Veronica Carnegie, Contributor

'What.'

'What?'

'You pushed me.'

'No. I didn't push you. I don't push people, my deah,' I said. The big man looked down at me and edged away.

The Orlando Airport was crowded and the faces seemed stressed and tired. Worst of all were the small children and the adults trying to control them as they moved through bag and body search in Customs. A little boy threw himself on the floor in deep distress. His tear-stained face menacingly surrounded by big feet, he howled and kicked. A monster of an Immigration officer had taken away the candy he was actually eating, and put it on a paper towel in the thick grey plastic basin to pass it under the scanner. The child screamed till his mother gave him another sweetie from her checked, weapons-free bag.

I was behind them. First, I put my small travel bag on the glider. Next, I took off my shoes - my feet on the cold floor - and put them in the basin. I carefully folded my lined grey linen jacket and rested it on top of my handbag in the same tray. Left in my black brassière and the striped blue-grey dickie which fooled the Immigration officer into thinking I wore a blouse when he ordered me to remove my jacket, I moved slowly through the security arch and thought of my things gliding through the dark recesses of the scanner and my bare back being blasted by the high-powered air condition unit. I did not lift my bag off the belt until I had put back on my buckled shoes, turned my jacket on the right side, put it on and fixed the collar. Then I walked towards the shuttle for the connection to New York.

My system went on strike when I saw people young and old hurrying to catch flights. Flights to meetings, to birthdays, weddings, funerals? What was I racing to or hurrying for? And for all I knew, some terrorist with an explosive baby-feeding bottle could, in all that rush, bring our world to a dramatic end.

I refused to rush, and the eternally threatened and fearful people continued to move around me like mad ants preparing for bad weather. The more I thought of the vulnerability and the possibility of sudden destruction, the more slowly I walked, dragging my wheeled luggage. Why hurry towards terro-rists who lurk in airports? A man on a galloping horse wouldn't know if I were an old alien carrying drugs or weapons in my thick shoe heels, in the hollow of my walking stick, in the hem of my skirt, in the cotta at my neck back.

I checked my ticket, moved into pre-planing, and was allowed to keep my boarding pass. That, to me, was something new.

'Look at this. I still have my boarding pass. If anything happens to me I was never on Flt. 1100.'

'They didn't take mine either,' the man's companion said.

'No problem. Did you bring the sandwich? Remember this is not Air Jamaica. This plane serve neither chicken nor fish.' The woman said she'd left the food on the counter at home and hoped the coffee, soft drink, and the pack of finger-size biscuits would hold them for a while.

'What you may have to hold in is your urine, for you may not get a chance in the toilet.'

'Never mind. Clap loud and long when you land.'

My niece joined me. We should have taken the same connecting shuttle but she was late. I won't dwell on it but she was always late. I was glad to see her, anyway. My niece, Andy Smatt, my brother's child, was on her way to college in Jersey. They'd asked me to settle her in because my sister-in-law was too ill to travel. I was happy to visit them in Ocala and then go up with Andy. It was a long walk from the trolley to gate #12. Every seat was taken.

A young couple, holding hands, strolled off to buy food. They left their bags by the side of their chairs. We slid into the empty front seats and stared at our tickets. I sometimes lean on my niece as if for support and we quietly chuckle. The area is crowded.

When we looked around, we saw an exotically dressed man and a woman sitting behind us, a little to the left. They talked, not loudly but animatedly.

'Gurrugurruh harriharra.'

'Gurrugurri harraharri.'

That's what we heard, like beautiful poetry, repeatedly.

Suddenly the woman, next to us, scurried away and high-heeled it back with two burly-faced, navy-blue-dressed policemen, guns bouncing on their hips. They strode towards us.

'What the hell?'

The woman appeared to be pointing at us.

'What the bloody hell.'

The police asked me if I'd heard anything those people behind me had said.

My eyes bulged. My niece kicked my ankle, a signal to be silent, but I could not resist. I strained my neck, looked up at the officer, grinned and gave the age-old excuse,

'No speakity Engleesh.'

My niece was furious. 'Stop it, for Christ sake, Auntie.'

'Connectile dysfunction,' I whispered. We watched as other eyes focused on the two people in their distinctive garb.

The busybody woman cocked her ears. It was too late.

'Good afternoon, Dr. Ammad. Congrats, sir. I hear you're slated to take over as head of department.'

'Thanks, Wineberg. Congrats to you too. I was happy to recommend you.'

'Yes, sir. I want you to meet my wife, Jayne. Jayne, Professor, Dr. Amza Ammad, head of physics.'

'Pleased to meet you, sir. Jed talks about you. I tell you, you influenced his decision to teach.'

'Thank you. You know my wife?'

The ladies stood by their husbands, nodded and agreed that Dr. Indira Ammad had presented a brilliant research paper as a representative of the Gynaecology Department. The professor and his student small-talked for a while.

'The Best Airlines apologises for the delay and regrets any inconveniences caused. The delay is due to poor weather conditions. The Best Airlines thanks everyone for choosing the best.'

The long-suffering passengers sigh, stretch, resettle and wait for the next apology.

The policemen walk away, scrutinising the waiting area.

The informer waits by the departure gate.

We open our magazines and read. We hear, 'Gurrugurruh Harriharrah,' coming from the seats behind us.

- Veronica Carnegie