There are people crying here. A
surprising number, although maybe it shouldn't be surprising because
airports are stressful places. I've cried in an airport before, more
than once.
A lot of classy-looking business
people. Men in suits. Women in pencil skirts and heels. Lots of
heels. I don't quite understand this. The women look awkward, like
top-heavy storks, as they pull along their suitcases.
A middle-aged woman in floral next to
me complains about layovers and how she'd always rather pay extra on
a ticket to avoid them. Such a hassle and waste of time. This is a
foreign concept to me. I can't image paying more for the convenience
of anything right now; that habit has been beaten out of me after
four years of college tuition and no spare change. I'm flying to
Connecticut from Detroit, but I have a layover in Chicago, which
means I go directly west before going directly back east. I also
don't get in to Hartford until midnight. About as inconvenient as you
can get. But it was the cheapest ticket, so of course I bought it. I
didn't even consider otherwise.
I watch a tall man with a cane check
his luggage. He is wearing a gray sweatsuit that matches his facial
hair, and I decide I like him.
There are a lot of those little
carry-on suitcases with four wheels that glide across the floor with
a soft buzzing sound. The softer the buzz, the more important you
are. Briefcases seem to be made now with a zipper that allows them to
slide down the handle of these carry-ons, securing them firmly on the
top. It is the look. Those who have it appear self-important. They
know they look professional. They do this all the time, fly. It's
just business.
I have to wait for three hours in
front of the luggage check in a black leather chair because you can't
check your bags until at most four hours before your flight leaves.
Yes, that is how early I am to the airport. Another example of how
cost trumps convenience. This was the only time I could get a ride to
the airport, which is two hours from my house. (There is a closer
airport, but it is smaller and too expensive for me.) Time is the one
commodity I have more than enough of.
There are lots of iphones and ipads
out. People sitting, looking busy, alone.
A girl, probably about my age, has
just walked past, doing a poor job of concealing the fact that she is
crying. Two women next to me get up. “You look like you need a
hug,” one says. The girl nods. They each give her one. She says
something to explain her tears which I can't hear, although I think
it has to do with her boyfriend. The girl and the women do not know
each other. The women sit back down and the girl continues on her
way, anxiously chewing the straw of her fountain drink. I want to be
like those women someday, able to give a hug to anyone who needs one.
As soon as I check my bags, I am going
to need a long walk. Sitting too long with a laptop on one's legs
causes them to fall asleep. There is a security officer riding his
bike through the terminal. That looks like I fun. I want to do that.
An old woman with hairpins has come to
pick up her sister. Her sister is old also and cannot walk well, but
she refuses to use a wheelchair. “So stubborn,” the woman says.
“I don't understand why some people can't just accept help.”
Another woman to her right nods in agreement.
Fifteen more minutes until I can check
my bag. Good thing, too, because I have to go to the bathroom, and
wheeling both of these monstrous red things through the bathroom door
is a pain in the neck. Of course I'm not allowed to leave them
unattended. Otherwise they might think I'm a terrorist.
A woman in a black suit has black
spiked hair and wears too much blue eye shadow.
Later, once I'm at my gate, a Navy
officer (or some such other military person—I can't tell, but he's
decked out in lots of medals and badges) sits next to me. I hear a
familiar tune that reminds me of long childhood car trips and look
over to see him playing Mario Bros on his Nintendo. Across from me a
man with long gray hair and loafers eats McDonald's fries and talks
to his business partner on the phone. The fries look good, but I hate
buying food in airports. Money—once again.
(Now the Navy officer is reading a
book. It is entitled The Blinding Knife, and the bookmark is a
card from one of those Pokemon/Yu-Gi-Oh/Magic games.)
On my first flight I sit next to a guy
named Damion who is in a philosophy doctorate program at the
University of Michigan and started a conversation with me because he
saw my Margaret Attwood book. Also possibly because he thought I was
cute. I like to flatter myself sometimes with such thoughts. He has
black-rimmed plastic glasses, big eyes, and wears a striped sweater.
Classic academia.
Damion tells me about his philosophy
studies and I nod my head and pretend to understand because I get the
impression he thinks I'm intelligent and I don't want to disappoint
him. He loves the fact that I'm writing a novel and read good
literature. We talk about Raymond Carver and Hemmingway and
Steinbeck. I hope the man on the other side of me is listening. I
hope he thinks we're smart. When Damion asks me to join him for a
quick bite to eat after we land before our connecting flights, I feel
a little uncomfortable because he doesn't know I have a boyfriend.
And maybe he doesn't care? But it's too late now.
Before we part, Damion gives me his
card and tells me to send him a link to my blog. I think to myself,
shoot, now people are really reading it, and it had better actually
be good. I wonder if there are any previous posts I should delete. I
also remember how he strategically asked about my last name. Even if
I don't email him the link, he'll probably be able to find it online.
Between flights, at gate B9, the smell
of McDonald's is overwhelming. All food from McDonald's, no matter
what you order, milkshake or hamburger, smells exactly the same. In a
soothing tone, a woman's voice repeats over and over, “The moving
walkway is ending.” Once every three seconds. Until it is no longer
soothing. But no matter where I sit at this gate, I can hear her.
A woman with a small brown dog watches
TV and strokes the dog's neck. The dog looks embarrassed, if that's
possible. Like it doesn't want anyone to see it being pampered by
this heavy woman with sparkling earrings and leopard print flats. I
wonder the story behind this dog. I wonder if this dog is the woman's
best friend and if she's afraid to leave it home alone or at a
kennel. I wonder what she does if it has to go to the bathroom in the
airport or on the plane. Does it pee in its little carrier bag? Does
she hold it over a toilet?
On my second flight, the man next to
me is happy I asked to take the middle seat between him and a skinny
man in a track jacket. “I'm just glad a tiny person like you is
sitting there. I was worried that mad gab on the phone was going to
ask. Did you see her?” I tell him not to worry, I'm quiet. He says,
“That's not what I mean. You know what I mean.” I do know what he
means. He thinks she's fat and annoying. This phone lady walks by a
minute later, chatting about the number of carry-ons. My plane buddy
turns to me. “See?” he says scornfully. I do not like this man.
He is mean, and he wants me to be mean with him. When a woman with
large breasts walks by, he stares at her chest. Actually, I'm not
totally sure that he does so, but it appears that way, and I look at
him intentionally, expecting him to. It will only further justify my
negative opinion on him. During the flight, he pays the $5 for wifi
so he can play with his ipad. He orders a vodka tonic. I knew he was
going to.
Myself, I play solitaire on my laptop.
I don't have a very good win percentage, but I swear I'm getting
dealt bad hands. I play probably eight games and don't win a single
one.
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