This encounter struck such a tone with me that I will have to tell it in a fashion that is so uncomfortable, you will disbelieve it, similarly to the last. But, it, like the last was more real than Lindsay Lohan's left testicle.
He was no more than 50, 5'9" and overweight to the point that purchasing pants to fit the circumference of his midsection-measured at the diaphragm, secured without a belt or straps- made more sense fashionably-speaking, than owning an XXXL collared shirt capable of circumnavigating his bulging ventral hemisphere to finally settle in his trousers, where I and many others would have them sit, at the hips. These trousers were beige khakis. He had a hardshell overcoat, unzipped, a already small Eastpack backpack that was further dwarfed by his size that a fanny pack behind my neck would almost give this character a convincing double. He had two more items of particular importance, though, aside from his overall, disheveled look topped with a cotton brimmed cap, advertising Alaska's Denali National Forest in dull colored embroidering. Jason wore a pair of glasses that appeared to be a pair of those self-dimming ones that pedophiles and Dan Cassidy typically wear. This time, though, these slim, rectangular glasses, a fine vogue attempt, remained dark and ominous, even in the dull lighting of our customs line. I could see nothing more than the shadows of his eyesockets. Maybe he had shamefully ugly eyesockets. Jason also wore a final article of appalling, magnetic draw. He had a nametag. Jason something. Jason Millionaire. He looked like the product of a lucky draw, Office Space's Milton, born into real-life, a semi-functioning animation to meet me in queue. He clearly, to me, had found a discarded Lottery card on the ground, picked it up and got lucky. He then decided for whatever reason that going to Brussels would be the best location ever.
Jason crept up to me, breathing onto the few hairs on the back of my neck. So, I moved left, distancing myself from this oversized frog. He was American. He had a problem with figeting, looking over his left shoulder every 30 seconds. What was it? I even looked twice, it was so convincing. Usually it's the Euros that push up against you in line because that is where they feel comfortable, literally on top of you if they could. I was in an unforgiving mode, and, happening upon his display of self-proclaiming identification, I would give him no reigns of personal space invasion or, God forbid, close talking, that a Belgian might have gotten. I watched as the line moved forward, paying attention to how close he was to moving passed me, deciding, at what moment I was deemed "cut" in the queue. He was behind my bag, situated before me, by 3 inches. But, okay, 3 inches is 3 inches, no confrontation. I was playing the game. No longer peeved by his insolent nature, I was toying with it. A moment of entertainment, it was. We all scrolled forward, and I reached for my bag. And then! Yes! He crossed the line! But what now?! He had moved around me, to my right, and closed the gap between me and the woman before me! How insulting! He obviously had no regard for the rules of order, we all were drilled in Kindergarten.
"Excuse me, Jason..." It came out. I didn't need to finish the sentence.
In a string of blubbering jargon his response came swiftly and unapologetic. "Well...(words not captured)...not like...linear line...anyway..." What!? Hold this PHONE. Was he carrying a little red stapler in his pocket!? I mean, Hell, did he just reference our queue as "linear!?" You bet your ass he did. This man was exactly who he looked like. Who says you can't judge an emperor for the clothes he doesn't wear? Or the book because the cover just told it all!?
I was so dumbfounded, I was at a loss for words at this very moment. Every word that social education and common courtesy taught about stereotypes and judgement had been ripped from its very pages, flipped upside down and backwards. Then words fell from me again, only this time, to match his level of maturity of disregard for things we should have known long ago, I went ahead and took us both straight back to grade-school.
"I'm sorry, I'm having a hard time hearing you. You seem to be mumbling a whole lot."
And WHAMMY, that was the end of that. I stood, facing forward for a moment, and it was my turn. To think, that nitwit could have charged ahead of me when I had only 20 minutes until take-off. Have people lost all sense of philanthropy? And what about the people that get trample the trampled on black Friday at WalMarts? Is there no remorse? Any apology? Does anybody give a damn? I nearly told the customs officer that this Michael Moore maniac was acting weird, but I was in too much of a hurry. I checked to see if he got on my plane. Negative.
Take me to my plane because everyone's boarded and they are calling my name...and the story behind that is a lot shorter and equally entertaining. Read on.
Our anonymous driver to the airport this morning put Unleaded Fuel in the Diesel VW fuel tank and didn't know what to do so I looked online and decided we were fucked and then we hired 3 cabs and a tow truck as help and the cabs took forever but drove at 180k/hr to get us there on time, but it was terrifying because our driver was dialing phone numbers and toying with the GPS the whole time in an already damaged Mercedes SUV, leaving me happy to be alive and a chance to meet Jason Millionaire.