"They put a microchip in his head," he said.
"In whose head," I said.
"In his head, the pilot's head!"
"Right," I said.
We sat.
And waited.
The day was warm and the room was full but it was cool. Many slightly sweating people waiting for their passports to be stamped. Waiting while the overhead fans did what they were built to do. Twirl and whirl. Then repeat.
"The fucking C.I.A. put the microchip in his brain," he said. Iranian, he was. Mid-sixties. Forty years in Canada. Four or five now in the Philippines. "They put the chip in his head, and then they fucking flew the planes smack dab right into the Twin Towers. The C.I.A. did it all, right from their control room."
I nodded.
He leaned closer, his voice a soft whisper.
"And did you know, get this, that the C.I.A. told four thousand Jews not to come to work that day. Four thousand. Phoned them right up. Told them to stay home."
I nodded.
"Number 28!" somebody yelled.
I checked my number.
Not 28.
"And these Americans here," he said, rolling his eyes. "Fucking missionaries. Yeah, right. Missionary, my, ass. Fucking spies, is what they are. Fucking recruiters."
"Right," I said.
I looked around. Mostly Filipinos. The odd Korean. A few North Americans here and there.
"These people," he said. "Let me tell you."
"Right," I said.
The rather large American women in front of me chatted about the differences between regular and diet.
"Regular has all that sugar," the brunette said. "But the diet stuff has that, what do you call it, that aspartame gunk. That's even worse, they say. Worse than the sugar."
"I get half-and-half," the blonde one said, shrugging, smiling shyly. "So I get screwed both ways! What the hell, right?"
They laughed. Invisibly high-fived each other, while their husbands sat, glumly, silently sighing.
I scratched my chin.
"Number 29!"
I checked my number.
Not 29.
"This fucking country," the Iranian-by-way-of-Canada said. "You know what's keeping me here? The women. That's it. Only thing good here."
"Right," I said.
"They're innocent, these people are," he said. "They eat fucking dogs, you know. It fucks with their brain."
"Sure," I said.
"When I got to Canada, we used to say 'Canada'? 'Can-I-die!"
"Why did you say that," I said.
"Because it was so great, we thought, shit, can I die here, or what?" He shook his head. "Now, though, America is four thousand pounds. You know what Canada is?"
I shook my head.
"Two ounces. That's all. Two fucking ounces."
I nodded.
"Number 30!"
I checked my number.
Not 30.
Canada came up again. Cancer came up. He was old. He'd thought about it a lot, I guess.
"You leave her, you're fucked," he said. "Karma's going to kick you in the fucking ass, you leave her. You watch. Right in the ass."
"Right," I said.
"Number 31!"
I checked my number.
That was it.
"Nice meeting you," I said.
"Sure, sure," he said.
I left him there, waiting.
For what, I can't say.
