Math IA

“Hey, buddy!” he called. His voice echoed through the terminal. “Or should I say, g’day?” A wide mouth smile leant in towards Barry – a sight too enthusiastic for midday, especially on a Monday in Barry’s opinion. The stranger elbowed Barry. A melodic laugh escaped his lips. “I’ve been working on my Australian.” Barry shuffled the papers around on his desk; a vain attempt to locate the right immigration forms amongst the clutter of his desk. “Righto mate,” he sighed absently. “Bags and passport please”.

“Don’t I do them separately?” The American beamed. Barry wondered if those bushy eyebrows of his ever lowered or whether his lips ever soured into a frown. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Right mate; here’s what you’re gonna do. You go find someone to do the passport, and I’ll take the bags.” The American - still grinning that everlasting grin – nodded, before disappearing into the maze of whitewashed walls. His bags, on the other hand, pooled compliantly at Barry’s feet. Under his breath, Barry allowed himself a chuckle. Americans were his favourite tourists to practice comedy on. Their reactions were priceless. They simply cemented his dream; of living for laughter for the rest of his life. It didn’t matter that it was his own laughter - one day others would cackle at his jokes with him. Prior experience noted that tourists were like boomerangs; it would be a mere five minutes before they figured out there was no-one else in the terminal, guaranteeing their return. With