Monday, November 17, 2014

AIRPORT 2014



 I got to the airport with too much time to spare, none of which I’d relegated to saying a fond farewell to Baltimore because, frankly, if you have nothing fond to say... As my mother pulls to the side of curb, I get out of the car with a shrug. I happen to be slightly too young and unworldly to remember the romantic bygone days when your loved ones could still walk you to your gate. It’s only in movies that you still see someone at departures with their handkerchief drawn, hooving on a Benson and Hedges while tearfully kissing their so-and-so goodbye. Farewells—bittersweet or otherwise—are now to be delivered in the driveway loop outside of check-in while taxicabs speed by. Romance at the airport dead. It’s cold, and not just for November.



My mother’s car idles while I hug her out of love and obligation. As I do, I shudder at the thought that we may never see each other again; after all, I could be found floating face first among the wreckage in the Thames. But the thought of a last goodbye makes me feel alive. It’s frivolous and natural—a romantic notion born of neuroses, but romantic nonetheless.



A kind lady in a vest standing behind a counter whisks my luggage away. Her round face and rosy cheeks give the impression that her kitchen is covered wall-to-wall in calico and whicker, geese frolicking through a meadow on every paper towel. She refuses to turn over her shoulder as my bag disappears down the belt. Meanwhile, I want to wave. Like my mother, I have no choice but to assume that I will may see it again. The vested cherub offers me some consolation. “It will be waiting for you in London,” she smiles, my cue to step aside.



So I do. Breezing through security, I follow the signs to a stool at the nearest bar. The guy slinging drinks bears a striking resemblance to the Native American dude who throws a drinking fountain through the window at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The glass looks small in his hand as he pours me a Bloody Mary that contains more horseradish than it does alcohol. I chew the first sip. With nothing else to occupy me, I take out my phone so I can snap a picture of my cocktail. It doesn’t matter that I’m lonely and overwrought, Facebook has earned the right to know precisely how happy I’m pretending to be. Nine people “like” my post in the first five minutes. That’s validation enough. For now.


My phone in hand, a notification pops up from Scruff-- a dirty gay app where dirty gay people meet each other to do dirty gay things. A handsome, bearded gentleman who is less than 250 feet away wants to say hello. He’s cute—stocky, masculine, broad—all the attributes that would drive me wild if I wasn’t drinking alone in the airport at one in the afternoon. I have no real intention of meeting him, so when I see him walk by, I hide my face against a wall. He sends a disappointed message that his plane is boarding at gate D14. I get up from my stool to watch his disappearing act. He sees me standing there. He waves. When he smiles his sad smile, my ribcage puffs up before collapsing altogether. Like my mother and my luggage, I am sure that I will never see him again. It's a lovely feeling: perhaps romance at the airport isn’t dead-- it just flies standby