Mardi Gras With Muggles

The line moved quickly. I found myself giving my ticket to the same woman I had previously yelled at before walking through a covered walkway connected to the plane.

"Have a nice day," she had said. What was with that? Was it their slogan? It annoyed me to the highest possible level of annoyance, which I will not name.

I entered the airplane. It’s large, but it’s also rather skinny. A very claustrophobic feel to it. I ducked my head as I searched for my seat in first class.

My seat was a large leather chair. Hopefully, it wasn’t one of those cheap leather, uncomfortable, chairs. The entire front of the plane was two rows consisting of pairs of these leather seats. There was adequate room for your feet and belongings, and you could put your belongings in storage bins on the top. I sat down at my window seat, looking out upon the airport.

There were baggage handlers loading luggage into the plane, and I could spot mine being loaded onto the conveyor belt. It was thrown on in the most violent of manners. I was mad, but I knew there was no way to voice my complaint to the idiot doing this. It seemed he was doing that to everybody’s bag. Perhaps it was the norm.

Either way, it was a very low norm.

A few minutes later, a young man walked into the seat next to me. He looked oddly familiar. Perhaps it was the fact that he was the man I had met while waiting for the airport to get checked for a bomb.

"I thought you were going to New York..." I said to him, lost in words.

"My ticket said New Orleans!" he said in a happy voice. "I guess I never noticed it...I was talking to my parents, and they told me I wasn’t going to New York and was never going to New York...it’s a long story."

"Don’t tell it to me," I snapped as he shoved his backpack under his seat.

"Cool," he said with his head under the seat. It was an odd effect. His head popped up and hit the seat in front of him, which was tilted back.

"God, they’re gonna tell you to put your seat in an upright and locked position, you son of a..." he said, continuing on into a stream of curses. I put my hand on his lap. "Get your..."

"Calm down," I whispered into his ear, putting my hand off his lap. He nodded and kicked the seat in front of him, which had still not been put up. "That’s leather. Don’t kick it."

"I don’t want that seat down; it shouldn’t be down anyway." He stopped kicking it and tapped the man’s shoulder.

"Put your seat up please," he said nicely. There was no response. My companion looked over the seat. "That idiot...he’s sleeping." He found the button that controlled the seat and pushed it, causing the seat to go up. He then sat back in his chair.

"All done," he announced.

"What is your name?" I asked the man. The man coughed.

"George," he said. "George Patton."

"Gilderoy Lockhart," I said, shaking the man’s hand.

"That’s the weirdest name I’ve ever heard."

"Well, suit yourself. Where I come from, I’m rather famous," I said, priding myself on my many accomplishments. George shrugged.

"Never heard of you," he said. "But maybe that’s because I’m American."

"What were you doing in London?" I asked George. George sighed.

"I just moved to London; I work for the United States Army," George said. "Great job."

"I can imagine," I said. If a war came soon, this Patton chap could be dead.

"What do you do for a living that makes you so famous?" George asked.

"I’m a writer," I said. George nodded.

"Don’t read much myself..." Our conversation stopped at that point as we were interrupted by a voice on the intercom.

"We are now preparing for departure. Please pay attention to the following safety instructions..." We then learned all about what would happen if we would have to crash.

"...and remember, make sure your tray table is up and your seat is in the upright locked position. Wear your seatbelt. Don’t smoke. Have a nice day." And with that, the plane began to speed at speeds that were not safe in a regular car.

The plane began to tilt up, and suddenly we were in the air. My ears began to pop. George was chewing on something.

"What are you chewing on?" I asked him, my ears popping like there was not tomorrow.

"Gum," he replied. "Want a piece?" He held his hand out, and I could see one stick of spearmint gum.

"Sure," I replied, unwrapping it and chewing on it. My ears stopped popping madly. I nodded as I looked out the window, seeing the airport from the sky. I felt like I could touch the little airport with my hands, play with it like a toy. Of course, that would not exactly be manly of me, would it?

I yawned and checked my watch. This would be a very long flight. I put my seat down, tried to relax, and found myself staring at a very large woman.

"Get your..." Almost immediately, my seat went up to the point in which it could not go up more. I sighed and pulled my tray table down, resting my hands on it as George began to tell me the story of his life.

"...and when I was three, I stuck a gun at my dog’s head and blew his head off!" That’s just one of the highlights from his violence filled life. Perhaps he enjoyed it...

The steward came by and offered me a drink. "I’ll have a tequila!" was George’s response.

"We don’t serve that on the plane, Sir," was the reply from the steward.

"What the heck kind of plane doesn’t serve tequilas?" asked George.

"This one, Sir. I can offer you a beer..."

"Vodka?" George asked.

"Afraid we don’t have that either..." said the steward. George pulled the steward forward and whispered in his eye. "Sure thing, Mister Zemeckis! I just love that Back to the Future movie...and Used Cars...1941 is a great one, too. Hey, I heard a rumor that you’re making two more. Care to comment?"

"Yeah," George–or this elusive Mister Zemeckis–said. "We’re gonna make at least two more; and Eric Stoltz will be in it, too."

"Cool! I must say, I’ve been dying to get hold of that footage with Stoltz since I found out about it!" the steward said. Who was Eric Stoltz?

"Yeah, well, you just may see it..." George said.

"Great...maybe he’ll get hold of the time machine and reenact every scene in the first one..." the steward said, his eyes wide with admiration.

"Is there an in-flight movie?" George asked. The steward nodded.

"You won’t believe what it is..."

"What?" I asked, hoping to break the conversation that was interrupting my life.

"Back to the Future," was the response from the steward. This was just great. "It starts in two hours! God, I love that move..."

I could tell. The steward went on about the theories of time travel, how magical the cinematic moment of Marty McFly singing "Johnny, Be Good" at the high school dance was.

"Hey, don’t ruin the movie for me," I said as the steward talked began talking about how he had tried to make a flux capacitor.

"It’s been an honor meeting you, Mister Zemeckis...I hope I see you again. I want a sequel! Two, even!" And with that, the steward left. For the moment.

"I’ll keep your comments in mind," George said. George laughed. "I love DeLoreans..."

"What is a DeLorean?" I asked. George smiled.

"It’s the coolest car on the planet. Silver, doors that go up...I wish I had one," George said. I frowned, thinking of a junky car with doors that flew up with wings. It definitely did not sound like the coolest car in the world to me.

I spent the next two hours looking out the window. I did not listen to a single word George said to me. It felt great.

"Our in-flight feature Back to the Future will be starting in just a few minutes. Please do not make noise as the movie plays. Thank you, and have a nice day.

Suddenly, I noticed a screen in the front of the airplane and began to experience the wonderful cinematic masterpiece that is Back to the Future. It’s the adventures of Marty McFly...oh, it was wonderful. I could go on for pages about every little detail in the movie, and the film just screams for a sequel...all I have to say is wow.

"Cool car," George said to me after it was done. I smiled.

"You bet," I said. "I wouldn’t mind a flux capacitor either."

"If I had a time machine, I could go meet my folks in New Orleans instead of traveling on this stupid plane. Last time I was on a plane, it crashed...can you believe that? I didn’t even get a refund. Can you believe that? We’re flying over the ocean...and the plane drops...then we’re in water deeper than I like to be in...Jesus, it sucked. Can you believe it? I can’t think of a worse situation to be in...I mean, come on! Then the guy next to me was too fat to get out of his seat...I nearly died waiting for him to get out...I was ticked off, that’s what I was..." George said, carrying on about the two hours he spent in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. It sounded like a horrible experience. I would never get into a horrible experience like that.

The plane was a futile exercise in boredom. On one hand, I had a constantly talking George Patton. On the other hand, I had a steward that thought George was Robert Zemeckis, the director of Back to the Future. I had stopped paying any attention at all to my watch. At some point on the very boring plane ride, George went to the bathroom and dinner was served while he was there. Just as reading this chapter is an exercise in boredom, the rest of my plane ride was as well. (Do you want to hear the details of my dream? I didn’t think so. You do? Well, you’ll have to miss out since I forgot all about it.)

I arrived at the New Orleans airport some hours later, well into the next morning. Thankfully I had slept the entire last half of the plane ride. I looked around my gate, searching for a sign that said "LOCKHART."

I found my answer, in a large man watching the television. Tacked to his briefcase was the word "LOCKHART."

Archie Delis. He looked the same as the time I met him drunk at the Minister’s party nine years ago.

"Archie," I said as I walked toward my old friend. Archie stretched out, apparently not noticing me. Hopefully he was doing that on purpose; it would be very tough communicating with a deaf guide.

"Archie!" I said, slapping my hand on his shoulder.

"What do you want?" he said as he turned around. "The weather report’s–"

"It’s me!" I said, smiling a bright smile. My face must have been to bright for him to look at directly, because he immediately covered his face. Certainly peculiar behavior.

" ‘It’s me’ who?" Archie asked. It seemed almost childish.

"Gilderoy Lockhart!"

Archie coughed and turned back around, watching the weather report. "It’s over. You made me miss the freaking weather report! How the heck am I supposed to know whether or not it’s gonna rain tomorrow?" The day was February 1^st. The time: 9:00 AM, New Orleans time.

"Can’t you watch it at home?" I asked.

"Do you know what it’s like getting your fan mail forwarded to me? Thank God it’s not by owl; the neighbors would think we were crazy! God! I don’t know how you can take fame, Mister Lockhart..." Archie said, smiling while he got up and gave me a quick hug. "Long time no see, my friend..."

"Too many letters, old chap...are we going to a parade today?" I asked.

"Are you crazy? Jesus, I wanted to give you a break, let you settle down; and all you care about is Mardi Gras! You’re crazy, if you ask me," Archie said with a bizarre mix of a southern and British accent.

"Well, it’s called fame; and I happen to like it," I said. Archie nodded.

"You know what? I spent many years spying on those evil mastermind type guys that absolutely want fame. And they’ll achieve it however they want. It’s insane, and it drives them to insanity. Fame is a bad thing, if you ask me..." Archie said, delivering one of his monologues on the subject of fame. We’d had this conversation before. Perhaps the fact that he’d been a spy influenced him somewhat.

"Whatever you say, Archie..." He laughed, and we left the gate. "Do I have to go through Customs again?"

"Of course, Gilderoy! You think you can get off just like that? Well, guess what?"

"What?"

"You can’t."

"I can get past them..." I said. Archie shook his head.

"I get a message about that stunt you pulled in London at Customs. Rather stupid. Don’t do it. You’re here to socialize with Muggles, make friends, go to Mardi Gras..." Archie reminded me. He coughed and stopped next to the bathroom.

"Go," he said. "Did you go on the plane?"

"Yes."

"Well, go again," Archie said, pointing to the bathroom.

"I don’t have to go. I’ll go at your place," I said.

"You need to go here," Archie said.

"Why? It’s a public bathroom! Probably gross and disgusting if you ask me..."

Archie sighed. "We could get in a traffic jam...so go use that confounded thing now!"

"On one condition," I said.

"What?" Archie asked, obviously very ticked off at my reluctance to gain some type of disease from a public bathroom.

We walked into the bathroom, and I was surprised to see there was no door. It was a curvy walkway leading into the bathroom. We stepped in, carrying our baggage. I stepped into a stall and answered Nature.

I heard Archie get in front of my stall as I began the process of...well, you know. Excretion.

"Dude, can you move so I can get in the stall?" asked a man with a voice very similar to that of Biff’s on Back to the Future.

"I’m just waiting for a friend that’s in the stall...maybe you could go to the next one?" Archie suggested with a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

"They’re all taken, butt head. Tell your friend to hurry up," the man said.

"Gilderoy, you heard the man. Get out of the stall," Archie said. I was going as fast as I could.

"I’m trying!" I grunted as I finished and cleaned up. "Let me out!" The door opened, and I fell to the floor. The large man stormed into the stall and slammed it shut.

"Wash your hands," said an old man above me. I got up, taking my briefcase with me. I washed my hands and stepped out with Archie.

"That guy sure was anxious to go," I said. Archie nodded.

"I could have sworn the one next to you was empty, Gilderoy. I don’t know...maybe it was his lucky stall or something," Archie said, wiping his nose. "Certainly odd behavior."

"Reminded me a lot of Biff," I said.

"Biff?" Archie asked.

"Biff! You know, from Back to the Future!"

Archie nodded. "Yeah, I remember that movie. Good flick. Entertaining, to say the least."

"Whatever. Where do I get my other bag? My suitcase," I said.

"You’ve got to go through Customs again; there’s a baggage claim there," Archie answered.

"Baggage claim?" I asked, confused. "Shouldn’t they already know the baggage is mine?"

"No, Gilderoy. You just have to get your bag off the carousel," Archie said.

"The carousel? You mean one of those huge things at fairs with horses that go up and down? I thought Muggles were weird, but this–"

"You really are insane, Gilderoy. Jesus, it’s just a carousel, a conveyor belt. Don’t go crazy," Archie said as we found Customs, which looked a lot like the one in London. "Now don’t go playing any tricks. I’ll meet you on the other side." And with that, I headed into Customs; and my companion disappeared.

To sum it all up, Customs was a pointless rehash of my previous experiences with it in London, just without the workers losing some of their memories.

After waiting almost forever for my suitcase, I left Customs, finding Archie outside the door. "I’ve got to take you to the Holiday Inn," Archie said. "Why do you want to stay at a hotel again?"

"Well, I don’t want to disturb you and your wife..." I said. Archie laughed.

"Like you’re going to! My wife hates Mardi Gras. And I mean it, too. You can stay at my place; she’s visiting her mother. But if you want to stay at the hotel and blow off money, you can. Just warning you though: I can’t cook," Archie said. I still couldn’t get over his hybrid accent.

"Actually, I sort of like staying in hotels...room service and all." We were walking out of the airport. Seemingly hundreds of cars were waiting outside; most of them were taxis or buses.

"Suit yourself," Archie said. "I did give you the better–not to mention free–deal. But as I said, fame has a horrible effect on people..."

"Whatever."

"Hey, we gotta catch a bus to get to my parking lot," Archie said, pointing me in the direction of a bus. "It was cheaper."

We got into the small white bus, and there was no one else in it. "Hey," said the bus driver. There was some static on the radio and some words I didn’t catch. The driver began a stream of curses.

"Hey, calm down," Archie told the man.

The driver slammed the wheel, yelling a certain curse word that starts with an "F." He continued yelling it.

"Stop!" I yelled as a little boy began getting in the bus. The boy’s father (or at least it appeared to be) slapped the driver.

"Don’t do that in the presence of my family again! This has happened more than once...I thought you were reported!"

The bus driver laughed, smiling a smile that had maybe two teeth. "They didn’t give a..." the driver began, cursing out the father. Immediately, Archie got up and handled this.

"Somebody needs to wash your mouth out nice and long with soap," Archie told the driver. The driver showed Archie his middle finger on his right hand.

"That’s extremely rude," Archie said in his calmest manner. The driver then showed Archie his other middle finger as well. I couldn’t take this any longer.

I rose up from my seat and stood next to Archie. "Should I take out my wand?" I whispered to Archie.

"No," he whispered back. "Do you have any ideas?"

"Yeah," I said. "Stand back." I eyed the rude bus driver nervously. "Get the family at the end of the bus." Archie did as he was told.

"So, you like having those two fingers where they are?" I asked the bus driver. " ’Cause I can make them stay there."

"What are you talking about?" the bus driver said. "I’ll take you on..." The bus driver stood up, his fingers in my face.

"You really those fingers, don’t you?" I asked. The driver nodded.

"You tryin’ to be funny?" the driver asked me, turning his head up and down.

"No, not at all. I’m being serious here," I said. The driver’s fingers were almost in my eyes. "I would appreciate it if you moved those fingers out of my face."

"Would you like it if they were fists?" I was asked. More people got on the bus.

"Can’t we just go?" I asked.

"Schedule says we have to leave in fifteen minutes," the bus driver said. His fingers stayed in the same place.

"Would you please move your fingers out of my face?" I asked politely, my tone not growing louder, unlike the bus driver’s.

"Stop treating me rudely," he said.

"Why don’t you?" I said. He removed his fingers from my face. They became fists.

You cannot use your wand, I told myself, thinking about resorting to the easy way.

"You started this," he reminded me. After all, I did yell at him to stop cursing when the child came on.

"You provoked me," I said, smiling.

"What does that mean?" the bus driver asked me.

"Get a dictionary," I said.

"Stop being smart," the bus driver said. I could see the amount of intelligence he had in him.

"Get a high school diploma," I said. That was it for the bus driver. He swung the first punch. I blocked it, twisting his arm. Then he kicked me. I fell to the floor of the bus, clutching my stomach.

"You’re gonna die..."