Jack (chapter 5)

Boise.  Somewhat desolate and kind of boring.  Sorry, Idahoans.  It has been my shift to drive the past five hours and we just dropped off Joseph and Mary at a ridiculously ornate house backed up to a small creek.  I think someone has some money and wants to show it off.  I have no problem with that except for the fact that so much of the world doesn’t even have clean drinking water and even closer to home, there are children born into houses without food all the time in every city in the U.S.  So I get the fact that you have money and I’m cool with you spending it on decorative rocks as long as you are spending the equivalent on the poor.  Thus ends my rant on that.

Valerie mumbled a short goodbye and Mr. Peter James said goodbye just long enough to make sure that all planes were still grounded.  He volunteered to take over driving just as dawn is breaking over the horizon.  We stop ever so briefly for breakfast at Sonic.  Mr. Peter James is irritated and the urgency in his demeanor is increasing with each hour that passes.  I wonder what could be so important in Miami that he can’t stand to miss it.  It can’t be business; there is a different kind of urgency when it comes to business.  That kind of urgency exposes itself in the forehead and the shoulders, with the occasional clenched fists and red ears.  His urgency is more deeply embedded in his body, behind the nose and under the eyes.  It creates a kind of breathing that is trying to recover from a great blow to the stomach while maintaining pride and dignity.  His foot steps with purpose and determination.  Hesitation causes pauses which slow the progress and creates shadow where only light is permitted.  This is why Mr. Peter James has zero tolerance for Valerie.  I wish my reasons for intolerance were as viable.  I just don’t care for her.  But here we go; the three of us for about three days’ worth of driving in this van.  Is it too late to go back to Portland?

I suppose it is.  I sit in the front next to Mr. Peter James and continue to conjecture what is in Miami for him.  I’m afraid to ask because then I would feel the obligation to reciprocate the information.  I would probably lie.

I could give you the details of the trip, but I’m sure you would be as bored as I am and would stop reading before things get interesting, so I’ll hit a few highlights for you and leave the rest to your imagination.  Please make that as exciting as you want because it would be far more enjoyable than what actually happened.

Hour #3: Valerie is complaining about how uncomfortable her seat is for the thousandth time this trip.  Mr. Peter James responds, “If you don’t like it you can walk for as long as you want and then your feet will hurt far worse than your rear-end ever will.” 

She stops complaining, but Mr. Peter James continues:

“There’s no way I’d ever let my daughter go on like you do about the blessings that you have in your life, which you see as curses.  You have the goodness of a friend to get you to your destination.  You have air conditioning and a cushion.  You have the opportunity to be college-educated, clean drinking water and indoor plumbing.  My word, darling, you have got to change your perspective on life or your sense of entitlement will completely undo you.  Life is hard and frustrating.  Get used to it and make the most of it.”  His nose is stern and hard.  I knew he was serious already but this makes it more intense.  I wonder if I can breathe.

“You complain to me when you have everything in the world a good family, a great job with the NFL making money like you will never see and then having everything stripped from you because you made a lousy decision.  One that you knew was wrong when you made.  And then finally getting back on your feet and asked to come and visit your kids because one of them is graduating from college.  You finally get to see them after ten years and the shit for brains take that away from you in the wink of an eye because they aren’t making enough money.  So we will make it to Miami by Saturday and you will be grateful for the things that you do have while you are in this van.  Damn it.”

Valerie was on the verge of tears, I knew not because I looked back to check but because I could hear the sniffs.  I didn’t venture to look at Mr. Peter James either.  I just continued looking out of the front window, praying that I don’t ever make him mad.  He picks up the speed of the van a little; I’m certain it is because he sees nothing but an image of his son in front of him.  At least now I know and I didn’t have to lie about my own destination.

Hour #6: The past three hours have been spent in almost absolute silence, which was compounded by the lack of interesting scenery.  We stop at a gas station.  I practically jump out of the van and run into the store.  The oppression in the van was getting close to unbearable and typically I revel in awkward situations.  They’re what makes life interesting and worth paying attention to.  But in this van the awkwardness and tension was confined and stifling.

Hour #12: I have been driving and I like the way the time passes when I drive. It gives me time to clear my head.  I try to contemplate the case, but remember that I have nothing new to ponder.  So then I just try to seem lost in thought so no one will talk to me.

Hour #14.5: We hit a prarie dog or two.

Hour #18: We decide to stop for the night.  We are about halfway to our destination and Mr. Peter James and I are struggling to stay awake on the road no matter how much we sleep in the van.  Valerie has mostly remained silent until now.  But as soon as Mr. Peter James has disappeared she tries to sway my view of him, “He didn’t have to get so mad at me.”

Has she really been stewing over that this whole time?  I completely forgot that he had said anything to her, although the resulting silence was much welcomed.

“Jack? Do you think he’s still mad?”

I shrug, “I dunno.  Ask him.”

“But I don’t know if I can.  He hasn’t said much to me all day since then.  And then he snapped at me when I said I had to stop to use the restroom.  I mean, I know he wants to get to his son’s graduation, but it isn’t my fault that the planes were grounded and that we are stuck in this van.  I’d rather be in Miami right now too.”  She pouts and looks on the verge of tears.  She has definitely been holding this in for many hours.

“I’m sure he’s not mad at you.”  Seeing that the tears are slowly subsiding, I continue, “Just let him be and it’ll be fine.  We all just need sleep.  Now go to your room.  We’ll get up and go early in the morning so we won’t keep him any longer than we need to.”

The tears have dissipated without rolling.  Victory.  She half smiles and then hugs me.  Fail.  I wait exactly three seconds before pushing her away and turning to my room.  I don’t care if she cries now.

Hour #25: We are back on the road.  Mr. Peter James and Valerie have apologized to each other.  She is chatty again.  Maybe I should have given her different advice.  At least Mr. Peter James looks less likely to kill somebody.

Hour #30:  Shoot me.

Hour #34:  Seriously, please shoot me.

Hour #39:  I consider desertion just as Valerie falls to sleep.

Hour #41: The adventure really begins.

Jack (chapter 4)

            I trudge behind Valerie and her swinging blonde hair.  She is attractive enough to be tempting but there is something dishonest in the way she walks - heavy and bouncy at the same time and her hips sway with the over-exaggeration of a hippopotamus.  Her loose fitting skirt and tight tank top emphasize this.  I am almost positive that her boobs are fake as well.  In spite of her less than honorable gait, her smile is genuine enough to make her harmless.

            We approach the parking garage crammed full of cars, trying to get out and continue their journey by the road instead of the air.  Rage is at a height comparable to Everest; I could only imagine what it must be like in places like Los Angeles and New York City.  I smile to myself quietly enjoying the chaos.  It had been a while since I have experienced so much frustration from outside of myself.  I think the last time I did was when I went to a rally protesting the Gulf oil spill, as if protesting it would actually fix the issue.  I smiled to myself then too.  I went for the sheer joy of observing. 

            As I was listening to one man screech to a halt after his ten feet of actual movement and there curse out of his window at the car that had been stopped there the whole time, we come upon a man that was bigger than an bison (I would know because I saw more than I could possibly count on a family vacation to Yellowstone).  I believe I jump a little when approaching him.  He does not smile and he could very well harm me, a lot.  I give him my most serious and unassuming look, hoping that he will trust me or at the very least not kill me. 

            “This is Mr. Peter James.  He is my best friend’s uncle and has gotten this van for us.”  Oh, she’s talking to me.  Then she turns to Mr. Peter James and introduces me as simply Jack.  She keeps smiling, obviously not realizing the size of this man.

            I nod and try to hide the fact that I am just trying to remember to breathe.  He nods as well and opens the back door.

            A low rumble comes from the man’s mouth and I suppose it’s his voice saying something about a couple coming too, some coworker and his wife who need a ride just a day away, so they wouldn’t be with us for very long.  He then looks at me and asks, “You going all the way to Miami?”  I nod again.  I think this man has scared the voice out of me.

He smirks a little and remarks, “You don’t say much; I think you and I will be alright.”  He’s right, on both counts.  The one problem is that Valerie talks enough to keep anyone else from saying anything.  She’s been going on for a while now about how she is dreading the ride and how long it is going to take to get to Miami and can’t imagine why air traffic controllers would ever need to strike and couldn’t just anyone go up in the tower and tell people to land or takeoff.  It couldn’t possibly be that complicated.  In all her ramblings, she’s right about one thing, this is going to be a very long trip. 

Mr. Peter James asks if I would mind him putting me on the driving list because it would be nice to break up the driving between two drivers.  Valerie seems a little hurt by not being asked and to make sure she hasn’t been ignored interjects, “I’m not really comfortable driving big vans.  I have a little BMW that I drive around and couldn’t possibly figure out how to park something so large.”  That is a load of crap.  This is a minivan, almost too small to even be called that.  But I concede to Mr. Peter James that I would be glad to share the driving responsibilities with him and proceed to thank him for allowing me to tag along with them.  He tells Valerie to stay with the van and the two of us go to the line at the car rental counter.  I look at the length of it and think that it will be at least an hour before we will be helped.  Fortunately, however, Mr. Peter James is something like a gold-class member so he gets to jump ahead of everyone else in line.  He carries power well, never even giving an apologetic glance to those furious individuals waiting in the line.  I keep my head down, hoping to avoid the glares and stares.  I don’t carry power well and that’s probably because I have no experience with it.  We flawlessly add my name and are able to leave again in under five minutes.  I glance up once to see a young child hanging on his mother’s leg.  He’s obviously tired and ready to be somewhere else.  The mother pushes him off with a furious shove.  He looks at me for relief and the mother follows his eyes to me.  I catch the anger behind them briefly, just long enough to notice that I had even averted my gaze from the ground and that is where it should return.  I follow Mr. Peter James like a wounded puppy who has found someone to give him water, however crude the bowl may be.

We reach the van and the couple approaches about twenty minutes later, annoyed by the frustration of waiting for their luggage but more so by the fact that they had kept a stern business man like Mr. Peter James waiting.  He doesn’t seem so bothered.  We pile into the van with our bags.  I volunteer to take the very back.  Being far away from everyone and conversation is the ideal spot for me.  I fall into the seat and brace myself for several days of driving.  I think about the small boy and the anger he was having to endure.  My thoughts drift to the girl from the case.  She would never have pushed her son from her leg no matter how obnoxious he may have gotten.  The father would never have let her, even if he had read the thoughts in her mind to do so.  I’m tempted to take out my laptop and stare at the picture further, but I know that it would create questions among my fellow passengers, so I sidestep that conflict.

The couple was introduced as Joseph and Mary Garrett, how biblically profound.  I wonder if their children are saints.  They are both professionally dressed in suits.  I wonder how long it might take for the generations to accept my outfit of jeans and a t-shirt as the norm for business personnel.  I can see it happening.  That is, most people will probably end up working from home over the internet anyway. 

Joseph sits in the front seat next to Mr. Peter James, while Valerie and Mary sit in the middle seats.  The men sit in the front talking sports.  The women sit in the middle getting to know the simple facts about each other.  I can’t really hear the conversation going on between the men so I listen to the women.  I find out that Valerie is actually a student at FIU where she is involved in a sorority, but doesn’t hold any kind of officer position; I’m not surprised by this in the least.  She doesn’t have the personality to lead.  She doesn’t currently have a boyfriend, which she makes sure I can hear.  At first I’m annoyed because I know this means she’ll be trying to impress me constantly, but then I see the positive in that she won’t be rambling incessantly about how amazing her boyfriend is.  I’m not always a negative personality.  She’s changed her major a few times and in the list, I’ve lost where she has actually landed, for now.  She was in Portland visiting her parents for a week this summer.  She currently works at some clothing store, which is the only store that she’ll even think about buying clothes from. 

Mary listens patiently to the girl chirping next to her.  She keeps a kind smile on her face and nods every so often.  She comments occasionally, saying things like “I thought about majoring in that” and “My daughter loves clothes from that store.”  I can’t tell yet if she is sincere or just congenial.  Eventually, Valerie gets tired of talking about herself and asks Mary a few questions.  Joseph and Mary have three children.  Their son just left for college to pursue some kind of ridiculous physics degree, apparently he’s only sixteen, damned over-achievers.  Their daughter is fourteen and has shown profound depth of knowledge in children’s literature, in fact she has already written three children’s books which have won awards at the national level, again, damned over-achievers.  Their youngest is six and is adopted from somewhere in Africa, how very progressive they are.  They are actually on their way to Boise to pick her up from a summer camp where she has shown great proficiency in horseback riding.  They are now thinking about buying her a horse.  Mary speaks using eloquent terms and small hand gestures.  Her face never strays far from a smile, but never quite ventures into a full grin, although her teeth are perfectly proportioned and as white as fresh snow.  I hair never moves from it place and the perception of perfection remains in tact through the entire trip.  I am impressed but not awed.  Perfection is easy enough to feign; I tried once or twice but never cared enough to follow through to completion.  In spite of all of this I like Mary, she seems to care about her children and encourage them in their various avenues of personalities and strengths. 

As their conversation starts to fall away I think that it is about time to at least fake sleeping before they remember that I am back there and know so very little about me.  I contemplate this too late and Mary turns to me, “So Jack, what is it that you do?”

With my most determined tone, I answer as vaguely as possible, “I work from home.”

“Doing what?”  Valerie has chimed in.  I really hate being questioned about myself.

“Research.”

Mary picks up the fact that I’m not willing to divulge very much and says, “That must be interesting.”

“Most of the time.”

“Ugh.  I hate researching.  It’s so tedious and it takes so long.  I much prefer to state my opinion on things and be done with it.”

“My dear, you can’t have much of an informed opinion without research first.”  Mary has successfully stopped Valerie before she can get very far.  She then turns to the gentlemen in the front of the van and joins their conversation which has remained on sports this entire time.  She is able to join without hiccup and has just as much insight into the sports as the men do.  Joseph is proud of his wife’s knowledge on the subjects and I realize I like Mary because she is well-informed and can confidently carry a conversation with anything from the President of the United States to a rock.  Even more than that she can readily observe when a conversation is not the route to be taken. 

At the rebuke from Mary, Valerie has taken to her ipod and staring out of her window as her way of sulking.  I fall asleep because I truly am tired and realize that I will probably be driving in the next couple of hours.  I pray I don’t snore which would bring unwanted attention to myself.

Jack (chapter 3)

                “You may as well stay asleep, son.”

                I hear the voice but am uncertain who it belongs to.  I yawn and look to my left.  There’s a grinning man in his eighties sitting next to me holding a cup of coffee.

                “Hi. I’m Jack.”

                “Hi Jack. I’m Ed.”

Ed has sincere eyes hidden beneath a mass of wrinkles and sunspots.  And I’m quite certain that each one has been earned with an experience that I will never know or understand.  I wish I could.  There is also a large scar under his left eye which makes it look somewhat droopy.

He speaks again in his raspy voice, “Where are you no longer heading, Jack?”

“Miami.  Although I’m certain my boss will try to find a way for me to make it.”

“Miami.  I’ve never been there.  My daughter tried to convince me to retire there.  I think she just wanted an excuse to visit. I decided to retire here instead.”  He grins.

“She hasn’t visited, has she?”

His grin broadens as he shakes his head.

“Is that where you were heading?”

“To see her?  Yes.”  His smile fades slightly.

“Where does she live? “

“Washington D.C.  Her first grandchild was born last week.  My first great-grandkid.”  He stops and pulls out his phone which he fumbles with.  His hands are incredibly arthritic and his fingers can barely hold the phone and the cup of coffee at the same time.  He pokes around and his chunky fingers press on the wrong buttons.  I imagine he spent his working years as a carpenter.  There are as many sunspots on his hands as there are on his face.

“Confounded phone.  I still can’t figure these things out.”

“Want me to try?”

He hands me the phone but with so little grace that his coffee spills all over the floor.

“Oh dear, let me go grab some napkins for you.”  The voice is high pitched and so quick it was like she was waiting for the coffee to spill.  It belongs to the plain girl from the coffee shop with the embroidered bag.  In a flash she’s gone.

Ed smiles again, “She likes you.”  I stare in disbelief, without a reaction.  “She’s been staring at you all morning.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I have the feeling he’s getting ready to lecture me on the value of love in life.  It’s a shame really because I’ve like Ed up until now.

“I have a lot of regrets in my life, Jack.  The one thing that I don’t regret is marrying my wife and remaining absolutely faithful to her.  I’m not saying this girl is the one for you or anything.  I’m just saying, don’t let it get away from you.”

He did it.  He lost my interest.  I just nod my head trying to respect his age and experience.  He takes the hint and gets really quiet.  I wait a few minutes and wonder what he’s thinking enough to turn and look at him.  There are tears rolling down his cheeks, getting lost between the cracks of his wrinkles.  I feel my own tears begin form, although I’m not certain why.  But before they fully form, I hear the sharp screech of the girl’s voice.

“Here.  Some napkins and another cup of coffee.”  She’s talking to Ed, but looking at me.  It makes me uncomfortable and I look at the ground.

“Thank you dear.  Oh and honey, don’t bother with him.  He isn’t interested.  Your time, energy and youth are much better suited to someone else.”

Her jaw drops and my respect for him restores.

She just whispers, “You’re welcome” and wanders to the other side of the gate.  Her eyes are downcast and it looks like her hair has begun to droop ever so slightly.

I hear the obnoxious tune of a phone.  I know it isn’t mine because I would throw my phone against the wall every time it rang if it had that tune.  It continues in its irritating tone.  All the eyes around me start to turn toward me and I realize I’m still holding Ed’s phone.

“Oh sorry.”

Ed answers and has a conversation about the changes that are being made to his travel.  He ends the call and stands up with some difficulty.  Before he leaves, he turns to me. “Jack,” he stops for a minute, “This scar, under my eye, is from the car accident that killed my wife… sixty years ago.  My greatest regret of all the ones I’ve made is that I was driving.  Don’t be that stupid, son.”

For the first time, I feel badly about making that poor girl in the corner suffer.  Ed’s gone before I can really think twice.  The girl in the corner peeks up at me and I manage a half smile which I definitely regret, immediately.  What is it about old people that makes us trust them?  Makes us think that they are wise and all-knowing.  I wish I could just fall back to sleep instead.  In fact, why did I even wake up this morning?  At least she’s on the phone now.

I look at my own phone.  There are a dozen missed calls from my boss and I’m sure there are as many voicemails cussing me out in various flavors of candy.  I ignore them and try to determine my next step.  People are slowly beginning to thin out of the gates.  The lines have been cut in half.  There are still no planes leaving the ground.  I’m stare back down at my phone, debating calling someone or looking up options on the internet.  I really don’t feel like doing any of it.

I open my computer instead, remembering that I am supposed to be working on the case.  I don’t know that I’ll be able to pull much else out of the information that has been sent to me.

Pictures, official documents, arrest records, mug shots, pictures of drugs, pictures of guns, birth certificates, etc.  Nothing is fascinating except the girl in the pictures.  She mesmerizes me.  Well not her so much but the way she relates to the guy on her arm.  She, on her own, is not all that spectacular, but with him she shines.  It’s almost like she was always meant to be in that place with him.  I wonder if that’s how Ed’s wife looked at him, before her life was cut too short as well.  I try to picture the guy in the picture as an old man and he looks a lot like Ed.

I feel a shadow over me.

“Hey.”

I don’t say anything, hoping she’ll go away.  I most definitely regret the smile.

“Um, hi.  My name is Valerie.  I, uh, got the coffee for the older gentleman that you were talking to earlier.”  She waits for a response.  I refuse to give her one.  So, naturally, she continues, “Listen, I think you were on the same flight as me, going to Miami.  I know someone who has a van rented and says we can ride with him.  A friend’s uncle.  He’s a nice guy.  Just thought, you know, we could help each other out.  Maybe.”

I slowly follow her hands up her arms to her face.  I catch her eyes and know she’s serious.  So I weigh the options.  I could go with her and deal with those hopeless eyes for several days on the road, or I could go back to my apartment and deal with the candy spewing boss who is likely ready to rip my head off and demand that I fly to Miami using a jet pack that I build myself.  It’s one of those rock and hard place conundrums, but I believe I can safely say that a woman will always beat out my boss.  I close my laptop and shove it into my bag.  I think I’m going to get tired of her jaw dropping all the time.

Jack (chapter 2)

Mreep. Mreep. 

Crap!  I forgot my belt again! 

The stumpy man in the dark pants and short-sleeved shirt crested with the TSA symbol stops me.  His beady little eyes smile as he motions me back through the metal detector.  9/11 has given stumpy men with little beady eyes the opportunity to possess power over those who charge them rent, have high profile jobs and made fun of them for wearing loud button-down shirts tucked into tight jean shorts which were held up with a stamped leather belt and gold buckle.

I take off my belt, which happens to be leather but remains unstamped, and place it in a little white bowl.  I have to look for the ‘go’ signal from the smiling beady eyes.  I win a small victory for the day.  It is actually my second one.  The first was getting Lydia to get me to the airport on time. 

She and her boyfriend are now engaged after their little fight and she has a larger diamond on her left ring finger than even she expected.  The guy is a snot-nosed prick that kind of reminds me of a Persian cat.  He’s got a squashed in nose which he raises into the air to stare down at anyone who has more of a brain than he does (and anyone dumber receives the graciousness of his pity, which more resembles disdain).  Shame is not in his Harvard-educated dictionary and pride is the gold-laden cover.  His thick blond hair encircles his beautifully constructed face and, much like a pure-bred cat, he has been genetically engineered to be the best.  His engagement to my sister is going to be despised by his family because she is of an unknown origin.  They don’t really understand that she will be a perfect asset to them, worshipping their money and being a faithful wife to the very end, mostly because of the prenuptial agreement that she will have to sign.  I loathe him the way one loathes being stuck in between two fat people on a plane for six hours.  He is perfect for my sister.

She picked me up a half hour late which is far better than the full hour I had given in lying to her about what time I actually needed to be here.  She drives a pink Carrerra, which was a gift from her man.  I rolled my eyes when I found out.  It’s a pity that something so beautiful is wasted and mishandled by my sister.  And in spite of a few wrong turns we made it to the airport on time.

I pull on my Converse slightly amused by the fact that I will never have to see the little beady eyed man again.  Damn, my shoe has a hole in it.  I hate buying new shoes, they take forever to break in and these are my last pair.  So far today the score is two for me and two for the beady-eyed man and fate.  I think today will be one of those days where I stop counting the victories of others and just stick to my own. 

A tall blonde in black boots struts past me – I say struts because she is one of those women who looks like a deer walking on its hind legs.  Her flowered skirt flounces a few inches below her butt and her breasts flounce in perfect rhythm with her skirt and strut.  Her long manicured fingers wave at me next to her perfectly straight teeth which are framed by a pouty pink smile.  Her upper lip is almost non-existent and I see Kenneth Branaugh waving at me instead of this otherwise enticing woman. Crap, I smiled back.  She struts away expecting me to follow.  I grab my backpack which I’ve had since sixth grade and deliberately wander the other way.  Three for me.

I despise girls, especially pretty ones.  I don’t have a good reason; I definitely don’t like ugly girls either.  I appreciate the ones who pretend they aren’t pretty and I enjoy watching the ones who bank on their personalities to be their attracting charm.  The truth is simply that I hate the naturally, even the not so naturally, gorgeous.  Not a hate that arises from bitterness, just outright disgust.

Take for instance this girl sitting down at the table in this coffee shop where I stop to get a cup before I get on the plane.  She’s plain, un-extraordinary in every way.  She is carrying a cream-colored shoulder bag with her initials embroidered on it – VMS.  All I can read is “Very Moody and Single.”  She’s got that look in her eye like she hopes for romance to surprise her at any moment, the problem is that she is looking for it and so it won’t surprise her and ergo it will never be what she wants.

In all my observation I have found that there are six kinds of girls:

1.      The pretty with no personality.  My sister.

2.      The plain who banks on the personality that they don’t actually have.  The girl in the coffee shop.

3.      The one with the fake personality who is also trying very desperately to be the pretty.  My ex.

4.      The attitude who knows they have no personality or looks.  I avoid these.

5.      The smart who cannot be pretty because both take too much time.  These avoid me.

6.      The religious – these might possibly be both smart and pretty with a personality but they are dreadfully stubborn and so they are the worst.  I talk to these for entertainment purposes only.

Like I said the girl in the coffee shop is the second.  I hurry, grabbing my coffee and inserting my headphones into my ears, because I can see her trying to think of some clever conversation opener.  I win again.  Four for me.

I head to my gate and watch the people passing by.  It’s obvious that I am watching them and I don’t care.  A couple of pilots walk down the middle; they are both medium build, medium height, gray-haired and pudgy in the middle.  An old black man is in a suit with a cane walking with his grandson and they are in a deep discussion about something.  A small family runs by hurrying to catch a plane.  The woman is frantically pushing the jogging stroller while the little girl is on the dad’s shoulders and smiling at the chaos.  A kid passes the ice cream machine and throws a fit when his mother tells him ‘no.’ She caves in exactly 23 seconds – I counted.  Three generations of women walk by with perfect poise and not a hair out of its place.  A couple walks by, they’re in their late fifties.  The man is wearing tight Wranglers, black shiny cowboy boots, a matching vest and cowboy hat with a starched white collar shirt.  His wife’s hair is big, curly and dyed red.  She has on more make-up than five clowns and matches her husband except where the Wranglers are replaced by a denim skirt.  I watch them being the most intrigued while hoping that they will be on my flight.

In an airport there are two kinds of people: those worth watching and those who watch.  I am the latter though I sincerely wish I was interesting enough to be the former.  This couple is definitely the former.  They don’t even notice that I’m staring them down and if they did I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.  They continue their journey through the airport and I am sad to see them go.

The girl next to me pulls out her phone and begins talking to someone who I assume is her mother.  I would relay the conversation but the ant crawling on the floor is far more entertaining.  He has already stopped and turned around twice.

The announcement comes over the speaker that they will begin boarding our plane soon, so I decide to keep my laptop in my bag for now.  Thinking about my laptop draws me to think  about the case and since the country couple is gone, I have nothing better to occupy my time.  I think about the brutality of the murder.  I think more about the girl who loved him.  She has been etched into my vision, when I close my eyes I see her.  I see the picture of the two of them together walking down the street.  I think about this picture and wonder if I will be able to talk to anyone that knew her.  I know that she should not be a focus; she shouldn’t even be considered secondary, tertiary at best.  (I say this mostly because I enjoy the word ‘tertiary’ and seldom get to employ it in conversation or thought).

I notice the girl from the coffee shop come over and sit within two seats of me.  I can see her smiling at me through my periphery trying to catch my attention.  I really don’t care to begin a conversation with this particular stranger so I try to ignore her and keep thinking about the case in front of me.  I hope this makes me look at least a little distracted and disinterested.  It seems to work for the moment.

It’s 8 o’clock am and a squeaky voice comes over the intercom.  I assume we are about to board and this is when I realize that I need to pee.  Oh well.  I don’t really mind using the airplane bathroom.  I know most people hate it and try to avoid the thought of it by using the restroom at least five times before getting on the plane.  But this musing is beside the point.  The announcement is not that we are boarding.  Instead, the announcement goes something like this: “Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a small problem with the air traffic control towers.  Please remain calm, for the time being there will be no flights taking off or landing.  We will keep you updated on what this means for you as travelers.  Please remain calm and you will be informed as soon as we are aware of changes.”  The announcement repeats several times.  I wonder mostly about the phrase “for the time being.”  What does that actually mean?  “Time” is such an obscure concept anyway and the idea of it “being” is confusing.

No matter how many times the lady on the intercom states “please remain calm” the whole airport begins stirring.  One or two people start panicking and everyone else follows.  Within the next ten minutes the lines at the counters are at least fifty people deep.  Lots of people are yelling and others are frantically talking on their phones.  Arm motions are about five times their normal size.  Children’s eyes have increased in size as well.  Their parents grip their hands with extra caution.  I see an older couple huddled together trying not to get trampled by the stampede of angry travelers.  Traveling has never put me in the best mood, but this is absurd.  I sit for a long time, just watching.  I don’t feel the need to get anything fixed so urgently.  I don’t know if I’ll make it to Miami or not.  I don’t really mind either way at this point.  The girl from the coffee shop watches me some more and sort of waits for me to do something.  I don’t understand why she has attached herself to me.  I don’t know her and I don’t want to.  Someone like that slows me down and creates hassles.  Drama is written all over her embroidered shoulder bag, figuratively anyway.  Maybe if I pull out my laptop and absorb myself in work, she’ll leave me alone.

The announcements continue over the loud speaker.  They try to calm passengers without availing.  They fail to inform us of the actual reason that the planes are grounded, however the TVs with CNN are reporting that the air traffic controllers have gone on strike.  They have agreed to land all planes currently in route, but nothing else until their demands are met.  These demands have not yet been reported, but it seems that their benefits have been cut in the last six months and then their salaries were being threatened.  It’s funny how someone that you take for granted as a regular traveler actually has so much control over your flights.  I never much considered the plight of the air traffic controller.  I see the control tower and that’s about all.  Well that and Airplane!  That movie is funny.  I wonder if I can get a signal on my laptop and find it online to watch in the turmoil. 

I can get the internet but the connection is slow due to the vast number of people trying to figure out what to do with their time and their plans.  So I take a nap on the seat.  I had to get up early this morning.  The buzz of people around me creates the perfect white noise for sleeping and I doze before I’m aware of it.