I missed my connection from Heathrow, the plane is late. I am frantic. I’ve been trying to find my luggage for nearly two hours. At last I’m at Newark’s BA customer service office. It’s tiny, just two customers at a time. In front of me a French family of four, mom, dad, boy, girl. And a Dutch couple behind me with funny teeth. Hers look like mielie pips. I beat them here from the SAS office where we all queued before being driven off.

I’m desperate. Missed my earlier connection from Heathrow. Left while New York was still asleep. Emailed my contact but had no reply. Would the taxi man be waiting for me? The two in the office, the two in front of the counter  – and the two behind – are being dumb. Just fill in the forms and get out of there, so we can get a chance. I need to find the taximan, otherwise I’m stuffed. It’s 7pm, Heading into the unknown in New Jersey somewhere, nowhere cool in the Big Apple, serviced by the underground or buses.

Damn, do I ask the mielie-toothed Dutch couple if they’ll keep my place? Not likely. They’re too exercised about their lost luggage to be proficient in English, or apply their minds. And they’re probably irritated because I beat them to this queue. The two at the counter can’t get it. Fill in the forms. Yes, just point to the pictures and tell them what your luggage looks like.

The French family are being French. Someone from their party keeps darting in. I get it their taxi is waiting. Some movement at the counter. Then the French are in. All four. One claim, four people. Expressing their outrage. The indignity of being rescued in the last world war is at play. Do they get it? Nah. They are not going to be anywhere where their luggage can be delivered. The BA pair behind the counter are getting nowhere.

Damn, is my taxi still waiting. I can see someone with a handwritten sign plastered to the window in the arrivals hall. Doesn’t look like mine. Too long. Can’t see. The French can’t get it. Nothing the BA pair suggests can be accommodated. Their itinerary has been spelled out – day one, day two and on and on – but will they, can they just make a plan? Oh, no. They want their pound of outrage – while we are waiting. Around us is strewn the detritus of other people’s luggage, others going through what we are going through, probably the day before, and the day before. I’ve searched, hoping against hope, that mine has found it’s way there.

I get a break, half the French party goes to sort out the taxi. My bag, just one bag. No it doesn’t look like anything in the pictures. Make? Huh? I got it from Dion’s. What was she expecting? Louis Vitton? Take the numbers. Best Western, and BMW. No you can’t hire bike gear for me and then forward my luggage. I’m going to be on the road, and how do I get the hired gear back. Okay, fine, phone BM, but get me out of here. A cash card? $117? To buy a razor and change of underwear? It’s funny. Nearly 30 hours since departure, no toothpaste, no washing. I could smell myself on the plane. Don’t move, stay cool, don’t sweat. Ugh, overripe body. Like breadfruit. Now a cash card. And I didn’t see BA hand them out to anyone else?

I leave the perplexed Dutch couple. I think of Wallace and Grommit. And Lady Tottenham. Tear around the arrivals hall. Yes, waiting. The sign,  handwritten, Alfred Hayter. I’m sorry, missed connection, lost luggage. I’m gushing self consciously.

“Not a problem. I’d have called the office.”

He’s not what I expected, not that I expected anyone in particular. If anything, I suppose, dark, swarthy, stocky. He is tall, his curly hair graying. He is starting to bend. I follow him into the car park. Seems to be heading for an economy car. No, not that. A Lincoln, compact as Lincoln’s go. We collide at the driver’s door. I’ve got it wrong. It’s America, the car is left-hand drive. I’m forced to get into the back – VIP, he says. The front passenger seat is littered with stuff.

He chaffs the cashier at the pay point. Is that your number? Can I phone you? She doesn’t smile. He is nonplussed. He tells me he is going to watch a DVD and get a piazza. Lana Turner. The Postman Knocks Twice. Shows me the DVD. “Wish they could take her blouse off…

“Travelling around America? Alone? Give a hitchhiker a lift, eh?”

I’m forced smiling.

“South African? Charlise Theron! Always looks good. Even when they try to make her look ugly.”

I hang back, don’t ask about a wife. The answer comes. He lives alone, going to retire in two years. “Why does my boss hate me?”  (Probably because you don’t answer the phone). He has picked it up, looked at it, put it down. Twice. He wants to get  home. Get a pizza and watch the movie. He has got to be up early. Fetch a client. But he will take me to a store to get some things. Right next door to my motel. It’s fine, I can walk. His mind is on the movie. “Made before you were born, eh?” No, but I’m not going there. He hands me the DVD. I turn the cover over trying to see when it was made. Not stated. Judging from the fashions, “fifties”, I say. He’s satisfied. He points to the picture. She is wrapped in someone’s arms, her head flung back, her lips pouting. “Nice if they would take her blouse off.”