The Trinidadian did it, in the booth, with the machete.
Today was the last in a nine-day sweep of night-shift. Nuff said right there, but the grand finale isn't called the grande finale for nothing, so let the fat lady sing for you a while. Four people of lesser or no intelligence passed by booth today. One of these bought tickets, the other three just wanted to make my day. The first wanted me to change his fifty euros into about ten thousand coins.
This is something I don't do. One, the booth does not have one of those super thingies that tell you if a bill is forged or not. Two, fifty euros in coins would wipe out my booth coin reserve. Just another one of those few times when you wish you'd had the balls to reply: "But of course. I would love to change your fifty euros. Because I have a little dwarf prancing around my forehead and his name is Idiocy. Oh, I'm sorry! I see that you suffer from the same afflcition."
Second out was a man who, though speaking perfect English, had trouble understanding the same.
"I'd like to take a buss to Motala."
"Well, that's nice, but I only manage the airport coaches."
"Oh! I understand. Thank You. Where can I buy tickets?"
"I'm assuming it's upstairs, but I can't be sure, Information opens in one hour."
"I see, I see."
I gave him a pamphlet with airport coach information (any port in a storm) and sent him on his way. Ten minutes later, he comes back.
"Okay, I'll take a ticket to Gothenburg."
"Aha. But I only have airport tickets."
"Oh. What about Motala?"
The third time he came around, the company upstairs had opened and I waved my thumb at him before he reached my counter, motioning for him to go there instead. Anywhere but here.
The third ghost of Christwhatamorning was a heavy-set fellow, not big enough to be called fat, but bulky. Watery blue eyes and hair the colour of a wheat feild, just before a thunderstorm. The archetypical Swede - and as it turns out, the archetypical lonely Northern Sweden prone to humping elks and elves, maybe a pine cone or two. The kind that grows potatoes for a living and bakes a cake for every annual bake-sale, each time succeeding in coming last.
"You should know that-" (lenghty pause)
"What? What?!"
"Well, that's going to be my little secret."
Things only went downward from there. He failed to respond to any of my questions except with long cow-eyed stares, told me he thought I was creepy and wanted to know if I wanted to have a quickie behind the booth. Despite his few words and goggling eyes, he struck me as a great man, meant to be preserved somehow. Pickled, maybe. Maybe in a jar.
My fourth revealed himself in the shape of a man hunched over a walker. He wanted an airport ticket so that he could finally go home to south of Sweden. He had spent 14000 during his one-week stay in Stockholm and didn't want to spend any more money on our insanely priced pizzas. Back in his day when HE was young yadda yadda ya not that he couldn't afford it because he had just inherited ten million, since his brother had passed on. I offered my condolences, but ten million had apparantly done their job of healing him.
"Besides," he confided in me. " We were never that close. He was a homofile."
Tell me that selling tickets in a booth like a monkey in a booth is easy and I'll tell you where we store our application papers.
This is something I don't do. One, the booth does not have one of those super thingies that tell you if a bill is forged or not. Two, fifty euros in coins would wipe out my booth coin reserve. Just another one of those few times when you wish you'd had the balls to reply: "But of course. I would love to change your fifty euros. Because I have a little dwarf prancing around my forehead and his name is Idiocy. Oh, I'm sorry! I see that you suffer from the same afflcition."
Second out was a man who, though speaking perfect English, had trouble understanding the same.
"I'd like to take a buss to Motala."
"Well, that's nice, but I only manage the airport coaches."
"Oh! I understand. Thank You. Where can I buy tickets?"
"I'm assuming it's upstairs, but I can't be sure, Information opens in one hour."
"I see, I see."
I gave him a pamphlet with airport coach information (any port in a storm) and sent him on his way. Ten minutes later, he comes back.
"Okay, I'll take a ticket to Gothenburg."
"Aha. But I only have airport tickets."
"Oh. What about Motala?"
The third time he came around, the company upstairs had opened and I waved my thumb at him before he reached my counter, motioning for him to go there instead. Anywhere but here.
The third ghost of Christwhatamorning was a heavy-set fellow, not big enough to be called fat, but bulky. Watery blue eyes and hair the colour of a wheat feild, just before a thunderstorm. The archetypical Swede - and as it turns out, the archetypical lonely Northern Sweden prone to humping elks and elves, maybe a pine cone or two. The kind that grows potatoes for a living and bakes a cake for every annual bake-sale, each time succeeding in coming last.
"You should know that-" (lenghty pause)
"What? What?!"
"Well, that's going to be my little secret."
Things only went downward from there. He failed to respond to any of my questions except with long cow-eyed stares, told me he thought I was creepy and wanted to know if I wanted to have a quickie behind the booth. Despite his few words and goggling eyes, he struck me as a great man, meant to be preserved somehow. Pickled, maybe. Maybe in a jar.
My fourth revealed himself in the shape of a man hunched over a walker. He wanted an airport ticket so that he could finally go home to south of Sweden. He had spent 14000 during his one-week stay in Stockholm and didn't want to spend any more money on our insanely priced pizzas. Back in his day when HE was young yadda yadda ya not that he couldn't afford it because he had just inherited ten million, since his brother had passed on. I offered my condolences, but ten million had apparantly done their job of healing him.
"Besides," he confided in me. " We were never that close. He was a homofile."
Tell me that selling tickets in a booth like a monkey in a booth is easy and I'll tell you where we store our application papers.
