Pulp Fiction

Here is a little piece I have been playing with, tell me what you think.

They were not ready for the blast of tropical heat that greeted them as the French speaking flight attendant opened the door of the battered old Cessna. The bright sun and the dust filtering in, they squinted, grabbed the 2 small duffle bags and filed out on the tarmac. The heat and humidity was overwhelming as they walked into the open, World War II vintage corrugated tin hangar that served as a passenger terminal and immigration office. “Wish we had remembered to get sunglasses” she whispered.

“Passenger Terminal” was a loose term for this place. They threaded their way through the mass of people and he noticed pallets of neatly stacked sacks, coffee maybe? Maybe something else… There were all manner of crude wooden cages and chickens running loose. Stalls of market sellers, calling to the crowd, babies crying, dark young solders standing with soviet era rifles at the doors and the ever present overwhelming “perfume” of the 3^rd world tropics.

They crossed the terminal to a counter under a rusting sign hung from chains, “Customs”. The counter was staffed by a grey haired black man in the remnants of what appeared to be a uniform from the British government, from back when they thought they could tame this place. Sweating, partly from the heat and partly from nerves, He hoped that they did not look too conspicuous, wearing clothes more fitting for fall in New England than a vacation to the Caribbean. He glanced over at the woman who also was a tightly grabbing the handle of the second bag.   “Just stick with the story” he thought to himself. He could see that she was tired, the last 36 hours beginning to take its toll, little or no sleep between them.

“Captain James”, the customs agent introduced himself with a colonial British accent and looked them both over with a sharp eye. They produced their passports as requested and the captain studied the paperwork as he asked the typical series of questions…”the purpose of your stay”? …Vacation… “How long are you planning to stay?”...oh a week.. Pausing and looking up at them, seeming to study their responses....”and all you have for a week are these two bags?” She had been quiet but at the moment, she turned, smiled at him and with a bit of a laugh said “all we need is our bathing suits”.  Reaching over and squeezing her hand, he hoped it would not be for the last time. After a moment of silence while the captain stared at the couple, he sighed, withdrew a well-worn stamp from the desk drawer and with a flourish, he stamped both passports.  “Welcome, please enjoy your stay.”