parsons just closed his eyes and brace for the impact. The cursing would come after, but now his priority was damage limitation. David Seaman’s lookalike was now less than five feet away and still unaware at what was in front of him.

Parsons barely squeezed to his right only to be stopped by the railings, which bounced him back onto the careering man pushing the trolley. The front wheel of the trolley passed over his right foot making him bend in a very awkward way towards the careering man. Parsons fell on the moustachioed, spectacled blond haired man who was still speaking on his mobile when he hit Parsons.

Unaware of what he hit, David Seaman’s lookalike muttered something in no friendly terms as he dropped his mobile phone and jerked forward against the crashing trolley containing the bottom half of his wheelie bag and a very annoyed and injured Jack Parsons, who was well aware of what hit him.

‘You fucking cunt! Are you blind or what!’ shouted a hysterical Parsons in his worst possible English. ‘You almost killed me you arsehole!’

‘Sorry, sorry... are you ok?’ said a now nervous moustachioed spectacled man without a mobile phone in a heavy German accent, ‘I was distracted, please allow me to help you.’ He knelt over and helped Parsons to his feet, albeit very sore feet.

Parsons shrugged him off violently. He leaned on the almost fallen wheelie bag and managed to stand. He looked down at his right foot. It seemed to be all there, although there was a greyish line on his shoe, where the trolley’s wheel had run over.

Parsons looked across and faced the moustachioed spectacled man. He was livid with rage.

‘Didn’t you fucking see me you idiot? Racing like a mad fucker with that fucking trolley, talking on your fucking mobile without looking where you fucking going, in a fucking crowded airport, you fucking prick!’ Parsons was almost out of breath as he spoke.

‘Sorry my friend, I...’

‘Don’t you fucking ‘my friend’ me, you stupid fucker!’ Parsons toes were now bulging in pain.

‘Easy, now, easy, it was an accident. I already apologised. I’m really sorry.’ Moustachioed man was trembling at the sight of a possessed Parsons.

Parsons stared at him angrily. The moustachioed man looked shaken and nervous. Suddenly, Parsons angry expression turned to panic and horror. He winced and looked at Seaman’s lookalike again. His foot was in excruciating pain. Thump the bastard or just give him a bollocking? He closed his eyes and uttered a quiet contained laugh. This shit can’t be real. This whole episode could turn out as a blessing in disguise, in the end.

Parsons reconsidered his options.

‘You know what pal?’ he looked at the careering moustachioed Seaman lookalike, ‘Just... pick your stuff, get out of here quick before I change my mind and reorganise your teeth and turn your glasses into contact lenses.’

Moustachioed and spectacled man looked in puzzled bemusement, hardly believing the petulance of this scruffy looking man, talking to him in this manner, but on the other hand, he was quite happy with his glasses the way they were. Not only that, but scruffy man looked deranged and dangerous.