'Twas the Stroke Before Christmas
Part 2

by blinkie (Steve Chiappa)

Editor’s note: In the first chapter of his memoir, blinkie reminisced about Christmases past and talked about his assignment to bring the cold cuts for the holiday gathering. He and his wife Cindy and son Mike were getting ready to leave for the airport to head North for Christmas.

Anyway, back to the flight and the salami. We got to the airport in a shade less than 12 minutes. It was still pitch black.

And what about the salami? It was secured in between three layers of aluminum foil, safely nestled in our luggage, between my pajamas and my wife’s lingerie. No amount of security could keep us from completing our mission. The cold cuts must be delivered.

The sun was just beginning to rise over Tampa International Airport and things were beginning to come to life. It was 5:30 a.m., only two and a half hours before our flight was scheduled to depart. We barely had any time to spare as I pushed my wife and our son Michael towards the security line.

You know you’re at the airport too early when the kid in front of you on the security line is there to open the airport Starbucks. Even he was still sleeping as we made our way past him to the front of the line. Not even the eleven-year-old kid in the military uniform, armed with a submachine gun bigger than he was, could keep this smuggling operation at bay. This was important stuff!

I made my way to the small security line on the left, which was reserved for flight crews and people with special needs. Five years before, I’d had a defibrillator implanted to correct an irregular heartbeat brought on by too many cigarettes and cups of tinto, the strong Cuban coffee that is the lifeblood of Miami. The device meant that if I went through a metal detector, I’d set off a reaction resembling the Macy’s Fourth of July fireworks display.

Instead, I had to undergo a hand search. Sometimes this meant a scrutiny as though I were Osama bin Laden trying to board an El Al flight, but in Tampa, things were a little more laid back. (Most people here thought that Jimmy Buffett was president, not George Bush.) I had only to give a wave and a smile and I was ushered straight through to the bad coffee that lay beyond.

So I joined the line at Starbucks, waiting for my five-dollar frappuccino, watching Mike and Cindy in the main security line. The cold cuts were safe in the suitcase by my side. Tampa security had been breached! When they finally made it through security, it was nearly an hour later and I was still waiting for Starbucks to open. We would need caffeine for the two-hour wait until our flight.

Finally, we boarded. I took my seat next to Cindy, opened John Grisham’s newest novel, The Painted House, and started reading. We were finally on our way. The holiday had begun.