Camila + Haruki
As I backed away from the line, a scruffy TAP guard in fascist (probably grimy) black clothes and a dumb Che beard grabbed my arm. He was wearing the stereotypical Anarchist Beret for the TAP Vanguard, a hat that was way too small for his melon-shaped noggin, his fingers strumming his rifle strap like a sad guitar. In another life, this bloke would be living in some uni co-op, playing Cat Steven ballads and Nick Drake oldies to high hippie chicks, but in this one, he had an automatic laser rifle and a really tight French hat that seemed to be cutting off his circulation. To be honest, it scared the piss out of me.
I turned to CSR at the counter and then back to him, trying to think of a way out.
—Is there a problem here? he asked.
—None whatsoever, I said.
I handed him my English F-NIC card (Firster National ID Card).
—Brother, where’s your TAP card?
—Sorry, mate, but I don’t have one.
—Why the hell not?
—I’m not an anarchist.
—Okay, come with me, he said, motioning with his fingers.
—Wait. I’m not a SFC either, okay?
—I said come with me.
—Sir, just let me go? I’m not gonna bother anyone and I’m leaving right now. As if on cue, an Indian passenger in a pin-striped suit and electronic glasses started screaming at the security check-point, his face illuminated like an old halogen light bulb.