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.
