Of course I am special. I know all the words to the nonsense rhyme “One fine day in the middle of the night”, I once made an Olympic torch out of cardboard and coloured streamers and I’m the only person sitting at Table 12 at this cafe at this moment writing this story.
The family two tables away, all staring silently and simultaneously at their phones, are special too, in a creepy digital way.
Even the baguette with three day old “cured” salmon is labelled on the chalk board as “Today’s Special”. I hate to think what the salmon was cured of.
But really, the central selfish question is: how can I receive special treatment?
This is one of those great imponderables of life, especially if you are in an airport departure lounge waiting to board a plane. On this particular occasion the flight from Singapore to home was late boarding because it was late arriving from Wasabe Salami because of special digestive problems. So we waited in the departure lounge and waited and waited. It was a special period of waiting. Not everyone gets to wait that long – only the special ones who are specially selected by the airline.
Then the airline staff arrived. They were special because they were there to help us, the special honoured guests of Royal French Fry Airlines. They took their places inside the restricted roped off area next to the departure gate. That area became special to every passenger. It became everyone’s ambition to get inside that roped off area. We wanted to be there because it was special, it was one step closer to the plane, we were all tired and we were all sick of waiting for Royal French Fry Airlines to get their fry together and fly us home.
There were no announcements. But gradually, as the crowd became more restive, individuals and family groups approached the staff to plead their special case to be allowed to go into the roped inner sanctum and so be the first to board the plane.
We veterans, who had been occupying ourselves in the departure lounge for the last two days by cleaning our fingernails and inflating and deflating our neck pillows, looked with scorn on these newcomers. When these upstarts were turned back by the Royal French Fry staff, we nodded knowingly at one another as grandmasters of the departure lounge. We looked haughtily at them as they sheepishly returned.
Speculation began to circulate as to what excuses they had used to try to wheedle special treatment from the RFF staff.
Someone had heard one of them say “Olympic” to the staff. Were they trying to pass themselves off as Olympic athletes or as spectators who had got lost coming home from Rio or were they just transfer passengers from Olympic Air?
This pattern continued, with bold bustlers trying to burst their way through into the roped off shrine of specialness.
One group, it was rumoured, had claimed to be Russian royalty deserving special royal treatment. The staff replied that all passengers on RFF were treated like royalty because of the company name. These imperial imposters were sent back to the plebeian pack.
We waited. And waited.
Then it happened.
A multi-generational group of tattooed travellers were ushered behind the rope and into the partitioned area of specialness. What was so special about them? Was it the body art? Everyone fossicked around in their hand luggage looking for pens or markers to scrawl on their skin. Some of these newly decorated departees tried to gain access to the centre of significance but they were again repulsed by the staff.
Another family approached the stronghold and they too were admitted. They will all very good looking and wore sunglasses on top of their heads. Was this special treatment for the fashionable and genetically blessed? Should we raise this with the UN Commissioner for Discrimination Against Ordinary Uglies?
An old man and his toddler granddaughter were allowed in. This was clearly ageist and cuteist discrimination. We agreed that further protests to the UN were needed.
Then three scowling men in military uniforms strode through the barrier. The word went around that there had been a military coup in French Fryland and that they were Special Forces soldiers.
Finally, in desperation, we formed a deputation of passengers to approach the Royal French Fry Airlines staff to enquire about the acceptance qualifications for the sanctuary of special.
They marched up to the RFF staff behind the rope.
“We represent the passengers. We include passengers who have paid special printing fees for our boarding passes and special fees for our seat cushions. We also represent Premium Economy passengers who expect premium economy treatment on the ground as well as several extra centimetres of seat spacing in the air. We demand to be admitted to this special treatment lounge to be specially treated!”
The Royal French Fry staff suddenly stiffened. “Your request is contrary to the health regulations.”
They had something to hide. What was it? What was the secret of being treated as special?
Our champions went on the attack.
“This is blatant discrimination. What’s so special about them?”
“They have been separated” said the staff “because they have all been exposed to the Zuzu virus and may be contagious.”
Our representatives drew back in horror. They slunk past the afflicted ones in the roped off area while pressing handkerchiefs to their noses.
“You’re not so special” sniffed one passenger as he passed the Zuzu sufferers. “Oh yes we are” came the reply. “Guess who’s been allocated all the Business Class seats?”
Business Class on Royal French Fry Airlines – now that’s special. Good story for our friends when we arrived home. Risky though. Word began spreading like wildfire about how to feign the symptoms of Zuzu. If we could fake it, maybe we could make it as the special people we hoped we really were, but knew we probably weren’t.
++++
© Geoff Milton 2016
