Rescue

the plane to bring me here.“
    Pushing my suitcase, heavier with Pepe’s towel-wrapped items in it, I nodded politely, but the pudgy guy wearing the Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirt on line in front of me wasn’t finished yet. “Two weeks a year I get vacation to get outta the fucking city of New York , and I gotta waste a fucking hour of it on a line here.“
    I shook my head this time, hoping for a change of luck. We were about twelve people from the front of the line, a blazered employee directing the next person to one of the twenty or so equally blazered agents behind the counters and computers, like a huge bank with lots of tellers. After each earlier element moved forward, our employee handed a six-by-nine card to the third person in line.
    When the pudgy guy finally got his, he turned around again. “Oh, great, just great. The headlines, don’t scare you off, what do you suppose this does?“
    The card had warnings to the rental company’s “Valued Clients.“ It used bold type and underlining to emphasize the kinds of advice Pepe had already given me, the first one being “If you are bumped from behind, continue on to the next well-lighted, populated area.“ The refrain in each warning was DO NOT STOP!, the surrounding language sounding like it was drafted less by the advertising agency and more by the legal department.
    “So,“ said the New Yorker, “What do you fucking think of this?“
    “I think they want you back again next year.“
    “You do?“
    “Yeah, but I can’t think why.“
    He gave me a dirty look, but got reached by the blazer and waddled off to the empty window. I got waved to one five over from him.
    My agent turned out to be a pleasant woman in her twenties, a trace of the Old South in her voice. “Good morning, sir. Reservation?“
    “No. But whatever you have will be fine.“
    A bright smile. “Boy, if I could only tell you how rarely we hear that.“
    The pudgy guy five windows over boomed out, “You gotta check what?“
    We both glanced at him. My agent said, “New Yorkers, they don’t like the fact that our computers can run their drivers’ licenses, see if they’re accident or ticket risks.“
    I tried to keep my voice steady. “You can do that now?“
    “Uh-huh. License, please?“
    I handed her the “John Francis“ one. “Must make it better for the company.“
    “Oh, yes. We can access only a few registries. New York, Ohio—Florida, of course. You’d be surprised how many people who live here rent cars after flying from another part of the state.“
    “It’s a big state, all right.“
    “Yessir. But, since yours is Massachusetts, there’s no problem.“ The bright smile.
    I returned it as she handed back “my“ license, and the Pudgy guy boomed, “You gotta be shitting me!“ to his agent.
    Her finger tapping the same button on the keyboard, I had the feeling my agent was scrolling as she glanced over to the Yorker again and frowned. “Well, I’ll tell you what. We’ve got a Sunbird, white-on-white convertible. I’ve driven one, and they are just the most fun. Would you like that?“
    I didn’t have to think about it. Every tourist’s dream should be John Francis’s as well. “Perfect.“
    “Great. Let me just print you—“
    “Do you have any idea, you fucking spic, who you’re talking to here? I’ll have your fucking job, your fucking house, you got one that isn’t packed with your fucking kids—Hey, hey! Get your fucking hands off me!“
    The three security guards had materialized out of nowhere, one on each of the pudgy guy’s arms, the third talking into a radio. The radio guard’s other hand hoisted the suitcase from five windows down as the entire quartet disappeared through a doorway that the radio man had to use a key to open.
    My agent said, “Sorry about the disturbance, Mr. Francis.“
    “Happen often?“
    A not-so-bright smile and a hush-now voice. “The party line is, ‘almost never.’ The truth is about twice a shift, more in season. These people come down from the cold for a vacation, they don’t like to be told they’ll be taking buses or taxis everywhere they want to go.“
    She handed me the contract forms and a sheet of very specific directions. “Your Sunbird is in stall number C9, out the door and to the left. You’ll be heading where, Mr. Francis?“
    “The Keys.“
    The agent used a red pen to circle one paragraph of directions on the front of the sheet and another on the back of the sheet.