Coke Sniffer

I had plenty of time at the check-in counter in Newark airport to peruse my neighbors. Before me, a grizzled man in leather, clutching the Mormon Bible. Before him, an Indian businessman whose love of his dog transcends national boundaries; I found out to my dismay how complicated checking a dog into a plane could be - the line didn't move for almost an hour. When it came to my turn, the Mormon winked at me, "Good luck," and took off. Luck deserted me. My Australian visa was not recognized and it was my turn to hold the line. When finally I got my boarding pass, the plane was about to fly. The check-in guy said the magic words into his walkie: "We have a runner. We have a runner." No time to check in my luggage, I tossed away my toothpaste (a frequent airport casualty), grabbed my bags and ran with the check-in man, down hallways of curious passengers, cutting lines with heaven-sent authority. When I stumbled into the plane, breathless, the Mormon winked at me, "You made it!" We took off immediately.

On the plane, an Australian girl, remarkably pretty, with blue painted nails, she asked me. "Do you drink?" I spoke honestly, "Yes, I do."
 
When I landed in Brisbane, they weren't too happy with me not reporting two oranges, an apple and a banana at customs. They tested me for cocaine with their metallic sniffers - I tested positive. Twice. No, I am not a user, my girlfriend (my girlfriend?) is not a user, none of my friends... I did not come into contact with anybody who might have... Sincerity won the day. That and the extensive luggage search. They sent the metallic sniffer for repairs and let me off with a few-hundred-dollar fine, for not reporting fruit.

The flight from Brisbane to Cairns bored me to sleep.