Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey

“Yes?”
    “Sir, did you mention hatchets and chain saws?”
    “That’s right.”
    “I didn’t hear your full remarks,” said the guard. “But I must warn you, there are serious penalties for making jokes about airline safety.”
    “Oh, I wasn’t joking.” Serge pointed back down the line. “We were just discussing your sign. That’s the idea, right? You want people to pay attention to it. Most people walk right by, but not me. And I can’t get my head around those illustrations. But then I’ve never been to Denver, so I don’t know what’s required to survive at that altitude. Maybe everyone drinking for breakfast in the airport bar has a snow ax and private supply of gasoline. And what’s with that last item? Have you had to fire some X-ray people for letting cartoon bombs get through with lit fuses?”
    “Please, just no more remarks.”
    Serge took off his shoes. “It’s your sign.”
    Moments later, he stared up at a departure screen in Airside A. “Son of a bitch!”
    “What is it?” asked Coleman.
    “Our flight’s delayed!”
    “But only fifteen minutes,” said Coleman.
    “I’ve seen this movie before. ‘Fifteen minutes’ is code for ‘at least three to five hours.’ They know the plane’s stuck in Pittsburgh, where they wrestled another drunk pilot to the runway, but they don’t want an open passenger revolt, so they incrementally string us along fifteen minutes at a time, until you’re across the international date line.”
    Serge paced in front of the departure screen.
    Fifteen minutes later, Serge grabbed Coleman and pointed. “Sweet Jesus! They just added another fifteen minutes!”
    “Serge, your face is that color again.”
    “Can’t help it.” More pacing. “If I’m told to be somewhere important at a specific time, I’m there with an extra wristwatch and breathing exercises to enhance my cooperation. But then they do it to you again! Every fucking airport and doctor’s office teasing you along like strippers brushing your crotch with the back of their hand, because the back of the hand is the legal loophole. Probably learned that from airport security who pat you down that way so they can’t be accused of groping. There are meetings going on somewhere.”
    “You might be getting worked up over nothing,” said Coleman. “For all we know, that could be the last fifteen-minute delay.”
    “You’re probably right,” said Serge. “Let’s find a seat and relax near screaming infants.”
    Two hours later. Serge sat near the gate with his head hanging back over the chair and his mouth open.
    “Serge,” said Coleman. “They just added another fifteen minutes.”
    “I have to kill myself.”
    “Maybe another flight attendant grabbed some beers and jumped down the emergency chute.”
    “Please strangle me.”
    “You need to get your mind off it.”
    “You’re right.” Serge jumped up and ran to the gate desk. “Excuse me? Could you tell me the true departure time for this flight?”
    “It’s what’s on the screen.”
    “But it’s changed eight times already.”
    “Those were unforeseen circumstances.”
    “Can you see if there are any other flights?”
    “You’ll forfeit your fare.”
    “Why?”
    The gate attendant pointed at the departure board. “Your flight’s going to be here any minute.”
    “You’re absolutely right. Any minute,” said Serge. “Like seven thirty-two tomorrow morning.”
    She glared.
    Serge leaned over the desk and pointed down at her computer keyboard. “Could you please check for another flight? We have important business in Miami.”
    Another glare. She grudgingly addressed her computer.
    Serge turned around. “Hey Coleman, come over here. You absolutely have to see this.”
    “What is it?”
    “Something I can’t get enough of.” Serge pointed over the top of the desk. “An employee with four-inch-long chartreuse fingernails in a job that requires lots of typing.” He looked up at the woman. “Better go