Airport Wasteland

        I paid him and stepped out of the cab.  After he pulled away I stood for a few seconds longer, just preparing myself for the wild currents that swept behind the doors.  My ears pounded as a 747 arched over my head, over J.F.K, over Manhattan, and over America.
         
        I glanced all around, spinning nervously, stopping on the suspicious figure in the reflection that guarded the sliding doors; my pale, plaintive expression stared back. He wore frayed, faded jeans, and a scruffy navy jacket with flecks of dirt spotting the front. He turned his collar up against the wind.
         
        The description I gave her over the phone of myself – a new apartment, car, etc… -- was only a slight hyperbole, I would say. We hadn’t seen each other in person in over a year, not since our strange parting, so the initial meeting in California would be interesting, to say the very least.  In hastily written emails, I painted the picture of a man who was finally self-aware and who could see further down the road than a Saturday night. I was re-enrolling in art school, with a fresh outlook, and was determined to finish the degree this time around.  Whether she accepted me or not didn’t matter now, which was a strange feeling.  I was for the first time actually happy with my situation and somewhat confident.  The cynical reflection in the window gave me a sarcastic look. He laughed it off.
         
        As I started into the sliding doors, a big, white ten-gallon hat made its way around me and nudged me aside. “Excuse me, son. I didn’t even see you there -- Sorry, the wife’s waiting inside. You city folk wouldn’t know much about waiting, I reckon.” “Uh, well.  I guess not,” I said, annoyed already. I glanced at a yellow taxi on the curb. A man in a black beret threw some bills toward the driver and sprinted towards the door.  “Hey, what’s your name, boy!  I’ve seen you around.”  “Uh, Brian.  Brian Nordic.  I’m from Manhattan.”  “Odd,” he said between chews and grunts.  “You aren’t on the TV are you?  I know I’ve seen… ”  “Trust me, if I was a famous actor, I would not be heading where I am right now.” I straightened my back and took a step for the door.
         
      “If I was a famous actor, like a star of one of them Soaps, I sure as hell wouldn’t be going to find the wife, right now. God knows where she’s at.  Probably headed straight for the massage store, with my credit cards…Say, if I run into you again in the airport, and I ain’t broke yet, your dinner’s on me – hell, you sure look like you need it. Take care of yourself – you look like a horse done kicked you square in the...”  “Uh, yeh.  I’ll see you around too,” cutting off his last attempt to be a Southern Gentleman.
         
      He disappeared behind the glass, into another world. “I do look like shit,” I coughed, zipping my jacket all the way up.  “Snap out of it Brian. You’re sulking.  You know how pathetic you are when you sulk. Good grief, you’re talking to yourself -- again!”  When the door hissed open, the second time, tempting me to cross into this purgatory of human existence, cool AC and a manufactured aroma, redolent of floor cleaner and coffee, hit me in the face.  Along the ticket counters, people from all countries, all walks of life, lined up waiting for the little paper ticket that would get them on a plane to somewhere else.
         
        Every one of these people had a past beneath their removed exteriors.  There was a romance, or a sitcom, or an epic, or a tragedy behind every Joe and Sally waiting for that ticket.  The line wrapped around me like a labyrinth, framing me in the center like the Minotaur of myth, stuck and waiting for life to stumble its way to me through the maze.
         
        The wait was too long; I leapt for the self-service ticket machine.  After a painless fight with technology, I made my way, boarding pass in hand, through the canals of airport security.  Winding through the lines like a dreary carousel, people began to blur and melt into a flow of stereotypes and rolling luggage.  I daydreamed, thinking about the moment I would get off the plane in San Francisco.  I pictured how she would be dressed: a sharp, skinny black skirt, stark against pale, luminescent skin. Her shiny black hair cut short, combed asymmetrically off her forehead, framing a smile that would shatter my entire being.
         
      “Sir, could I see your passport?”  “Huh? Uh, yeh sure. Hold on.”  “Sir, that’s your driver’s license.”  “Uh…It’s here, I know.”  “Blockbuster card.” “Eh, hold on.”  The Guard mumbled something into his radio - incredulous glance toward me.  “Hey, hands off the bag!  I have a freakin’ passport.  Jus’ give me a sec’ to find it.”  “What is this?" the tall, thick-necked man said as he held up a brown shoebox - broken glass jingled against the cardboard
         
        “It was a gift for my girlfriend…. Well, uh, she’s not exactly my girlfriend.  Well, you know, she’s a friend… and a girl… But we’re not… you know?”  “Sir, I don’t have time for your soap opera. If I wanted that I would go talk to that bimbo standing next to the ten-gallon hat.  Do you know the seriousness of disobeying airport security?"    “Well, yes.  Kind of.”  “You can’t get on this plane without your passport.”
         
        Suddenly, out of nowhere, a girl materialized out of a fog of blandness. She had light red hair and a black t-shirt with a mustached doodle of Nietzsche on the front, beside a quote that said sardonically in big cursive font “Nietzsche is fun!”  Floating from the crowd up to the scene of guards, she held a small, square booklet.    “I think you dropped this in line,” her light voice breathing order back into chaos.  “That’s my passport!!!,” I cried, thrusting the flimsy book at the guard’s meaty hands.  “Do you know this girl, sir.”  “No. Never seen her.”  “Yup, the pass checks out.  I guess you’re free to go.  Let this be a lesson to you kids.”    “Yeh, sure thing, man,” I replied, shocked at the passport in my hand.
         
        I broke away from the uniforms like a masked robber running from a 7-11, having no idea what the “lesson” is that I had just learned.  The girl who had presumably saved me from going to Guantonamo Bay was blankly staring at a large, changing sign that displayed the times and places of every flight at the nation’s busiest airport.  “Hey, you saved me back there!  Th...Thanks!,” I said, panting. "Yeh, sure," she replied, staring at the board. Then silence. For 30 seconds of eternity we both just stared up at the screen. Ever-flashing and flickering the endless movement of people and their stuff.  I began to wonder if she was really trying to find her flight, or if she was just waiting for me to get bored and leave.  “Uh, have you found it yet?”  “Found what?,” she croaked, eyes like black holes, absorbing the sign in one endless gravitational pull.  “Your flight.  What you’re looking for on this board.”  “Oh, yeh. Mine leaves in an hour at gate 37 E.”  “Oh, well. Great, we can go eat!,” I said, relieved.  “Sure.”
         
        Quizzically, I moved next to her down the cold corridors of J.F.K.  Pushing between smells of floor cleaner, greasy fast food, and the peculiar stench of my favorite jacket, the sweet perfume of this girl swept up to my ol’ factory -- it was new and exciting, like the nothing I’ve ever smelled.  Her features framed an unconventional beauty. She had a slight, protruding chin, but a sharp, delicate nose gave her face a peculiar feminine grace. The waves of her red hair bounced down her head to her shoulders.  Her body was petite and strong, but carefree and flowing.
         
        This is the moment that has driven me, even now: the fresh aroma that washes over your senses, when you’re excited to know someone for the first time – when you’re content just to be alive.  Remembering that feeling is what gave me courage to throw that fragile note into the wind of Manhattan’s harbor, and watch it twist and brake above the waves.
         
        “So, you a big Nietzsche fan?”    “Nah, not really...'And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you’," she recited dramatically, arms extended like a true thespian – an old man hobbling by gave a half-hearted clap. "I mean, I'm not like all Triumph of the Will, but I find it inspiring," she corrected.  "Yeh, cool. Way cool. Have you seen that artwork," I said, cycling through the slides of my art history classes.  "Let's see. ‘"God is dead" – Nietzsche. “Nietzsche is dead” – God.’”  “I actually design t-shirts with philosophy quotes, and I just designed one with that line.”  “Whoa, that’s awesome.  I’m an artist too.” 

        I choked, glancing towards the panoramic glass of the runway. “Well. Kind of.  I’m going back to art school this coming spring, to finish up.”  “Is that what you want to do? I always found academia very confining,” she said, dodging a golf cart that was plowing through the crowd.  “I just want to be something great,” I said, staring at the giant Boeing plane lifting off the runway; its landing gear began to slowly retract.  “I want to be good at something. Something, that so when I walk out of the office 30 years from now, I won’t have any regrets." We walked up to the window and gazed out.
         
        After those words left my mouth, exiled from the darkest corner of my mind, I caught my reflection in the glass that overlooked the runway.  She put a hand on my shoulder. "You just have to know yourself." Here words sang like a chorus, piercing through all the noise around us.  "Is that on a t-shirt, too?," I said looking at her in the reflection sarcastically.  At that moment, a plane touched down and ran through both of our bodies in the window.
         
        We continued walking, a little faster this time, weaving and dodging people.  “People,” I mumbled cynically under my breath.  “What?” she asked.  Something blunt hit my shoulder.  A guy in a Yankees ball cap pointed a big TV camera at my face.  "Oh sorry, dude. Didn't see you there," he said, backing away.  "Yeh, well. I hope you catch this on camera," flipping my angry digit right against the lens.  "You sure know how to spike the ratings," he mumbled beneath the shadow of his cap. 

                                                          *****
         
        “Do you have a name, Mrs. Nietzsche?” I queried, as we approached the food court.  “It’s Melissa.  Melissa Darcus. What’s yours, Michelangelo?”  “Funny. It’s Brian Nordic. Maybe you’ve heard of my Dad, he invented the Nordic-track.”    “Did he really?!”  “Hahah. No.  Dad sells paper clips to office supply stores. Quite the glamorous job.”  “Hey, if your Dad didn’t do it, then somebody else would.  Someone has to sell paper clips, Brian and I’m sure your Dad does a remarkable job,” she said with a singsong voice, barely able to constrain her laughter.

      "That's very kind of you Mrs. Nietzsche. Can I introduce to Mr. Marx?"  "You should do stand-up?," she said, choking her neck and gagging, pantomiming nausea.  "Seriously?"  "Yeh.  Stand-up and get me something to eat!"  "What a comedian," I said, rolling my eyes. "So, uh, what do you want to eat?”  “Oh, I’m a vegetarian,” she said, brushing a loose strand of red out of her eyes and flashing me her pearly teeth -- I noticed a nose ring that I hadn’t seen before.  I stood up.
         
        I walked around the food court, noting my choices: Too much grease, fake chicken, annoying mascot.  My choices were slim.  I heard giggling behind me - The mating call of middle school tweens.  I slowly turned my head in the direction of the pack.  The leader pointed at me, face in awe and surprise, and then turned into her giggling friends for cover.  It was time to find some food, and fast.
         
        “(Intercom) Flight 247 will leave in 5 minutes to San Francisco, Gate 14 B. Flight 247 to San Fran.”
         
          Food would wait.  “That’s my flight!!,” I cried.  People stared.  What do I do? Should I go back to her -- to at least get her number before I leave!?  "Gate 14 is like a mile from here, I can't go back," I said out loud, raising my voice. I ran towards the gate, stretching through time and space like the Concords that took off outside. I had broken the gravity of Melissa’s pull and was pushing out beyond her atmosphere, into blackness. “Excuse me, pardon me. Coming through! Emergency. Plane leaving!!”  The feeling that I had experienced all but 5 minutes ago was now shattered into pieces, glistening next to ketchup packets on a greasy food-court floor. But nothing could stop me.  I had to catch that plane to California…
         
        …But I stopped running.  “I have to go back,” I said, panting. A guy standing next to me took a picture with his cell phone, pointing; the girl with him seemed to be sobbing.
         
        "There is too much at stake to go back; I have to catch that plane!" The guy with the camera emerged from behind a crowd of people like a lion emerging from a thicket in the jungle, his prey cornered against a tree. People were now gaping and pointing in my direction. A boom mike dropped down from over my head, like a snake descending from a tree branch, tempting me to run.
         
        “(Intercom) Last call, Flight 247 to San Francisco. Last Call.”
         
        My feet were moving before I could stop them.  There was a rush of blood to my head as passion spurred my legs.  Like a rocket reaching the limits of the stratosphere, I slowly turned over and dropped back towards the ground, gravity’s arms wide open….

        My rocket crashed into a ten-gallon hat.  “Hey there city boy.  Where ya off to in a hurry like a hurricane.” His southern twang sounded mangled as tears flowed from his big blue eyes onto rosy cheeks.  “My wife, Claire – she left me.  After I seen you, I went to meet her; but she wasn’t in the massage store.  She wasn’t anywhere!”  “I’m sorry, sir, but I really have to go,” I said, trying to pull his massive arm off my shoulder.  “That’s why I hate comin’ up here.  No sympathy in the world!” His tears dripped onto my sleeve like lead bullets.  “I bet she run off with that security guard.  She was eyen’ him up real good.”
         
        “I’m sorry about your wife, sir. I’m sure she just wants to explore the world, see Rome, or even Dollywood.  You can’t control other people and expect them to stick around.  I’ve made that mistake before.  Now, I have to go so I don’t miss my chance.”  As his hand released, and his sorrowful head turned toward the waiting planes on the runway, I was on my way to where I needed to be.  I ran past all the delayed flights, broken hearts, and crying babies, beginning to feel her pull.  The table in the food court where she was sitting drew me closer -- but it was completely empty.
         
        “And cut!!” a deep voice roared into the terminal, through a 21st century wasteland.  The crew put down their equipment and went for McDonalds.  "Great wrap for Season 2: Does he find the girl, or does he make it to San Francisco, to find his lost love?"  A tall, dark skinned man in his 30's walked up to me, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Brian, you're a star. Ratings are going to be out of this world!"  "Glad my life could be used for something useful,” I said, blinded by the flurry of snapshots going off in the airport.

      "Jeff, did you see where that girl went? The one with the red hair and t-shirt..."  "Brian...Hold on a min...," he said, holding my shoulder.  "Jeff, I'm sick of this. I'm staying here in New York. California is no place for me. It’s not where I need to be. My life is in art, now, here in the Big Apple."  "Brian, look, I'm sorry," he said, in a low-register voice, darting his eyes toward the crew behind him.  "What?" My eyes pierced into his green orbs; they sat empty and uncaring.  "Brian, we hired her.  We took your passport so we could spark some drama with security.  You know, post-9/11 ratings.  We hired Melissa – well, her real name is Persephone -- to bring it to you and generate some love interest.  I'm sorry, man. Hey, it's reality TV, right kiddo!”  "Yeh, reality..."  He put his hand on my shoulder and gave his best shot at sympathy: “You’re great kid.  You’ve got a knack for this stuff.  You need to reconsider moving out to L.A. Don't you have a girl friend out there?  Just look at these fans around you. You’re a star, and nothing can change that."  A girl that looked like Melissa brought a small envelope over to him; she gave me a sweet, passing smile, and then gave Jeff a peck on the check.  “Brian, here’s your advance for Season 3. That is, if you’re still up for it?”  He passed it to me; it had the Real World logo printed on the corner.

        She was gone. Just like that. I unzipped my jacket and threw it on the ground.  A pack of girls dove on it, hungry for a glimmer of celebrity, for an artifact of fame.  I felt light-headed; the airport buzzed around me as though the terminal itself was taking off.  I looked on the ground – searching for something -- next to old ketchup packets stained like blood on the white tile; but there was nothing. As though nothing had ever happened.  Nietzsche would have gotten a kick out of reality TV. I spun around towards the big glass windows, putting my face and hands squarely against that slowly melting liquid; flashes of light reflected in the window. The engines of Flight 247 fired with a boom, shaking the window, overtaking the sound of screaming girls, and lifted the plane up into the sky, one body lighter. It climbed ever higher up an ethereal road. I fumbled the envelop in my hand and watched as that life disappeared into the clouds.