An English Boy in New York by T. S. Easton

animatedly about gangs and turf and hos.
    â€˜You know you can buy guns in off-licences there, innit?’ he said.
    â€˜Don’t talk about guns in the airport,’ I hissed.
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Because people will think it’s suspicious,’ I whispered, nodding towards a security guard, who was watching us.
    â€˜
You’re
looking suspicious,’ he said.
    â€˜Well, I am
now
,’ I said impatiently. ‘But only because you started talking about guns.’
    â€˜Shh,’ he said. ‘Keep it down.’
    Some more waiting. Gex started yawning loudly. After nearly an hour we were almost at the front of the queue. I checked my watch.
    â€˜Just as well we came an hour earlier than we needed to,’ I said.
    Gex stared at me, shocked. ‘You tricked me.’
    â€˜You would have been late,’ I pointed out.
    â€˜Brothers don’t lie to other brothers, man.’
    â€˜Don’t call people brothers when we’re there. Especially black men.’
    â€˜Racist.’
    â€˜I’m not a racist. You are not black, they will think you are taking the piss.’
    I was now getting seriously worried about Mum and Dad. I was starting to suspect the queue for Executive Club was the same as the economy line. Which was irritating, and it was now even longer than it had been when we’d arrived. There wouldn’t be enough time for them to get to the front of the queue and get on the plane.
    Just as we arrived at the front of the queue there was a huge kerfuffle behind us.
    â€˜Excuse me, excuse me. Coming through.’
    A stocky lady in a tight-fitting blazer unhooked a rope and ushered my parents through. People who’d been queuing for over an hour tutted.
    â€˜Oh my goodness, thank you so much,’ Mum said to the blazer lady. ‘OUR CAR BROKE DOWN,’ she called out so the queue could hear.
    â€˜Don’t worry, we’ll get you on your flight,’ the lady said with a smile.
    Mum turned to me and gave a panto wink. ‘Car broke down?’ I asked when the lady had gone. Dad was chuckling wickedly.
    â€˜Works every time,’ he said.
    â€˜God, you two are such phonies,’ I said. ‘I’m tearing up your nomination for Pride of Britain this year.’
    â€˜Next!’ someone was yelling. We all shuffled down to the check-in desk. Dad got there first and thrust out his ticket. ‘I have a bad knee,’ he said. ‘I need a bulkhead seat so I can stretch it out.’
    The man said nothing but jabbed keys furiously for a few minutes. Some of those keys sounded like they were going to fly into bits under the attack.
    â€˜No bulkhead seats available,’ he said eventually. ‘You need to get here earlier for those.’
    â€˜Our car broke down,’ Dad said, outraged.
    â€˜Sorry about that,’ the man said and continued destroying his keyboard.
    Dad looked at Mum. ‘I can’t fly for six hours without any leg room.’
    Clatter clatter clatter
went the keyboard.
    â€˜Can he have an aisle seat on the left?’ she asked. ‘Then he can stretch his leg out into the aisle.’
    The man looked up from his assault.
    â€˜You’re not supposed to stretch your leg out into the aisles,’ he said.
    â€˜I have a weak bladder,’ Dad said quickly. ‘That’s the real reason I need the aisle.’
    The man’s eyes narrowed then.
    â€˜What is the problem exactly, sir?’ he said. ‘Your knee, or your bladder?’
    â€˜The knee was a decoy,’ whispered Dad. ‘I was a bit embarrassed. It’s a prostate thing.’
    The man looked unmoved, so I looked at my watch and sighed loudly. ‘You can have my seat, Dad,’ I said. ‘In Executive Club.’
    He looked at me. ‘Really, son?’
    â€˜Yes, it has extra leg room.’
    â€˜Are you sure? You’ve been banging on about your Club Class seat for days.’
    â€˜Yes,