Circus in a Shot Glass by Beth Overmyer

Author:Beth Overmyer [Overmyer, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Clean Reads
Published: 2018-09-03T16:00:00+00:00

The remainder of the flight was uneventful for the most part. The tourist section, which had attempted a drunken singalong early in the flight, fell asleep halfway through the trip to New York. When we landed, they were quiet, perhaps still somewhat tanked.

There was a three-hour stopover, so Mum and I found an open kiosk which sold large slices of pizza. “Ten ninety-five,” said the man with an accent thicker than his hair. As fast as everyone in the airport moved, this man seemed in no hurry to serve us.

Having half-understood what he’d said, I asked him to repeat himself, and the price went up another dollar. “Mum, would you—”

My mother took the foreign currency from my hands and paid the man what he was demanding. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

We nodded, and as we turned to find a place to set down on our hand baggage and eat, I heard a muttered, “Tourists.”

And that was my first impression of the United States of America: land of the that’ll-cost-you-extra, and home of the bigot. But I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. First impressions are often misleading.

“Would you like me to buy something to drink?”

“A fiver and then some for two slices of pizza,” Mum said with a laugh. “We’ll be in the poorhouse in no time. I think we’d better hold our wallets more tightly, yes?”

I rose. “Well, then, in the words of Marie Antoinette: Let them drink water. I’ll be back in a moment.” And if I thought the pizza was expensive, I was gobsmacked by the cost of two bottles of water. No one would give me a cup for free; I’d have to buy something. So I returned with two tiny cups of water with ice and a bag of crisps.

This baffled my mother, but she opened the bag regardless. “Americans eat crisps with pizza?”

I shrugged. “When in New York, do as the Yanks do. Cheers.” The pizza was cool by this point, the cheese congealing into a greasy mess. I choked the whole thing down anyway, and my mother didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. We hadn’t eaten since the beginning of our flight, and that had been only one bag of peanuts shared between us both.

Once I’d finished my slice, I did what my mother always accused me of doing: I people-watched. People were in such a hurry there. I mean, everyone rushes through airports to get to their connecting flight, to see their loved ones, to use the public toilet, and so forth. But there in New York it was madness beyond the normal rush. Unless we kept pace, I was certain we would be trampled.

Was all of America like this airport and the till operator at the pizza kiosk? If so, they were not only fast but loud and rude. But I knew better than to give in and believe stereotypes. What I would have to do was make a wide acquaintance of both American men and women and then judge for myself whether or not I would do well here.

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