Terminal Discourtesy

I've got on: Hello, Mary Lou, by Creedence Clearwater Revival. That's right, sports fans... I've made inroads into expanding my musical horizons. Paul Simon and Ella Fitzgerald are lounging on my playlist as well. Music in English, with a drum set, can be just what's needed when walking through the hot-as-balls humidity of a midwestern summer--it pumps the blood, so to speak. Quickens the step, etc. Sometimes well-crafted and beautifully performed songs satisfy as much as the unfathomable profundity of Wagner. Moreso, even, especially when it's hotter than a Teamster's armpit in July. Seriously, we're talking Ghosts of Mississippi hot.


So tonight is the final night before classes begin for fall '06. I arrived on Wednesday, after what turned out to be some rather eventful travelling. This is part one of an untitled two-part mini series. It starts, as many of my stories might, with a sickening man...

Having arrived early to the airport, and finding the security line to be rather sparse, I progressed quickly to the terminal and found a comfortable, squishy-like chair to wait out the hour or so until boarding. I was alone for a small while, reading up on Barack Obama and the new Burberry line, until he sat down across from me.

He was caucasian, short and very thin but for the spherical belly that placed itself nicely between his ribs and groin when he sat. I guessed from his monastic coif that he was around 45. This estimate was supported by the obvious traits of the mid-life crisis:

• Razr - this rang twice, once to "Dirrty," once to "Born to be Wild."
  
• PDF - never came out of his hand
• Wall Street-esque suit which included:
• french cuffs with embossed and initial-engraved cufflinks
• navy vest
• suspenders
• Presidential-candidate tie

He arrived on the phone, and talked to more excess than an 8th-grader who's just discovered that if she chit-chats enough, she may just be able to avoid seeing her family ever again. At no time did his conversation cease to be crass or uncouth... obviously, he was more important than anyone who'd walked through LAX in a very long time.

"Sarah, doll," yes, he said doll, "next time, see if you can't arrange the limo so that it picks me up ontime. And maybe my memory's getting bad, but I could've sworn I asked for Perrier-Jouët. They gave me Cooks, Sarah. Cooks, for fuck's sake. Whatever. Do I have any messages?"

"Brad, hey man. Yeah, I'm stuck at the fucking terminal... Tell me about it, this goddamned security isn't going to mean anything. They made me take off my shoes... yeah, right? Like that's going to stop these fuckers. If they're going to blow the plane they'll blow the goddamn plane... No, they didn't search me. I don't fucking look like Osama."

"...yeah, tell me about it. Like these Jews can change anything. That fucking place is fucked up. You're never going to change these idiots' minds. We should just go in there and tell the whole fucking Middle-East what's up... seriously, drop the goddamn bomb, then we won't have any more issues from these bastards."

Now, as more and more people showed up at the terminal, obviously they avoided this man like The Poseidon Adventure. However, as it became more crowded, people had to choose between sitting on the floor or listening to the best definition of "windbag" since Antonin Scalia.

There was still about a half-hour before boarding, and I had to get away from Hatred's mouthpiece. I got up to get some coffee, and, taking my bags with me, I marked my seat with a couple of magazines.

I went and bought my coffee, and a scrumptious cran-orange muffin. Having completely forgotten that my mp3 player was in my bag, I decided that once I sat back down, I'd put my music on and watch his jaw flap wordlessly while I soaked in Strauss. I nearly skipped back to my seat.

He was still on the phone when I arrived, and between the noise of the crowd and the crinkling of my muffin bag, I only picked up bits and pieces. His vocabulary had worsened: "... God, what a cunt..." "... you'd think the idiot would promote my ass after I've basically been sucking his cock for 6 years." Class upon class.

I rolled my eyes and looked forward to sitting down to my music. But, lo! There upon my chair (still marked with Details and Men's Vogue) was an alligator briefcase. I looked about to see whose it might be, but no one seemed to have only just set it down. So I bent to pick it up and put it under my chair, thinking I'd hand it to whomever claimed it later on.

"... yeah, hold on. Hey, man, can I help you?" Oh, Christ. He was talking to me. It was his bag.
"Oh, sorry. These [magazines] are mine, I was saving my seat."
"Ok, well, that's my briefcase. Don't touch it."
"... but... my seat?" I've never dealt with such assholery. I wasn't quite sure what to say.

He held up his finger to me, then put it in his ear, and continued his conversation. "Yeah, sorry. Fuck, I hate the airport... all these people." I understood at that point why people get in fights with strangers in public. I would gladly have accepted community service or even jail time to place the heel of my loafer squarely into his No-No Zone.

Just then, an angel in the form of a sweet grandfatherly-type gentleman stood up in his seat, which was next to him. This guy couldn't have been less than 75, but he was still tall and had a commanding voice.

"Listen, I was sitting here when he [me] left, and I think you ought to move your briefcase and let him sit down. Hope I didn't interrupt your phone call." He said phone call with such an oil-slick sarcasm that, when coupled with his semi-raised meaty fists, the ridiculous pomposo had no choice but to obey.

As I sat down, the older man gave me a friendly wink, and I returned a small smile as I put my headphones in. He continued his phone calls, but I didn't hear another word.


Paul Simon's Still Crazy After All These Years. One of those songs that says what it wants to simply and in a straightforward manner, yet it can only be understood by someone who's "talked about some old times and drank himself some beers" and enjoyed the exquisite bittersweetness that comes therewith.