given us seats in First Class . Don’t talk to me about being late. I know how to be late.”
The Lipfitters save in other ways by being late. Shops in the airport don’t make any money on them. They depend on customers who must spend hours inside an airport with absolutely nothing to do but cruise the airport newsstands and bookstores. Who but the bored to death would buy magazines like Funeral Home Management , Cubicle Cloth Designer , Pension Fund Skimmer , Meter Reader Monthly and Professional Llama Breeder . What? No Amateur Llama Breeder ? What kind of a dump are you running here?
The bookstores are jammed with best-selling self-help books like How to Pick a Self-Help Book , How to Get the Most Out of Self-Help Books , How to Get to the Front of This Store by Yourself , and Running a Billion Dollar Corporation Into the Dirt Made Simple .
You can also pick up a six-dollar container of three individually-wrapped antacid tablets at any newsstand. Which you’ll need, because the only thing you can buy to eat in the entire airport without having to stand in an hour-long line is a frozen yogurt and a bag of cashews. You’ll never get into any of the good restaurants. Even if you do, you won’t have time to eat there. Wait, isn’t that the Liptfitters? They’re sitting in the window of L’Exquisite , the fanciest restaurant in the entire airport. The line snakes from terminal A to terminal B and back again. How did they get in? They are laughing and drinking wine. She is eating medallions of beef with crabmeat garnish. He is having the coq au vin .
I can’t worry about it now. I have accidentally dragged my coat through something wet and smelly on the men’s room floor while trying to juggle my carry-on luggage and use the sink at the same time. On my way to the Baggage Claim, the youngish-looking Liptfitters glide past me on a beeping, chauffeur-driven electric cart normally used to ferry the elderly and infirm around airports. When I finally get to the car rental desk, my reserved car has already been rented because I had to wait an hour to find out I wasn’t going to get my luggage and another hour to fill out the form. My car went to a nice, young couple—the Liptfitters.
“If you had only come here on time,” said the clerk. “There’s nothing we can do until morning.”
Flight of the Bumblebee
T hese flat escalators at the airport are my favorite thing to play on. My sister Chrissy and me like to run in the wrong direction on them while big people try to get around us. It’s like a Disney ride but you don’t have to wait in line. But lots of times grown-ups don’t even know it’s a ride. Sometimes they don’t even get on the escalators and walk in the boring old aisles even though they can see us having lots of fun on them. Other times they say things like, “This is not a playground, you could get hurt. Where are your parents?”
Clean your glasses, mister. They’re standing right over there. Dad’s reading the newspaper. Mom’s on her cell phone. Hey, you want to run up the down escalator with me? Never mind, watch this. I can hang on this black, rubbery moving thing and then let it drag me along with it down the flat escalator. No, you can’t do it, Chrissy. I just invented it and it’s mine. Mom. Mom! MOM! MMMOMMM! Chrissy won’t stop it!
I got brand new wheelie shoes. They’re like sneakers and roller skates all in one. Watch this. Watch, Mom, watch! Mom. Mom! MOM! MMMOMMM! Too late. They never seem to be watching when I do the coolest stuff, like skate in and out of that line of people over there. It’s like I’m invisible. Want to see me ram this shopping cart thingy into a window real hard? Watch!
Wow! Did you see that! The whole window shook. Did you see that old lady jump? Did you see everybody watching me? Except Mom and Dad. They miss all the good stuff. Mom! Mom, watch me! MOM! MMMOMMMM! Look!
Why do we have to see stupid, old grandma anyway? She doesn’t let me
The Lipfitters save in other ways by being late. Shops in the airport don’t make any money on them. They depend on customers who must spend hours inside an airport with absolutely nothing to do but cruise the airport newsstands and bookstores. Who but the bored to death would buy magazines like Funeral Home Management , Cubicle Cloth Designer , Pension Fund Skimmer , Meter Reader Monthly and Professional Llama Breeder . What? No Amateur Llama Breeder ? What kind of a dump are you running here?
The bookstores are jammed with best-selling self-help books like How to Pick a Self-Help Book , How to Get the Most Out of Self-Help Books , How to Get to the Front of This Store by Yourself , and Running a Billion Dollar Corporation Into the Dirt Made Simple .
You can also pick up a six-dollar container of three individually-wrapped antacid tablets at any newsstand. Which you’ll need, because the only thing you can buy to eat in the entire airport without having to stand in an hour-long line is a frozen yogurt and a bag of cashews. You’ll never get into any of the good restaurants. Even if you do, you won’t have time to eat there. Wait, isn’t that the Liptfitters? They’re sitting in the window of L’Exquisite , the fanciest restaurant in the entire airport. The line snakes from terminal A to terminal B and back again. How did they get in? They are laughing and drinking wine. She is eating medallions of beef with crabmeat garnish. He is having the coq au vin .
I can’t worry about it now. I have accidentally dragged my coat through something wet and smelly on the men’s room floor while trying to juggle my carry-on luggage and use the sink at the same time. On my way to the Baggage Claim, the youngish-looking Liptfitters glide past me on a beeping, chauffeur-driven electric cart normally used to ferry the elderly and infirm around airports. When I finally get to the car rental desk, my reserved car has already been rented because I had to wait an hour to find out I wasn’t going to get my luggage and another hour to fill out the form. My car went to a nice, young couple—the Liptfitters.
“If you had only come here on time,” said the clerk. “There’s nothing we can do until morning.”
Flight of the Bumblebee
T hese flat escalators at the airport are my favorite thing to play on. My sister Chrissy and me like to run in the wrong direction on them while big people try to get around us. It’s like a Disney ride but you don’t have to wait in line. But lots of times grown-ups don’t even know it’s a ride. Sometimes they don’t even get on the escalators and walk in the boring old aisles even though they can see us having lots of fun on them. Other times they say things like, “This is not a playground, you could get hurt. Where are your parents?”
Clean your glasses, mister. They’re standing right over there. Dad’s reading the newspaper. Mom’s on her cell phone. Hey, you want to run up the down escalator with me? Never mind, watch this. I can hang on this black, rubbery moving thing and then let it drag me along with it down the flat escalator. No, you can’t do it, Chrissy. I just invented it and it’s mine. Mom. Mom! MOM! MMMOMMM! Chrissy won’t stop it!
I got brand new wheelie shoes. They’re like sneakers and roller skates all in one. Watch this. Watch, Mom, watch! Mom. Mom! MOM! MMMOMMM! Too late. They never seem to be watching when I do the coolest stuff, like skate in and out of that line of people over there. It’s like I’m invisible. Want to see me ram this shopping cart thingy into a window real hard? Watch!
Wow! Did you see that! The whole window shook. Did you see that old lady jump? Did you see everybody watching me? Except Mom and Dad. They miss all the good stuff. Mom! Mom, watch me! MOM! MMMOMMMM! Look!
Why do we have to see stupid, old grandma anyway? She doesn’t let me
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