AA
A SHORT STORY
MOBASHAR QURESHI
Copyright 2011 Mobashar Qureshi
Cover Image: lkunl / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Visit the author’s website:
www.mobasharqureshi.com
Visit the author’s blog:
Mobashar’s Musings
OTHER WORKS
RACE
The October Five
The Paperboys Club
Ten Typewriter Tales
The City
The Town
The Village
Roman Solaire and the Crystal Towers
PRAISE FOR TEN TYPEWRITER TALES
Review on Librarything
[5-star] “Bright, smart, it'll make you laugh and want to punch someone in the same page.”
Review on Amazon.com
[4-star] “This collection is a winner in my humble opinion.”
Review on Amazon.uk
[4-star] “Really enjoyed this collection of short stories.”
DEDICATED
Munawar J. Qureshi
SPECIAL THANKS
Mike McElroy and Wajeeha Qureshi
AA
He stood in line and waited. There were eight passengers before him, with one who had enough luggage for a family of ten. He was in no hurry, though. He had made sure to be here as early as possible. The airport terminal was packed with travelers; some rushing to catch their flights, while others, like him, had planned ahead and were meandering at their own pace.
He glanced at the people around him. It looked like chaos but it was an organized chaos. He always found it fascinating how thousands of people could pass through these terminals daily with few, if any, incidents. If there were any then he had failed to see them throughout his extensive travels. Why was this? he thought. Maybe the passengers were too focused on getting to their destinations to cause a problem.
He went up to the counter where the lady behind it said, “Any luggage to check in?”
“No, just a carry-on.” He held up the black non-descript bag for her.
After she had scanned his ticket, examined his passport, and issued the required identification tags, he was on his way.
He moved past the waiting row of passengers and headed for the other end of the terminal.
He scanned his surroundings. Young travelers with camping-size backpacks slung on their backs, families with kids in tow and luggage piled high up on carts, porters pushing huge boxes with the owners following right behind, executives in business suits pulling compact-luggage on wheels; it was only at the airport that you saw such a variety of people in one place.
Once again he stood in line, but this one was shorter than the first.
His turn came. He placed the carry-on on the conveyer belt. He had packed light, with two dress shirts, one dress pant, undershirt with matching underwear, socks and a paperback novel.
In the plastic tray he placed his wallet, keys, watch, and passport. He then removed his shoes, which were without laces, and placed them in as well.
“Your belt, sir,” the officer said.
“I’m not wearing one,” he said, lifting his shirt.
The officer waved him through.
He went through the metal detector and as planned it did not beep.
He gathered his belongings and then glanced at his watch.
He was early.
He surveyed the area and began to stroll past the many airport shops. He spotted one and ordered a cappuccino.
He sat across from it.
He took a sip from the cup. The froth covered his upper lip. He licked it clean.
He looked over. Travelers were busy purchasing overpriced items from the shops. With time to spare in between flights, people would do anything to occupy themselves, even if it meant spending six dollars on a hot drink, which is what he had done.
He found airports captivating. It was the one place where people from all over the world came together with a mutual understanding. They were only there to get somewhere else. Airports were the hub from which you reached your final destination.
But he had no destination.
He was there for another purpose.
When he was halfway through his drink, he removed a piece of paper from his pocket.
It contained instructions.
He had received them through the internet; more specifically, through an online forum. Joining this forum was by invitation only, and one that took him close to a year to become a member. There were many codes that had to be broken, puzzles needing to be solved, red herrings requiring to be avoided, and even accusations that had to be proven false.
He had followed the first set of instruction to the tee.
Now for the others.
He downed the remainder of the cappuccino and moved to the restrooms.
Inside, he splashed cold water over his face. He was clean shaven, with a pale complexion and dark hair that was neatly parted from the middle. His features were, if one had to describe them, plain and ordinary. There was nothing about him that stood out. Even his attire was unassuming.
He would blend in very nicely.
He grabbed his carry-on and went to the lockers next to the restrooms.
He spotted one in the corner. He placed his carry-on, money, wallet, keys, and passport in it and locked it.
He had nothing on him except for his shirt, pants, socks and shoes.
He was ready.
He went up the escalators and to the airport’s first-class lounge.
A woman with a bright smile greeted him.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m here for the AA meeting.”
“Right this way.”
She led him through the lounge with its comfortable leather chairs, soothing low-lighting, and private bar, and all the way to the end, near the windows, where a group of people were already seated.
A man with his hair gelled back, wearing a grey shirt and beige pants, instantly stood up.
“This is a private meeting,” he said in a thick French accent.
He pulled out a card, which contained a series of numbers, and handed it to him.
The man examined it and then smiled.
“Welcome, monsieur!” He extended his hand. “Please have a seat. We will begin shortly.”
He sat on a spacious white leather chair.
Across him sat an Asian man with a black shirt buttoned up to the collar (no tie), black pants, and white shoes with no socks.
Beside the Asian man, on a separate chair, was a tall blond with striking features, wearing a tight dress that went down to her knees.
Next to the blond, on another separate chair, was an older woman with greying hair, wearing a simple dress than went down to her ankles.
They were all looking at him with suspicion.
He could feel the blond’s eyes pierce into him, the Asian man’s stare cut through him, and even the older woman’s gaze bear down on him.
After a few minutes which felt much longer, another man appeared with the same woman who had brought him here.
The man was wearing a white shirt with matching white pants, black dress shoes and a white cowboy hat.
“This is a private meeting,” the French man started.
“Is it?” The Cowboy looked confused.
“Do you have something for me?” the French man asked.
“Oh, yeah.” The Cowboy removed the familiar looking card.
After examining it, the French man said, “If you read the instructions you will know that hats are not permitted.”
The Cowboy took it off and held it up for him to see. “It’s harmless. It’s bad enough I have to wear these shoes instead of my boots.”
The French man examined the hat and then smiled. “Welcome,
monsieur! Please have a seat.”
The Cowboy sat next to him.
He noticed the area they were sitting in was further away from the general seating area.
This was good, he thought. What they were about to discuss should never be heard by the public.
The French man sat down and faced them.
“Thank you for coming to this AA meeting. We should really call it the AAA meeting because it is held in an airport.” He laughed but none of them joined in. “In our line of work, precautions must be taken, and that is why it is being held here. You will not find a more safe location than this. As you have already passed through the security points, there is nothing to worry about.” He looked at each of them but none took their eyes off one another. “Ours is a lonely business, one that we bear by ourselves. No one knows what we do, not even our loved ones. But most importantly, no one will understand why we do it. It is a great burden that we carry all by ourselves, one if not relieved can impact our tasks. The purpose of this meeting is to give you the opportunity to share your experiences. The rules are simple. No real names and no specific details. Would anyone like to go first?”
He looked around. When there were no volunteers, he said, “I will start then. I am Pierre; not my real name, of course. I have been doing this for over fifteen years now. My first one was when I was a teenager. It was in