Gate Crashers at Dawn

By Richard Segal

With no regrets, three friends committed to break away for an extended weekend to Scandinavia, the homeland of the newest member of the crew, after an evening of imbibing and conversing, of course. In addition to enjoying late winter sun away from day-to-day responsibilities for a period of time, each has his own motivations for the interlude, and who can’t use a battery recharge once every so often? Moreover, one spouse is pleased to have an empty house for the space to strategize a rogue trader rebuttal without distraction. The plans go astray though, as one delay turns into another and their intended destination proves elusive. The uncommon characters at Luton Airport, of all places, are entertaining canvass, but the day suddenly becomes a shell game of personal vulnerability, and the pea is not hidden where it’s perceived to be.

Gate Crashers at Dawn is for anyone who has suffered an interminable delay at an airport and has lived to tell the tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728388564

Richard Segal

Richard Segal, an American citizen, resides in London, England, and works as an economic and financial consultant. He has written widely about matters relating to global public policy over the years. His most recent novel was The Man Who Knew the Answer.

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© 2019 Richard Segal. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/21/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8857-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8856-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

To my parents

Gate Crashers at Dawn

No regrets

Where ya from in Jersey?

It’s a rental.

He pointed to his Washington Heights baseball cap and shouted louder. It’s near the George Washington Bridge, implying the namesake of his cap.

Bit stressed here. The one way system was doing my head in and kept sending me around in circles. Must be a woman involved, or a beer, or taking a woman for a beer, that drove my passion for uncovering the location come what may.

Where ya from in Jersey?

Why do you have a hat from there?

Let alone, why is he wearing one from there? Washington Heights is the wrong side of the GW Bridge. They’re both the wrong side. This friendly fellow was over the moon that he spied a car with New Jersey license plates at a stop light and damned if he wasn’t going to blow to its driver that he was wearing head gear commemorating one of its fine cities. I’d only had the rental for two days by that point, and hadn’t figured out the window lock buttons. As a result, we both had to shout. Nonetheless, the frightened chipmunk run across the three lanes of traffic when I found a parking space that defined the expression ‘you can’t get there from here,’ by car anyway, to the spacious tap room hidden behind warehouses and auto repair shops, was worth it. She’s always worth it.

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W hen James Bond has to get himself out of a pickle before the opening credits have rolled, it is invariably on a snow covered mountain top but death defying only to the stuntmen whose actor’s guild insurance premiums aren’t fully paid up, whereas when I’m sprinting across three lanes of speeding traffic against drivers who are blinded by the bright January sun and hunting for matching license plates, while gal in hand, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is two-thirds of a pint of craft APA in a converted warehouse, rather than a breather to give Ertha Kitt a minute to remember the lyrics before the horn solo and musical montage have been completed. However, what James and I have in common is that we will both be back.

Alright let’s do this. I made no promises, but here I was again at Luton Airport, 5:45 am, holding up the bar. I arrived dead early, almost properly early, and Alan and Dag were nearly checked in, or at least that’s what they said on their text messages. A suspicious spouse might have asked to confirm via GPS locational tracking, but I was neither, and Dag and Anne were the recently married couple. They had been common law for a long time, and Dag didn’t mind either way as long as they were together, but all of a sudden Anne caught the tradition bug and insisted on a ceremony.

My car had been in the lot for a while and our flight was not until 7:50. Thus, plenty of reason for me to be comfortable and wait patiently for them to arrive. I didn’t long for additional newsprint on my hands and I’d read all that was passable on my feed. Thus, I transitioned to eavesdropping. It wasn’t the season of the itch and therefore teems of stag and hen parties were not agglomerating at the bar area, wearing design my night golf shirts with Our Crew logos on the front and nickname and team numbers on the back, nor were there freeze dried drinkers in the retail shops along the periphery. What good is this morning then, a wind dried traveller such as myself would ask rhetorically. Luton doesn’t have a business class lounge, but it does have a fool-proof premium economy lounge upstairs where for a bung you can escape one set of crowds in favour of another. In qualitative terms it is not ‘period,’ and though the customers are, you have to be awake and alert enough to appreciate them.

The sounds were of couples and other pairs deciding which type of beverage would be just the right amount of exacting, groups of three young men trying it on with each other, bar staff conversing and bean grinders purring. The indicator boards above flash with gentle reminders of the time, gate and warnings that there are no flight announcements in this terminal and therefore be with the program and present yourself at the gate with plenty of time to spare.

I took a meeting with the governor of a networking organisation the day before and he’s one of those types who is better at talking than listening, and he doesn’t parse words. When he speaks mistakenly he will correct himself with a ‘no that’s rubbish’ before carrying on, approximately every ten minutes. If I were him and had his means I’d be traveling the world promoting enlightened public policy but he does a lot of good and no harm, and I got what I came for, which was an answer to earlier burning questions, including the state of Paul’s health.

It had only been a scare ten years ago, but it kept him away from the office for six months. Paul was one of the first servicemen to signify and dignify his regiment through pinkie rings rather than tattoos or secret handshakes - no that’s rubbish, only twelve year olds garnish secret handshakes. Salt Bae for an earlier era he is not; maybe he is. I had not at the time searched the ether for his whereabouts or his latest activities, and how he was spending his retirement, but was relieved to hear he was still alive. He and his wife are safely ensconced in their country house, something I might or might not do in this nation though I could in others, but he apparently does trek up to town every week or two to show off his ring and otherwise hold court at the Goring Hotel, which is stereotypical and for sure accurate. He would hire mid-level embassy and trade promotion agency employees to assist in his networking efforts, but in reality they are retired spooks. I must try that sometime. It took me a while to warm to Paul but they will throw away the mould after him, which he created, and you are most welcome.

Down the road from the manor he built is a French super food chain and a Colombian hole in the wall, the latter in the National colors but very bright. The COO is Australian, and this is a good combination. The best coffee served by the best baristas, but don’t ask him a basic question because the return volley will be his life story, and that’s the thirty minute version. And don’t let anyone convince you otherwise, no one makes fast food chains like the French. But, how do they find time to empty the cup in Melbourne before it gets cold if the coffee comes second and the life story first? I did try that some time.

If instead of the purring of the Robusta bean grinder it was the whirr of the tumble dryer I would have been able to close my eyes and doze. The servers would be too busy to notice and the customers are in their own world, the chatter behind me would lull me to sleep faster and it would be a blissful doze. I’d wake refreshed after ten minutes and when Dag and Alan arrived I’d be ready to start the day again, with a quick sojourn to the Gents to throw some water on my face.

As I was drifting off, I overheard a fellow state that ‘the person was dying, so what difference did it make!?!’ His companion asked whether his uncle Maurice was a smoker, but with a tone that belied compassion and understanding, let alone misfortune. The fellow was surely miffed at his companion’s lack of couth. Tsk, tsk. Had I been awake I would have glared in their direction and now I know how my uncle felt when he was dying of cancer.

It was also the day before briefly as I made my way toward Cleary Garden on Huggin Hill, which is split into three levels. My fingers smelled of matches the previous afternoon, where I torched a set of receipts to mark closure of a period of my life. They smelled badly of matches, as if I had been sitting in a room with a corpse for several hours without realising the smell would aerate through. I don’t smoke, but man on the street would be forgiven for thinking I smoked like a stack as I made my way back up north after my personal ceremony was over. That, or the chimney flue was broken, except I was in the open air. It made me sad, staring at the ashes of three receipts and sheets of paper and the five matches it took to burn them.

What am I going to do with the evidence, as in how does a hired gun dispose of his weapon without getting caught? He never can. The vendor who sold me the matches recognised me from years ago and accepted that he owed me one, for the many occasions I took sell-by-date items off his hands on Friday afternoons. I didn’t have any small change because I left it at home in another pocket, though he said I could have them for free. Just don’t tell anyone he is empowered to do this. Could he see this on my face or in his earlier life did he counsel those who learned the hard way that emotional pain is far more agonising than physical pain and there are no masochists who enjoy non-physical pain. Ha ha.

There was a point at which I should have been furious, until I found a kind picture of myself. I, who am not photogenic, actually liked a picture of myself, and I found this in my Download folder when I was looking for something else. I spend an entire adult life trying to work my inner Dorian Gray and it shows up when I’m not looking for it. Cleary Garden is an oasis. However, it is a wind trap which means it’s the wrong place to light a match and I thought I would have to give up. The receipts were not paper but rather a plastic which emitted another odour. I persisted, though, and the deed was done. The middle layer of Cleary Garden and privacy, I could hold my vigil without being interrupted or challenged.

What, leaving so soon, after ten minutes? ‘Didn’t this mean anything to you?’ the challenger or interrupter would ask. ‘Only ten minutes?’ You didn’t even know what died, I would reply, so who are you to ...

My job was done but whereas my pockets might have been empty of change, they were otherwise full. Full of recent interactions in the City, the magnanimity of some people and the deviousness of others. Could person A genuinely be so thoughtful, to lay on such a surprise weekend for a sister who has gone through so much, and without expecting anything in return, because this is what unconditional love for a sister is about, yet equally selfish behaviour by those who are stubborn and feeble inside. What hath anyone wrought? Is it our maker who is bipolar asked the agnostic? But what a weekend Person A laid on for her sister, simply because she wanted to. Her sister’s nickname was Jezzy, unrelated to jazzy; rather an offshoot of Jess, and simply because she wanted to. Her sister deserved the attention and the pampering, but she also had the giving gene, Person A that is.

When the three of us reach our destination and have settled in, I’ll embellish the story and bring it to life for their edification. One dot can not set a trend, though two dots can make a story, especially if I’m in the mood and groove for telling one. When the groovy train picks up a head of steam, it can spin for miles of yarn.

I had to be someplace the next morning, not tomorrow but several weeks ago and because this start would not be early, I afforded myself the luxury of carousing the night before. There were three options but I chose the shortest distance between two points; that is to say, a quick drink in the Marylebone with a friend who was meeting a friend. Actually, I was acquainted with his friend also, and therefore it became just like old times, with beer instead of soft drinks on this occasion. Well it was Marylebone. I passed on the opportunity to attend a surprise party for a company which was holding a renaming event - a bad move under any other circumstances because they are great hosts, but it got too late and I couldn’t show up lit. I don’t do that any more. Plan C was background research on a new taproom, mental notebook in hand, questions in mind for the owners, the brewers and hired hands. But it was not meant to be, Plan C would have neither a dolce far niente nor a dolce vita.

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When the quick drink was over, Gus hopped on the bus and mutual friend Kayser called a taxi, and though it wasn’t the Maxi, it did arrive quickly. I thought about a walk around this neighbourhood, it is tasteful and off the tourist trail. However, I lacked the energy for taking in the surroundings and rationally concluded I should go home and pack.

Life undaunted, I arrived to a scene of cop cars and flashing lights. There must have been something going on earlier and a car was in the middle of the road, I gathered waiting to be towed. I thought not much of this, not my problem, and walked inside for a nightcap before the compulsory packing and settling in for a good night’s rest. However, the lights continued to flash, they would not go away, the cops must have been waiting for someone. I changed back into civilian clothes, had a sip of beer and decided to review the commotion outside. That first sip; it’s like that first touch for a high-priced bench warmer who steps onto the pitch as a sub in the second half with the game scoreless, hoping to break the tie and redeem himself with the long suffering supporters and his tick tocking contract. Two out of three ain’t bad.

Only this wasn’t a rock lobster, it was my car that had been hit by a rental rolling down the hill. A slow hit and run by a driver who opted not to set the parking brake. Did the rental car company check his license to ensure it was valid? Do these bed wetters have adequate insurance cover of their own? I would have to invite the nice policemen in for a cuppa and help them compile an accident report for my insurance company, then call to have the car towed away. With luck, it would be totalled. The nice policemen have never met me before, and would only ask to breathalyse me if I’d been the car crasher, but I obviously made my way