Crossing the Line
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday May 3, 2014

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they behave in a queue. Especially a long one at an airport. Some people do their waiting silently and their fuming internally. Others want everyone around them to know how cheesed off they are. I like to alleviate the boredom by studying the fashion choices of those in my line and making small talk with my neighbours.

“My husband would kill for your jacket!” I said to the moustachioed gentleman in his sixties standing ahead of us in the queue for the economy check-in. (The kids and I were flying to Melbourne for a wedding). His chequered sportscoat ran the gamut of browns, with suede patches on the elbows and leather buttons. “It’s Harris Tweed,” he confided, as he brushed a speck of fluff from one sleeve. “The real thing actually. Got it in Scotland in 1979.”

We went back to waiting. After several static minutes, I noticed Mr Harris Tweed was becoming agitated, checking his phone and sighing loudly. My six-year-old and his little sister counted out loud the twenty-four of us roped into the rectangular maze. Harris Tweed caught my eye and gestured towards the lone attendant at the counter: “How long’s this going to take?”

My small daughter was mesmerised by his handlebar moustache – the way it twirled up at its wispy extremities. Each time he emptied his lungs in a loud huff, the free ends of his moustache fluttered in the updraft, like two tendrils of a vine looking for their next toehold. “Ruddy airports!” he grumbled at me again. “Where’s the staff?”

I recalled why lobbies in skyscrapers are built with mirrors next to the elevators. In the 1950’s hi-rise boom, residents complained about the long wait for the lifts. Putting mirrors in the lobbies gave people something to do –   checking their hair or slyly ogling those around them made the wait feel shorter.

Harris Tweed-man ogled those around him, but not slyly. He turned to me conspiratorially and motioned several bodies ahead. “Will you get a load of that?!” he said in a loud voice. “Reckon he knows how stupid he looks?!” Harris Tweed had me pegged as his ally – I had admired his jacket so he presumed we were like-minded on everything. I was trapped.

I followed his gaze to a young bloke who had what looked like golf tees inserted in the lobe of each ear. A pair of baggy denim jeans clung desperately to his hips as gravity and a scrawny rear plotted his trouser’s downfall. On his head he had a black flat cap with the letters D – O – P – E embroidered across the front.

“Dope!” yelled my six-year-old, eager to show off his spelling prowess. “Mum! That man’s name is Dope!”

“You said it, kid!” said Harris Tweed.

“Don’t be rude!” I warned my boy.

The guy in the Dope-hat turned around to scowl at us as he was called up to the counter. Moments later, clutching his boarding pass, Dope-hat ambled off towards the departure gates, giving Harris Tweed a grin and a sporty wave with his middle finger.

That was all it took. Harris Tweed hissed towards the counter – “How about some service, people?! Ten minutes we’ve been waiting in this line – TEN MINUTES!”

The travellers behind us shifted uncomfortably. “Settle down, mate!” came a gruff voice from behind. I wondered if Harris Tweed’s queue rage would get him hauled off to airport security. But he fell into embarrassed silence. A dominant male had spoken.

Only last week, I inadvertently jumped the line at the bakery. I was scolded by the woman at the other end of the counter . “Excuse me!” she said in tart tones, “I was here first!”

“Yes, of course. Sorry,” I grovelled. She gave me a filthy look and I felt myself shrink in shame.

Most of us don’t mind waiting our turn if we know everyone in a queue will be treated equally and customers are being attended to efficiently. We’ll even invite someone more deserving to be served ahead of us. (The demand for fairness extends beyond mere self-interest).

At the airport queue, Harris Tweed’s patience was about to be sorely tested as he was beckoned to the counter.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” said the lady in a suit, “but this is the Qantas check-in. You’re flying Jetstar. You’ll need to check-in over there.” And she pointed to another restless loop of travellers cordoned off behind another set of ropes.

“Oh goodie,” he sighed sarcastically, and without another word, he grabbed the handle of his bag and strode away to his new queue.

My two urchins and I got to the counter at last. “Sorry about the wait!” said the suit-lady. “Five people have called in sick this morning. Hope you’re not too frazzled!”

“Not as much as some” I said, with a wink.