Coattail Karma

by Verlin Darrow

  “You’ll be missing it,” Vlad said. “And if I don’t get some real answers soon, you’re going to be missing a lot of flights, son.”

  “Oh.”

  We returned to silence. It was rather restful.

  Eventually, someone called Vlad on his anachronistic white desk phone. He listened, grunted, and hung up. “He’s here,” he announced. “Bob,” he said to the security guard. “Would you escort Mr. Frank back to my office? He’s at the desk at A-4.”

  Mr. Frank? Was Tommy T. behind all this? Could it be a coincidence? I couldn’t afford to wait to find out. After Bob had been gone long enough to exit the adjacent hallway, I snatched my passport from Vlad’s desktop and sprinted out the office door.

  “Hey!” he called.

  “Sorry!” I called back.

  Out in the corridor, I careened in the opposite direction from where they’d detained me. I certainly didn’t want to end up back in the security queue. I raced through several crooks and turns, with loud footsteps pounding behind me. Most of the office doors I passed were closed, but I saw several startled faces glance up at me as I whizzed by. After rounding a sharp corner, I saw a dead end looming, so I pushed open an exit door on the side wall and ran through it.

  I was in a baggage claim area, near a dormant luggage carousel. Without pausing to think, I dashed up the ramp of the carousel and dove headfirst into the luggage maw. I had no idea what was on the far side of that opening.

  I tumbled down another longer rubberized ramp and landed hard on my hip on a poorly lit asphalt lane. I was indoors, but just barely. The building was a giant metal shed with open ends. A tractorish vehicle was pulling a train of flat trailers loaded with bags ahead of me on the narrow roadway. I hoisted myself up and sprinted after it. As I heard a commotion behind me—a high-pitched alarm and lots of yelling—I once again dove headfirst, this time into a moving pile of black bags. I burrowed into the soft luggage and bashed into something much harder—a metal foot locker? It hurt. Then I pulled the bags and suitcases over me. I could only hope I hadn’t been spotted and that the tractor driver’s big yellow headphones blocked the sound of the alarm.

  I poked my head out after a while. The front of the baggage train was just exiting the building, emerging into dimming light. I rolled through the bags and dropped off the side of the trailer, landing on the same hip I’d bruised earlier. I gathered myself as quickly as I could and scuttled outside. The baggage train pulled away without me, picking up speed in the open air. I edged along the exterior of the building, hugging the shadows. I was in luck. The security lights had not come on yet, and no one seemed to be around.

  Beyond the corrugated metal buildings that lay across a strip of tarmac, I could see the airport’s perimeter fence in the distance. If I could get to that stretch of fencing and then duck behind the last building, I’d be out of sight from any of the main buildings. Maybe I could climb out unnoticed.

  The first stretch—out in the open across the asphalt—was the riskiest. I waited until a woman in a hardhat drove by in an orange pickup truck, then I sprinted again, hoping for the best. A moment later, I paused in the relative safety of another shadow, half expecting I’d been discovered. But all was quiet. I continued sidling along the wall of the warehouse.

  The cyclone fence at the perimeter was eight feet tall, topped with razor wire. I felt completely stymied, and I hunkered down against the gray metal wall of the building in defeat. I guess it ends here.

  I decided to wander around and scavenge whatever I could. Perhaps there was something lying around that would help me crawl over the wire. If that didn’t work, I could try to break into the building to see what I could find there.

  By a back door, I found five beer cans, a nest of cigarette butts, and several crumpled potato chip bags. I imagined I was a character in a spy movie—one of those MacGyverish improvisers who could think outside the box. What would one of those guys come up with? The beer cans could shield me from the sharp edges of the wire, but holding one in each hand wouldn’t get me far. So what could I do? Suppose that I put the cans in the bags and then wrapped all that in my shirt? Wouldn’t that be something I could lay on the wire? If I pressed down, the razor edges might pierce the shirt and bags, and catch on the cans, holding the whole mess steady as I crawled over it. It seemed viable enough to give it a try.

  I dropped the damned thing twice and had to climb back up again each time. Finally, I had to position the shirt precisely on top of the fence while I hoisted a leg up onto it. Each time I shifted my weight onto my knee, I could get an individual beer can pinned.

  The next phase was nastier—inching across it without falling or irreparably slicing myself up. But I managed. Several gashes later, I dropped down onto the far side of the fence. I stood on loose gravel by the side of a deserted road. No one had driven by while I was maneuvering on the fence. It looked as though the lane granted access to a long-term parking lot, but I couldn’t tell for sure.

  I checked myself out. If nothing became gangrenous, I’d live, but I definitely needed to prioritize getting cleaned up. I pulled the smelly, filthy shirt back on. No one would stop for a shirtless hitchhiker.

  I heard a car at that point and spotted headlights to my left, so I stuck out my thumb and pasted a fake smile on my face. The first car sped up instead of stopping, and three more passed by in rapid succession. Finally, an older subcompact pulled over and stopped a good ways from me.

  “Are you okay?” a man called out his open window. He was in his mid-forties and spoke with a Chinese accent.

  “Not really,” I said. “I could use some help.”

  “I can give you a ride, but that’s all,” he said. “Are you a Chinese-American? Is that what I see and hear?”

  “Nepalese-American, I think,” I said.

  “Close enough,” he answered, gesturing for me to get in the car.

  I limped over and clambered into the passenger seat next to him.

  “Thank you so much for the ride,” I said. “Where are you headed?”

  “Howick.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s twenty minutes northeast. I’m going home after work.”

  He put the car in gear and pulled out onto the road. He drove quite deliberately.

  “My name is Nelson,” he said. “My English name, I mean.”

  “I’m Sid.”

  His short, black hair sat atop a horse’s face—long and square jawed. Perhaps he was some sort of ethnic Chinese. His oversized black and white uniform sported absurdly large epaulets, and he held himself upright in an unusually rigid posture. The car was spotless.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “You can drop me off at a bus stop in Howick,” I told him. “That would be great.”

  “You know,” he said. “Drinking so much that you wake up hurt by the side of the road is not the right way to live.”

  “I agree,” I said, wiping sweat from my face with my hand.

  He saw the jagged cuts on my forearm. “Please don’t bleed in my car. If you bleed in my car, I’ll have to put you out.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You can get free help for your drinking,” Nelson said. “And your sinful lifestyle. There’s AA, and you’re very welcome at my church.” He turned left at an intersection and headed out of the airport.

  “Thank you.”

  Nelson was an evangelical, and he told me how Jesus had turned his life around and now he lived the right way and did good works like picking up suspicious strangers. I listened attentively, and soon he was telling me his problems as well. His family—a wife and a fifteen-year-old son—owed money to his uncle back in Shanghai, who was some sort of shady immigration broker.

  “We emigrated a year and a half ago,” Nelson told me, “and my wife doesn’t speak English well enough to work yet. She has not been to university as I have. So we have started a bed and breakfast in our home. My son has made an alluring website with many extremely
attractive photographs, and our rates are good, but business has still been slow.”

  “How much do you charge?” I asked, patting my back pocket, which was still stuffed with New Zealand dollars.

  “Seventy dollars a night. And my wife makes every sort of egg that a guest might require.”

  “I’d be happy to take one of the rooms for the night,” I said. “Do you have a vacancy?”

  “Oh yes.” His eagerness was obvious.

  “Is there a phone?”

  “Certainly. We have all the amenities—complimentary soaps, a luxurious white robe, a very fine DVD library. If you enjoy your stay, you’ll write a testimonial on our website?”

  “Absolutely. What’s the name of your place?” I didn’t really care, but I owed my rescuer a friendly conversation about whatever was important to him.

  “The Chowick Hospitality Suites,” he told me. “You see, the local people call Howick Chowick because of all the Chinese immigrants. But our last name is actually Chow, so it’s a play on words. My son thought of it. He’s a genius. He’s going to be a doctor.”

  Nelson turned off the highway, and we began traversing busy surface streets. This was my first glimpse of ordinary New Zealand, but I couldn’t see much in the dark. It looked like a cross between the UK and the US.

  “Maybe I can help you think of a name that would work better,” I said. “No offense to your son, but if I was back home in California searching the internet for a place to stay, I don’t think I’d click on a racist name.”

  “You think the name is a problem?”

  “I do.”

  “You might be right,” Nelson said. “Excuse me. I need to call my wife and tell her I’m bringing home a paying guest.”

  He held his cell phone up to his ear while he drove with one hand. The conversation was in Cantonese, I think. He spoke rapidly, eyeing me briefly while he talked. Perhaps he was preparing her for the spectacle I’d become.

  For the remainder of the trip, Nelson delineated his wildly unrealistic plan to become a day trader, retire early, and “travel internationally in the lap of luxury amongst my true peers.”

  Lannie, Nelson’s wife, met us at the front door of their very ordinary-looking green suburban home. I could tell she immediately sensed I wasn’t simply a beer-swilling, bar-fighting hitchhiker, despite my odor and battered countenance. Perhaps she was sensitive to energy or she could read my character on my face.

  Lannie’s innocent smile highlighted her delicate features. She was so petite and slim, I wondered if she had an eating disorder. Her long, black hair snaked down her back as a thick braid. She must’ve been ten years younger than her husband. Lannie had obviously dressed up to meet me; she wore a brown tartan business suit with a too short skirt and a taupe scarf. She wobbled unsteadily on her black high heels. I got the impression that welcoming a guest was still a major event in this family’s life.

  Her English wasn’t nearly as bad as advertised. As she bowed to me, she said, “It is an honor,” in yet another complicated accent. I don’t think she was from Shanghai.

  “The honor is mine,” I said. “Thank you for the opportunity to enjoy your home.”

  “We’ll need payment in advance,” Nelson told me sternly as we stood in the tiny front vestibule.

  “Of course,” I said, retrieving my wad of cash and counting out the bills.

  “Thank you,” he said, clearly relieved that I could pay. “I’ll go get my receipt book.”

  He headed toward the back of the house, and I returned my attention to his wife.

  “You know things, don’t you?” Lannie asked, peering intently at me. Her accent was thicker now that we were beyond the rehearsed portion of the conversation.

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “In the morning, we can talk.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” she said. Her smile was achingly sweet.

  “I need to make a phone call,” I told her. “And I need to get out of these clothes, clean my cuts, and take a shower.”

  Nelson returned. “Would you like to buy clothes?” he asked. “I could sell you some very nice clothes.” He handed me a receipt and tried to smile.

  “Nelson!” his wife admonished.

  He shot her a glare but then nodded. “Perhaps my son will lend you some,” he said. “You’re about the same size. He’s at badminton practice, but he’ll be home soon.”

  “Thank you. That would be very kind.”

  Lannie could not stop staring at me. It was a little uncomfortable.

  “My wife will show you to your room now,” Nelson said.

  So I limped up the stairs, averting my eyes from Lannie’s revealing skirt. After she’d shown me the compact, nondescript room—plain white walls, twin beds with a table between them, a dresser, a mirror, and a window—she gazed at me with an upturned face and spoke softly, tentatively.

  “Just meaning of life? Can you tell now?” she asked.

  “Loving connectedness,” I said. It fell out of me without thought.

  “Connectedness?”

  “Connection. Unity,” I said.

  “Ah. This I believe also.”

  She smiled a full, radiant smile, transforming herself from merely pretty to quite beautiful. There was light in her; I felt warmed by it.

  “Have a good night,” I said. I needed to pee.

  “On behalf of myself and my family, we wish you a very pleasant stay,” she said quite clearly.

  “That was terrific,” I said. “You’re a very special hostess.”

  She blessed me with another big smile. The room was even brighter now.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then she bowed again and retreated, closing the door behind her.

  I visited the bathroom, peed, and rinsed the blood off my hands, wrists, and ankles. Then I lay on two towels on one of the beds. It was wonderful to be horizontal, although I was thirsty, hungry, and in a fair amount of pain. But I had escaped and I was safe, which amazed me. What were the odds that running out of Vlad’s office would lead me to the Chowick Hospitality Suites—or anywhere else? In hindsight, bolting from custody seemed idiotic—guaranteed to make matters worse. But here I was. Apparently, I was poised to perform some sort of karmic function for Lannie, too. Would even my crassest self-preservation efforts lead to something positive now?

  I reached for the cordless phone on the black lacquered bedside table and called Sam. “It’s Sid,” I told her.

  “Oh hi! How’s it going? Are you calling from the plane?”

  “No. That didn’t work out. Now I’m at a B&B just south of Auckland.”

  “Me too! Are you down the hall from me? What town are you in?”

  “Howick. Where are you?” I smoothed down a patch of torn skin on my arm and winced.

  “I’m near a harbor at the southern end of Auckland,” she said. “It’s quite lovely. Why don’t you join me?”

  “I think I have some spiritual business here. Otherwise, I’d be there in a flash. Can we meet tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I have an appointment at ten in the morning to get a temporary passport at the US consulate. Do you want to meet there in the lobby? It’s right downtown.”

  I thought that over. I’ll still be a fugitive tomorrow. But how hard would anyone be looking for me—especially once they realize my suitcase isn’t illegal? At least, I was assuming it wasn’t. I suppose it could’ve been.

  “What are you thinking?” Sam asked. “Is the consulate a problem?”

  “No, I think it’s a good plan. I was just working through how safe it might be for me out in the world.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I said.

  “Are you with Marco and your friend?”

  “No. I don’t even know if they’re en route to India or still here in New Zealand.” I didn’t like the sound of that as I said it.

  “You want to get off the phone, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I have some things I need to do. I’m sorry.”


  “No, it’s fine.”

  We said our goodbyes, which were substantially less romantic this time around, and I headed to the bathroom. After peeling off my disgusting clothes, showering, and drying off, I heard a gentle tap on the bathroom door. By the time I’d fastened a towel around my middle and opened the door, no one was there. But I found a tidy stack of Band-Aids, antibiotic ointment, and handy wipes. A bag of cashews, an orange, and a can of diet iced tea sat in a plastic sack next to those. Lannie had pretty much covered all the bases, bless her heart.

  Love welled up within me for Lannie and Nelson. And for that matter, for their son I hadn’t met yet. It was a wonderful feeling—a deep, non-personal love. I didn’t need to have a relationship with them. I didn’t need them to act in any particular way or be anything but themselves. I was just in love with this odd family.

  I thought about Chris, and the feeling grew. I felt the same way about him. I thought about various challenging clients, and I loved them. Richard Nixon? The poor man had tried his best. It was an across-the-board attitude more than a feeling, really. It certainly wasn’t conditional—if this, then that.

  I found myself crying as I began to take care of my wounds. Gradually, this morphed into deep contentment, and then a few minutes later, I felt outrageously happy. The physical pain I was enduring didn’t diminish my euphoria at all. It was a concurrent phenomenon—just another event that would eventually give way to something else.

  Although it wasn’t late by New Zealand time, I was growing sleepy. I found a pen and paper in a drawer in the dresser and jotted down some notes and ideas. It was hard to hold it all in my head, and I’d developed the habit of externalizing thoughts back when I’d tried to be a writer.

  Despite my fatigue, I stayed up late journaling about my goals and motives. First and foremost, I needed to find out who the hell I was. I’d been dodging that all of my life. I also needed to sort out who was who in the drama I’d been pulled into. Who could I trust? Who, if anyone, had my best interests at heart? It seemed as if everyone wanted to exploit me to reach their goals. What about mine? I vowed to be less passive. I wasn’t a follower by nature, I told myself. I was a leader.