Let There Be Flight

For the next 4 hours, I live in an airport. If there is an afterlife and if it has a purgatory, I assume it is something like this. Members of every race and culture you can imagine stranded together, confused exactly how they got here or where they’re going. Snakes in every store front offering “1 Day Only!” sales on the next product that will change your life forever. Mass-manufactured food stuffs that offer no nutritional value and, instead, somehow make you more hungry. There’s no bettering yourself, there is only the struggle to thrive. There are no prospects or goals on the horizon but, rather, lethargic indifference as you wait. And wait. And wait. Then learn you have new flight information and you stress, run, sweat and sob your way to the new gate. Where you will wait.

There’s a reason why they call it a terminal.

The airport lives in its own state of laws and time. At 9AM, I sat adjacent to a family of four eating their breakfast of pizza, garlic bread, and Pepsi. And they’re not in rare form. In my terminal (from Latin “terminalis,” meaning “the end, final”), the lines for McDonald’s, Dunkin’ Donuts, Ben & Jerry’s, and Villa Pizza were around the block at 9AM but I was able to walk right up to the salad stand and order an organic breakfast wrap with no wait. And the guy who made the wrap had wings, a harp, and smelled like summer dew. Weird.

The voice of god booms down from the noise-deadening foam panel ceilings every 90 seconds to re-remind you that you are not currently, nor will you ever be, safe as long as other people exist around you. “Thou shalt not watch over thy neighbor’s bag.” “Thou shalt not worship any false color. For I, Orange, the arbitrary warning color assigned by the Department of Homeland Security, am a jealous color.”

In fact, the only people who appear to be completely at home in the airport are the growing group of Jamaican wheelchair attendants gathering behind me as I type. They don’t feel out of place at all. They’re completely free to swear, yell, talk on the phone, mock, swear, flirt, give parental advice, eat, swear, and swear all they want. They must have been here a while.

Two Pomeranians in bags just joined the party. These might actually be the fluffy hounds of Satan. Their owner, an elderly gentleman who was wheeled over by a new member of the wheelchair club, is audibly battling the raucous orgy from behind as he yells at his nervous dogs to stay quiet. “Oh man, that’s good coffee,” he says with his forked tongue in between sipping his Dunkin’ Donuts and chastising the only creatures in the terminal who acknowledge their unnatural surroundings. He just mentioned he could feed the dogs a donut to keep them quiet. They’re on a 6 hour layover. Followed by a 6 hour flight. Followed by a 2 hour drive. They must have a direct flight to the 7th Circle.

3 hours left now. Pray for my soul.

Dear Reader: Feeling guilty about something? Say 3 Hail Mary’s and transfer all your frequent flyer miles to me. Feel better? You’re welcome.

P.S. We went for a walk and THIS is the International terminal.

Market Fresh, Jamba Juice and Le Tapenade Mediterranean Cafe welcome world-travelled sophisticates to lap at the grease-fryer-free fountain of youth and bask in the ambient glow of clever, polite banter.

When I die, I want to go to International Terminal. That’s where it’s at.

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