airport

I'm sitting, staring at the back of a forty-something year old guys head, sipping on airport coffee, and wishing the book in my lap reads itself. I've never had a good personal relationship with reading, despite myself being pegged as a reader. I enjoy reading, and I can evaluate books, but sometimes all I can do is stare at the cover. I don't have the drive to do it. I guess a lot of things in my life work that way.
This man shouldn't have a ponytail. Hes probably forty-five. He has an incredibly structured face and seems, in an odd way, to be malnourished. I wouldn't doubt if he was from the hippy generation. He probably starved himself for a month after Jerry Garcia died.
I'm hungry and the plane doesn't board for twenty minutes, so I head towards the nearest establishment. Nothing there, but porn magazines and gum.
I am an odd person. I have always been aware of this, but only at moment like this do I really know it; there was a girl. This girl was wearing a purple shirt and overalls. She had a overloaded backpack on that made her hunch over. She was talking on a cell phone. My shyness prevents me from talking to this girl, but her image still sits in my head. She looked to be seventeen or so. She was alone. I wasn't attracted to this girl, she wasn't very attractive. But she had such an odd presence, that it sparked my curiosity. I had seen her before when I was getting my coffee. And when I was coming back. She was loitering around the same area of the airport. She was always on her cell phone. I enter the bathroom, I leave the bathroom, and shes walking around on her cell phone. Why is she wearing such odd clothing? Is she coming or is she going? Who is she talking to? Her boyfriend? Her parents?
Questions, questions, its all I'm full of. Eighty percent water? I'm eighty percent questions, twenty percent confusion and zero percent answers.
I got this really delicious sandwich from a random airport delicatessen. Mixed well with the coffee, also (thats a big plus for me!) So, as I was heading back to my seat; plane leaving in ten minutes; I see the girl again. Shes still on her cell phone. Somewhere in my body, my brain derives some sort of false confidence to approach her. I walk up to her.
“Hello”
Shes talking on her phone.
“Just a second- yes, what do you want?” Hostility.
“I'm Tom, whats your name?”
“I'm on the phone.”
“Oh, um, okay. Sorry for bothering you.”
She scoffs.
“Alright, bye- Hi, sorry, some weirdo pervert just tried to talk to me.”
That bitch. I walk back over to her.
“I'm not 'some weirdo pervert'.”
“Don't you have to go catch a plane or something?”
Shes got a point.
“Well- augh.”
I run to my terminal.
I hand the woman my ticket and get on the plane. I hate assigned seating on planes. It's so painful and unneeded. I'm supposed to be sitting in an aisle seat next to a creepy old businessman. Of course I don't sit with him, theres always open seats. I sit in the back next to the window. The flight attendant says her completely creative speech and we start moving really fast.
Woosh. Into the air.
I stare down the the airport and the neighborhood that only an hour before, I was driving through. Everything looks different from the sky.
Better.
Its enlightening. The structures that took men months or even years of work, are mere specks of single colors. Its all just a precisely placed collage. We're all barely noticeable from the sky. Blink for a moment and you'll lose sight of the suicidal man who dropped out of high school, worked incredibly hard to get his GED, but still works for minimum wage. You'll miss the chance to see, for a moment, the husband who is supposedly working late, but is actually cheating on his wife with his coworker in a cheap motel. All of these people are specks of dirt that will soon be wiped off of the beautiful collage. I wish I could open the window and yell. I would yell at the dropout:
“You're a beautiful person! You've succeeded far more than people give you credit for! Don't give up! Hold on to life!”
I would yell down at the cheaters wife:
“Hes not working late! Hes cheating on you! Divorce him and finish that novel you've had on your mind, but have never had the time to write! Don't let anyone hold you back!”
I would yell just to get my frustration out:
“Katie you bitch! Why would you do this Katie!? Why!? I loved you more than I have ever loved anyone! You never even deserved me!”
I would yell:
“Mom. You finally succeeded! You finally did it, Samantha! You finally killed yourself! Are you happy now!? No more complaining that you just want to die! No more mourning over your love lost! Are you happy, Mom!? I was always there for you! But you never called when you needed me! Why did you do it, Mom!? Did you ever even fucking think about your kids!? Everyones got fucking problems, Mom!”
I would yell. I would cry and smoke a cigarette.