Mardi Gras With Muggles

My driver was a small, stout, Caucasian man. "Hello," I greeted after putting my bags in the trunk of the car.

I received no response. The car was black and small, giving me a sense of claustrophobia. I sat in hard brown leather in the back. I had my seatbelt on, of course.

The little man stayed silent, not trying to make conversation. The airport was about and hour away. We passed up the other houses in my neighborhood, all houses of wizards.

We soon left the neighborhood, and I looked back at it. It looked like a bunch of flat grass. "So, what’s your name?" I asked my driver. He still said nothing.

"What kind of car are we in? Why aren’t you talking to me? Do you know who I am? Are you a tax collector? Answer me!" I received no answer, which further annoyed me. Perhaps he was under some kind of contract not to talk to me. Klerk had done this to me before. (see Cloning Cornish Pixies) This was the worst drive I had ever gone on.

We eventually made it to the airport, Heathrow, at 9:30. We had made it through traffic jams, pedestrian crossings, car wrecks, and gone through traffic lights. Though my driver did not talk, I believed he had the necessary skills to be a race car driver. He seemed to be one with the road...it was strange.

"You’re here," he said in a very thick Irish accent. "You’ll have to go through Customs, then you’ll have to wait a while. Thanks." I took my bags, and the car drove off into the London streets. I found myself at a covered concrete walkway, all alone, with two bags in my hand. People passed me up, heading into the airport. Time seemed to pause for me as seemingly thousands walked into the giant airport. I watched them studying their movements as they went inside the automatic doors. Then I followed, heading into the airport.

Wow. The airport was a grand place, full of magnificence. It was amazing, breathtaking. I checked my watch. I spent the next thirty minutes of my time checking out the small airport shops that dominated the place. I first found a little coffee shop. I had some de-caf and bought the London paper. I had a budget of fifty thousand American dollars. I then left the shop and found a bookstore. I scanned the bookstore, but it really didn’t have much. It was merely a collection of the latest paperbacks from Tom Clancy, Frederick Forsyth, John Grisham, Danielle Steel, Michael Chrichton, and a group of books by Agatha Christie. I noticed a book entitled The Day of the Jackal by this Forsyth character. It was supposed to be a man that tries to assassinate Charles de Gaulle. I picked the book up off the shelf, right before putting it back on when The Hunt for Red October by the Clancy fellow came to my attention. It sounded interesting, if slightly dumb. I ignored the Danielle Steel novels; they sounded like fluffy romance novels. I was going to judge her books by the cover.

I left the airport bookshop, not buying anything at all. I then found myself in a gift shop, where you could buy footballs with the British flag stamped on them...there were T-shirts, shorts, fake crowns, and other countless, pathetic merchandising items. It’s things like these that ruin the integrity of a country. I abruptly left for the store and found a newspaper stand.

There, I could learn about the ghost of Elvis recently seen in a London motel room, discover the diet secrets of Cher, and go behind-the-scenes on Dallas, complete with an interview with Larry Hagman. What an opportunity.

It was one I would have to refuse.

I did not buy a paper there at all. I don’t know if they were papers at all. They seemed to be writings of fictional things occurring in the lives of celebrities. Oh, one also predicted the end of the world was coming on January 1, 1990, midnight. Prepare yourself.

I then found myself walking towards Customs. Suddenly, there was an announcement on the intercom:

"Attention! We have received a bomb threat. Please stay calm. Evacuate the area at once. Thank you, and have a nice day." Have a nice day? A bomb threat? This was a grave threat; somebody must have known I was there. This was not good. I left the building, fleeing for my life.

There were police cars coming in all areas around the airport. I could see the runway; they were there as well. There was a barrier put around the airport, and we were pushed behind it. I fell back into the crowd as one policeman pushed me into a man behind me.

"Dude! What did you do that for?" asked the man. He had an American accent and was wearing a leather jacket, ear muffs, and jeans.

"I was pushed!" I yelled at the rude man. The man nodded and put on sunglasses.

"It’s okay; be cool. Isn’t it cold out here?" the man asked.

"Yes, it’s too bloody cold out here," I responded, rubbing my hands together.

"Where you heading?" the man asked.

"New Orleans," I replied. "Mardi Gras."

"The Big Easy, eh? Well, that’s pretty cool. I’m going to New York, myself."

"The Big Apple?" I asked.

"There’s only one, isn’t there?" the man said, laughing. I joined in as well.

"Have you been there before?" I asked. The man shook his head. I went to New York once, when I was a little boy. It was an amazing, if not dirty and filthy, town.

"No, I haven’t," the man said. Our conversation stopped there as we were pushed back. I ran into more people as the barrier was moved back even more.

We spent the next hour being calmed by the police as they combed the large airport for any type of explosive device. The police was about four hundred men.

"There is no bomb in the airport! We are sorry for the inconvenience. We would appreciate few lawsuits and kind treatment of all involved in this situation. We gave up our personal lives at this moment to see if we had to save yours. We expect payback in return. Thank you, and have a nice day," came a voice on the intercom.

Almost in unison, the crowed booed. I don’t see why. After all, four hundred people combed this airport, giving up everything they had been doing, because of a prank!

"Man," said the man destined for New York. "I missed my flight." The man then paused for a second. "I’ll bet it was delayed..." He pushed and shoved his way through the crowd, running back into the airport.

I walked at a slow pace into the airport, enjoying the breeze outside. Okay, it was also almost freezing; but I believed it felt much better than the heated airport. I checked my watch. It was 11:15. I was hungry.

All the airport restaurants were reopening. The fast food places were working overtime as they tried to get food made to feed the hungry crowd that had been standing outside. I stopped at a McDonald’s and picked up a hamburger, which was ironically thin, and some fries, which gave me heartburn. I then bought myself some Tums and proceeded to Customs after wolfing down my food. I walked through the large glass doors and found myself in a waiting room.

I turned back, staring at the door. There was the word "CUSTOMS" on the door. I looked at the man dressed in red standing behind the desk, staring at nothing attentively.

"Excuse me," I said to the man as I walked to the desk, "but what do I do from here?" The man looked confused.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What the heck am I supposed to do?" I asked the man as politely as I could. The man smiled as politely as he could as well.

"Stay calm," he said in a calm voice. "Stay extremely calm and let me help you get out of this situation.

"Can’t you see I’m as calm as possible?" I asked the man. He nodded.

"You’re extremely calm, Sir–now, where are you going?" he asked in a calm, soothing tone. Perhaps they were trained to deal with situations like these.

"New Orleans," I replied.

"The three o’clock?" he asked. I nodded. "Been delayed to five."

"What?" I asked, staying as calm as possible.

"I’m sorry, Sir, the plane had problems in Paris; but it’s on its way here now. Now, could I see your passport?"

"Yes, here." I handed the man my passport as he typed on a computer.

"Well, you’re perfectly legal. Now, will you be carrying any bags onto the plane?" the kind man asked.

"Yes, one," I replied.

"Will you be checking any bags?"

"Well, I suppose I should check to make sure they’re mine..."

"No, will your other bag be in the cargo hold?" The attendant seemed stressed.

"Um, yes."

"Well, take this tag and fill out the necessary information and attach it to your handle. Then, I’ll take your bag," the man said as I filled out the card and put it on my suitcase. I handed it to the man. "Oops!" I stared at the man; my suitcase was in his hand.

"What are you doing in America?" he asked me. I hesitated. Should I tell him the truth.

"Going to Mardi Gras," I answered.

"Do you have family in America?"

"No."

"Are you bringing alcohol to America?"

"No."

"How long do you plan to stay?"

"I come back Ash Wednesday."

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome."

"Now, you need to go through those glass doors to see security."

"What?"

"Perfectly legal procedure, Sir."

"Okay."

I went through the glass doors to security and found a rectangular metallic door frame with a conveyor belt attached to it. A Muggle policeman was sitting behind it, almost asleep.

In front of me was an extremely large man. He had greasy brown hair, not shiny and wonderful like mine. His jeans had more than a few holes in them. His neck was shiny, most likely from the large amount of gold on it.

He began to walk through the frame, right before another policeman I had never noticed stepped into my eyes. "Sir, you need to put all metallic objects in one of these cups on the table," the policeman said. I could not see the obese man’s face, but I figured that the policeman did not like it at all.

"I don’t feel like it," the man said in a low American accent. I saw the look on the policeman’s face, and the policeman agreed, letting the man pass through.

"Go on right ahead..." The man walked through, and I heard an alarm sound. The large man stepped through and was met by another policeman.

"I’m going to have to ask you to remove any metallic objects..."

I removed my watch, setting it into the plastic cup, put my briefcase on the conveyor belt, and walked through the metallic door frame. No alarm went off. Was this normal? I did not voice my opinion.

I took my watch, then my briefcase, hoping no serious harm had been done to it. It had been run through this conveyor belt that had a covering on top of it. A policeman had sat behind it, looking at the covering. I proceeded to the next set of glass doors.

There were five attendants, all behind their own metallic counter. They were all smiling, their teeth almost whiter than mine. I walked up to the one in the center, which was attended by a smiling young man.

"Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to give me your bag," the man said as I handed it to him. He immediately opened it up.

"What the heck do you think you’re doing?" I asked him.

"Standard procedure, Sir," he said as he sorted through my books and food. He immediately found a book I had been reading: The Wizard’s Guide to New Orleans, by Arthur J. Studebaker. "What’s this?"

"A book," I replied.

"I’ve never heard of it."

"You’ve probably never heard of a lot of books," I said, giving the wisdom I have after my long years of life.

"No offense, but I read every book in the public library before I was thirteen," the man said.

"And where did you live?" I asked the man.

"London."

"Oh. You still probably haven’t heard of a lot of books," I reminded the man.

"Whatever."

The man’s hand searched through more of my belongings, which I still did not like but had to put up with.

"Take off your jacket," he said. Now this was getting annoying. Take off my jacket? Reveal my secret? Just calm yourself down, Gilderoy. Remember, they won’t think it’s a magic wand, I told myself.

Oh yes, they will, Gilderoy! another part of me thought. There going to think it’s a magic wand and banish you! You can’t let him take your jacket! You’re gonna go to a psycho ward! Time seemed to freeze as I looked at my shoulder. It was almost like an angel was sitting on it, and he had good hair. Then I saw the devilish side of me...on my other shoulder. His hair was bad, shaped like horns. His grin was very mischievous.

Don’t listen to him, Gilderoy! It’s perfectly normal for them to check peoples’ jackets! Just be calm and do as I say! my angel self told me. I thought for a moment.

Gilderoy, don’t! Do the old "now you see ’em, now you don’t" trick! Disappear...and fast! Wipe their memories out, too...you’ll have to. Just reminding you. My devilish side was definitely starting to appeal to me. It would be simple: wipe some minds, insert new memories, and scram. But what if it backfired?

It can always backfire, Gilderoy! Don’t let it happen. You’re already here, no need to make it worse. Just stick to the plan. The Ministry doesn’t enforce magic in Muggle areas. My angelic side had a good point.

SCREW THE MINISTRY! They have no right to search your bags. You’re Gilderoy Lockhart, remember? And people have no need to search Gilderoy Lockhart’s jacket OR his bags! Your angelic side is getting too influential, Gilderoy. I swear...

Look, you gave them your bag. Might as well give ’em your jacket, too. My angelic side was losing the fight.

Angel, you’re losing the fight. YOU LOSE! my devilish side yelled in my mind.

God, I give up. You’re on your own Gilderoy. I had faith in you, but I guess you’re no different than anyone else... And with that, my angelic side disappeared with a "POOF" sound, turning to gray smoke.

YES! I win! Now, perform the charm and get this over with. My devilish side disappeared into fire and left my shoulder as well. His final words were, "I’ll always be in your thoughts..." Scary thought, to say the least.

"I need your jacket, Sir," the man said. I pulled out my wand.

"You don’t need my jacket," I said, grabbing my bag.

"What are you talking about? I must search your jacket! Don’t make me–whoa! Here, take your bag. Have a nice day."

You go boy!

I stepped out of that room into the next room. Well, it wasn’t a room. It was a hallway. I was now out of Customs. Thank God.

The hallway was large and shiny. The floors matched the color of the walls. There were international flags on the rafters. The U.S. flag and the British flag were the largest, hanging in the center side by side. I could almost imagine a grand musical score playing in the background as I stepped in.

Wait, I wasn’t imagining it. There was a small band playing in the corner. Well, they were marvelous. A grand entrance for a grand man, if you ask me. But don’t take my word for it.

I checked my watch. It was 12:00. Apparently, McDonald’s can give you heartburn. I stopped in a small shop and bought myself some Rolaids, took two, and stopped at a restaurant: the Flight Club.

"Hello, Sir. Are you part of the Flight Club?" the man at the large (and also glass) door said to me.

"No," I responded. "I just need some good food. Can I get that here?" The old man laughed.

"In my opinion, yes. I believe you will like it. But you have to be a member," the old man said. His voice had a hint of a French accent in it.

"I’m not a member," I said in a calm tone, "but I would like to eat." The French man laughed.

"You’ve got to be a member."

"Okay, I’m joining," I replied.

"It’s invitation only."

"That sucks," I said.

"It certainly does. I’m not even a member," the Frenchman said. He laughed a loud French laugh.

I left, rather angry at the whole situation. My reputation was not preceding me. That’s one of the things I hate about the Muggle world.

I scanned the area for another restaurant, finding a pizza place. There was one called Planetary Pizza. There was a television on the wall; on it was a sports channel. There were some highlights from an indoor football game.

"Yeah!" said one onlooker. "Go Enforcers!" The man had a beer in his hand. The bar was dimly lit. The only beverage seemed to be beer. The only food seemed to be pizza.

I didn’t mind a bit.

"What’ll you have?" the bartender asked. I looked at the menu on the wall, seeing the various types of pizza and almost infinite types of alcoholic beverages. Apparently they served vodka, too. The man sitting next to me was drinking vodka.

"Go Enforcers!" he yelled. The Enforcers were the most popular team in the country. They also proved to be a popular point in bars.

"I’ll have three slices of pepperoni and a Bud," I said. The bartender smiled.

"Sure thing," he said as he poured me a Bud. He handed it to me and got my three slices. I ate slowly, watching the football action on the television. Number 8 scored three goals, a hat trick. They were all shown in a quick montage.

I left after an hour, my vision slightly blurred. I do not like to drink, but I had to make an exception in that case. I found my gate and sat down in a chair. I dozed off.

My vision was restored as I woke up. More than a few people had arrived during my nap.

"Did you see A Fish Called Wanda?" asked a woman to a man across from me.

"No, I haven’t," the man said.

"It was very funny," the woman said with a smile on her face.

"I’ll bet," the man said with a monotone in his voice.

I yawned and stretched. I was not tired at all. But why did I yawn? Ah, it is one of life’s questions that will never be answered.

I sat there for about thirty minutes as I waited for the plane. The plane was not there. I was getting paranoid.

I got up from my seat and walked (rather angrily) to the counter that is at every gate.

"May I help you, Sir?" asked the kind woman in an Air World uniform. She had a very annoying pleasantness around her.

"Where’s the plane to New Orleans?" I asked her.

"It was delayed two hours, Sir." I sighed with relief. I had not missed my flight, but I had to wait another two hours in this boring place.

"Why was it delayed?" I asked.

"Bad weather in Paris."

"Where does Paris fit into this situation?" I asked the attendant. Paris was a long way from New Orleans and London.

"The plane was coming from Paris, Sir."

"Oh," I said, dumbfounded. I walked away, slightly embarrassed yet satisfied with my answers and set off to that bar once more.

Thirty minutes later, I walked out of the bar, having eaten five slices without a drink. I found a lemonade stand and immediately bought a large. Hey, it didn’t make me drunk. My mouth was relieved. Then I stepped into the bathroom and answered Nature.

I stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later and found another seat at my gate. I watched the action outside on the runway, waiting for my flight.

"All going on Flight 3789 nonstop to New Orleans: boarding has begun. Have a nice day."

I immediately sprung from my seat and headed for the gate, which was across the carpet. I found myself at the end of the line, knowing I had a first class ticket.

And the line began to move...