a cup of coffee

My oldest brother is four years my senior. We used to have these Monopoly marathons when I was a kid. I'd get up to use the bathroom and would come back to find him giggling.

"Put it back," I'd say.

"What?"

"I quit if you don't put it back."

Then my brother would take a house off of one of his properties or put five hundred dollars back in the bank.

"Okay, you happy?"

The die were in my hand, ready to be rolled. The air was still. My brother was the perp and I was the cold stone detective waiting for him to crack. He avoided eye contact. My hours of little sister training taught me to wait. The murmur of a giggle. It was time to read him his rights.

"Put it back."

"Okay okay," he begged.

Another five hundred goes back into the banker stash along with an electric company and another property from the orange neighborhood. This continued until he stopped giggling. Then I know he's given it all back.

****

The airplane is about to land. SFO to Vietnam is a long trip. Instead of handing out pretzels and peanuts, passengers get unlimited cup of noodles. When in Rome right?

It's hot and muggy, typical Vietnamese weather any time of year. Except, during the monsoon season--it's hot, muggy and rainy. I don't know if the change in weather pattern helps or hurts the locals, but to a foreigner like me the rain never helps anything.

I walk down the flight of stairs to wait for my shuttle to the main building. Lines to the Vietnamese are like stop signs to the Italians, mere suggestions. As more old people make their way down the plane, I find myself further back of the line. My mother always tells me to be nice to old people because their time on this earth is limited. It's safe to say I have been waiting for people to croak since I was a kid.

A short two minute ride leads us to the airport building. With only my backpack and fresh legs, I sprint past the line cutters down one corridor to another until I reach a big open room. At the end of the room sits the Customs Agents. I gather my visa and passport for the guy in the green uniform when he motions for me.

"Hey, whats up?" I ask the guy in green.

He inspects my paperwork.

"How long are you here for," he asks me in Vietnamese.

I give him a blank look. The blank clueless look is my greatest asset, gotten me out of almost every predicament I've been in.

"You Vietnamese," he asks in English.

I nod without dropping the look.

"You speak Vietnamese?" he continues.

I shake my head. Lack of speaking lends more credibility to the whole cluelessness.

"What kind of Vietnamese don't speak Vietnamese," he mutters in Vietnamese.

He stamps all the necessary documents and I'm free to go.

It's the line cutters turn. They gather their visas and passports. They make their way to the an agent. The line cutters greet the agents with much respect.

"Chao Chu," they always say. (Chao Chu=hello Mr. -- it's from the Vietnamese who don't speak from the Vietnamese dictionary. Those reading this might want to verify from another source.)

They are immediately toast. By speaking, they just broke the cardinal rule of cluelessness.

"Buy me a cup of coffee," the agent says.

The line cutters slide over the visa and passport. The guy in the green uniform opens the passport to find a crisp $20 American bill. The line cutters know that if the agent in the green doesn't get his bribe, he is going to make it difficult for them to leave the airport. They will be detained because something on the paperwork isn't right or certain items in the luggage is "illegal." It's just easier to buy him his coffee then to be detained for hours.

Everyone is trying to get ahead in this world. A twenty here, a hundred there, an Illinois card no one will miss, an extra hotel on Park Avenue, this kind of corruption happens every day at the airport in Vietnam. A government without a conscience hurts its own people. Line cutters are screwed over because no one from the top yells, "put it back."