Remediation

      This meeting in San Diego won’t be the most important opportunity in my life, but damn if it doesn’t feel like it.  We’ve finally gotten a crack at the Broadmoor account and instead of sending Frank the Leech, I convinced the boss that Frankie was too preoccupied with our quarterly report to give the Broadmoor his full attention.  My chance, my flight, my good habit of arriving at the airport pretty early, but that’s alright because the sunrise is nice over empty runways.
         
      I’d have preferred to take a non-stop flight, but a recent scandal between two colleagues (both married) has really put a microscope on what’s considered a necessary expense.  I have one stop in Houston with a layover of a few hours, but I don’t mind since it’ll give me time to go over my presentation.  Best thing about getting to the airport at this time has got to be no lines at security.  The TSA people look like zombies, but who can blame them; I hope they get paid an early bird rate or something.
         
        “Good morning sir, boarding pass please.”
         “Sure.”  I snap it out. 
         “Please proceed to the left.” 
         
        A woman with bleached hair (too much, darling) is waiting for me at the metal detector.  I unbuckle my shoes and take my belt off, placing them on the conveyer strip.  I wish my laptop were lighter; every time I remove it from my carrying case it’s as if I’m birthing it.
         “Please stand aside while we run a cursory safety check of your computer.”
        I want to tell her that my laptop is so old that terrorists were still in their diapers when it was made.  Judging by her girth and that walnut-sized mole on her chin, I don’t think she’d laugh.  She rubs a thin, moist paper all over it and slides the paper into a scanning machine.  Whirr-beep.  Green light.
         “You can go now,” she says and scratches her armpits.
         Are you sure?  The embroidered Super Bowl XXXI logo on the bag could be a cover-up.
         “Thank you.”

      There is a novelty shop on my right, the standard issue state pride store where Maine lobsters crawl on magnets or Florida palm trees sway on airbrushed postcards.  Left of me is an empty bar which I’m betting will be filled before noon.  What gate am I?  22.  I’ve got a lot more walking to do.
         
      Gate 22: no employees standing at the gate’s information desk.  No magazines on any of the chairs, either.  I’m excited but tired.  Actually, I’m bored.  There’s work that I could do, but it can wait.  I’ll sleep.  Dark city with street lamps that produce dusty, golden light.  An enormous slanted wall forms a ridge behind an apartment building.  Old, gothic cars are parked along the street; they are without drivers.  I am in bed with my wife.  Is it my wife?  Her bathrobe is falling off. 
         
      Man, someone is being loud.  Can’t anyone see that I’m sleeping?  The terminal has filled up…a lot, surprisingly.  The big mouth is my age or slightly older, his shirt tucked in and taut against a sizeable gut.  He must golf.  He’s still on the phone, walking to the seat next to me.
         
        “Yup, Jimmy, yup he called earlier and told me about it.  The house is, well, remember that job we did on Oak Knoll Court?  It’s two streets up from that.  Ok, so the body,”
         The body?
         “Has been in there for six months.  Regardless, some buyers are interested in the property.  Now, you and Jimmy need to take care of this.” 
         I glance at him.  A child and grandmother are sitting across from us.
         “The guy was a suicide: shotgun to the head.  So we have blood splattered all over the walls, ceiling, and floor.  This means new carpeting, new paint, new everything not to mention we have to address the smell. Tell Jimmy that we need a full cleanup crew for the remediation of blood borne pathogens.”
         
        That’s enough.  I cough loudly and stare at his shoes.  He gets up and takes his briefcase with him.  Yeah buddy, it’s my fault that you have no concept of manners.  I shift my legs. I guess I’m still not completely over my food poisoning from the day before.  The bathroom, thankfully, is close and with so many people around, I can leave my bag at my seat and no one would steal it.
         
        How incredibly horrible.  If that doesn’t cure me completely, then nothing will.  I felt bad for the other bathroom goers, but I couldn’t stop it.  Why did that bathroom have so many mirrors anyway, just to make you face yourself after you drop unholy loads into the toilet?  Why is that woman walking away from my bag…why is she coming up to me?
         “Sir, is that your bag,” she says while pointing to my carry-on.
         “Yes.”
         “I was about to call the police to have them take it away.  You can’t leave your bag unattended.  Don’t do it again.”
         
        I nod and wonder what just happened.  Never has that ever been a problem.  I go to the bathroom for five minutes and you’re about to confiscate my bag?  I sit down and look at the kid and his grandma.  Where were you both?  You know what kid, screw you.  You suck.  I hope you hear all about suicide and murder and all those things on the same day you find out that Santa Claus doesn’t exist.  I hope you grow up to realize that you have a clueless, idiot grandmother who doesn’t look out for other people.
         “Flight 4551 to Houston, now boarding.”
         
        About time, I have to remember not to sit under the PA speakers.  The other passengers squish together in a line, but since I’m so close to the gate, all I have to do is stand up and I’ll be able to make my way through.  I have to get a lighter bag.  It must be called luggage for no other reason than you lug it around.  Can’t wait to hoist this thing into the overhead compartment and throw out my back.
         
        I give the employee my boarding pass and say thanks.  Travel propaganda posters cover the walls of the entrance tunnel, telling me that I need to save their dying industry by flying more.  We’ll see.  Oh man, it’s a small plane.  They’re losing my business by the second.
         A young stewardess waits in the front of the aircraft. 
         “Welcome aboard, sir.”
         I smile and check my ticket.  Window.  Do I get a window?  No, aisle.  I take my seat and try to close my eyes.  Won’t be a long connection.  Quick trip, mini layover, last leg, and meet up in San Diego with the Broadmoor insider.  His information better be worth the bricks of cash in my checked baggage; no reason to put thousands of dollars (what kind of lunatic wants cash anyway, we’re not drug dealers) through an x-ray machine manned by underpaid workers with not enough to do.
         “Excuse me, I’m sitting right there.”
         I shift my legs out to let her pass.  Is she a girl or a woman?  Maybe I’m too old to consider stuff like this.  The flight attendant is giving us the spiel about crashes and miscellaneous emergencies.  She’s new at this.  I’ll rest my eyes for a little while.
         
        Sweat is everywhere.  It’s not pooling or forming droplets, but it’s there.  I always get warm.  I wonder if people are looking at me since my mouth has been open and my face has gone greasy.  Checking the rows behind me.  No, they are fanning themselves.  The air conditioning is broken.  I’m shocked this flying matchbox is even capable of having it.  Wow, people are really sweating.  And complaining.  Where’s the flight attendant-she’s reaching for the intercom. 
         
        “Ladies and gentleman, as you all can tell we are having a problem with the air conditioning.  We do appreciate your patience and apologize for any inconvenience.  We’ll be entering our final approach so at this time I’d like to ask you to stay seated with your safety belts securely fastened.” 
         
        She sits down.  The plane is shaking.  The plane has been shaking.  That’s what woke me.  No point in going back to sleep with this turbulence.  A large man is rubbing his wife on the back-army haircut?  On leave?  Lord it’s hot.  She’s coughing strangely.  She’s vomiting into a little bag.  I can’t stop staring but at least I’m farther away from her than the woman in front of her.  Keep staring, that’ll make the puke go away.  Can’t you see she’s airsick?  I hope the smell doesn’t reach me.  Small plane, though.  Another person is puking in the back row.  This is incredible.  I wonder who’s next.  Ten minutes until our wheels hit the runway and we’ve got a heaving epidemic.  Those poor people in the back row: their seats are the only ones that are squished together.  Where’s the stewardess?  The woman is waving you down, get up and take her little puke cake that her husband’s got in his hand.  The smell is hitting me.  She’s refusing to get up and throw out the garbage.  Running down the aisle to collect puke bags caused by your airline’s amateur piloting is not going to cause a crash.  She sits like her duties are done.  What a catastrophic bitch.  We land and the stewardess remains near the exit, smiling.  I do not thank you or your pilots.
         
        This terminal is unbelievably busy.  Gate 14: good, not very distant this time.  It’s warm in the terminal, perhaps their AC is on the fritz as well.  I need a cold drink.  I’ll stop in at a fast food chain bunkered along a strip of stores.  I’m putting my bag down first.
         
        “Do you mind if I quickly put my bag down while I get something to eat?”
         “We’ll watch it for you,” the old lady assures me.  Her husband acknowledges me by bobbing his head.  Great couple.  A pair like that deserves to live to be a hundred.  My throat is rasping and retching, gotta get that soda.  I proceed down one main avenue but I see that clothing stores are the only stores around.  The old couple must be laughing at me as I retrace my steps. I’d laugh at me too.  This is the right way finally.  Neon signs jut out past the walls.  Idiot me, I should have remembered that this airline has a deal or whatever with all the bad chains.  The food is probably as grimy as I feel.  Maybe if I’m polite the cooks will make my burger fresh.  Not happening: any redeemable taste is being sizzled out of these charred cow pies as they go from done to well-done.  Yeah, make mine a combo, with coke.  Not diet, why would you assume diet?  Do I look like I should be on a diet?  Everything is unappetizing and I get less hungry.  Better for me; I do need to exercise more.
         
        I return to my seat and the husband/wife duo cheerily greets me.
         “It’s still here,” she jokes. 
         “Trust me, you wouldn’t be stealing much.”
         She laughs.  They board soon thereafter.  Houston is a zoo. A very humid, dirty zoo where the inhabitants are hicks in denim shorts and beer hats.  A crowd is parting through the middle.  Four, wait, three people are responsible; they are nearly running.  Father is leading the way; the little girl’s legs are running very fast.
         “I can’t handle your shit,” the mother yells back at the daughter.  Are you serious?  Daughter can’t be more than eight years old.
         “Ree-lax!” The father shouts at his wife.  I can’t imagine why he looks surprised; doubt this outburst is a one time event.  Still running.  They make it to the gate.  They make it to their flight.  My combo meal is finished.  A traveler has left several sections of a newspaper in a nearby seat.  I grab it before anyone else sees it.  Sports are here, that’s good.  Obits are missing; suicide-man probably took those.  Don’t need much else, really.  Good Lord that’s a big man: he’s wearing a basketball jersey from my alma mater.  Lots of kids around him, his kids.  He’s created a brood and each kid’s holding a video game.  Lucky them.  Kids are great, mine aren’t.
         
        Only five minutes until I’m supposed to board.  No one had made any announcements.  I approach the counter.
         “Hi, this is the gate for the flight to San Diego, right?” 
         “Yes it is, your plane hasn’t come in yet.”
         “When is it going to come in?”
         “We don’t really know, sir, it hasn’t left its airport yet.”
         
          Two hours pass.  I’d be up there complaining and screaming, but the employee wouldn’t care and an entirely average family is already doing that.  Nice vacation.  A plane is pulling up to our gate, finally time to go.  Combo meal is not sitting right.  I check the flight information screens, but they aren’t even updated to show that my plane has arrived.  This has ceased to be funny.  That ugly plane has been waiting at the gate for thirty minutes, and I haven’t even seen the pilots.  They’re probably getting drunk off their asses.  I know they are. 
         “Now boarding Flight 2317 to San Diego, non-stop.” 
         
        I only get an hour after I land to meet up with the insider.  I wish he would have let me get his cell number.  These piss-ant nobodies are making it too God damn close for me.  I walk into the cabin; it’s a very crowded flight.  Let me guess: my seatmate’s a fat or smelly man.  Maybe a disgusting hybrid of the two.  He’s a guy alright.  Stringy hair with a pony tail.  Put down the joint and visit a dermatologist.
         “Do you mind if I put my bag down? Your feet will be ok?”
         “No problem,” he says.  He’s not too bad.
         Two, three, four grannies are walking my way.  They are loud.  They are slowing down.  They are sitting behind me.  Grannie 1 stops directly adjacent to my seat, leaning over me as she tries to hoist her bag into the overhead.  Her wrinkled raisin belly keeps bouncing off of my arm.
         “Here, let me help you with that.”  I get up and put it in for her. 
         “Such a nice man, thank you so much!”
         “Anytime.”  Don’t touch me, don’t talk to me.  Sit down.  Flight attendant is beginning the lecture.  Several passengers are talking during her bit, including the grannies; the stewardess doesn’t seem to mind.
         
        Whirr.  Rumble.  Rotate.  Lift off.  Ga-chunk of the wheels retreating into plane’s underside.  Grannie 1, the ringleader, has the aisle seat opposite me.  Grannie 2 grabs my headrest to pull herself up to talk to Grannie 3, seated past Grannie 1.
         “It’s so nice to be back in the U.S.A.,” says Grannie 1. 
         “Isn’t that a famous song,” Grannie 3 chimes up. 
         “No, it was, uh, Back in the U.S.S.R.  Who sang it,” asks Grannie 2. 
         “Bruce Springsteen,” answers Grannie 1. 
         “Oh, oh, yes, you are right,” all grannies replied. 
         Sweet mercy, the stewardess is coming.  So you don’t have any liquor.  Great.  I’ll just have crackers then.  The crackers crumble and dry up my mouth. 
         I can hear Grannie 2 forcing food down her throat, but it’s not shutting her up.
         “So delicious,” gnash gnash, “these cookies are so moist and delicious.” 
         “My water is very strange.  It doesn’t taste right.”  I look back to see Grannie 1 holding the same, mass-produced water that I’m drinking.
         “No wonder why, look at what’s in here: sodium? potassium?  This isn’t even water!”
         Women like these, they don’t have husbands who die: the men have enough and quit. 
         I take out an airline shopping magazine.  I try to focus on all the products no one would ever buy.  I hate these hags, even Grannie 4. 
         
        Touchdown in amazing San Diego.  Pilgrims should have struck out for here.  Damn they’re making me cut it close.  Got about an hour, hour and fifteen minutes to spare.  I exit the plane and walk briskly past these lumbering elephants.  Just because you have a baby carriage doesn’t mean you get to saunter your fat ass in the middle of the road.  I’m glad to see the flowers waiting for other passengers; they’re a welcome sight, even though they’d never be for me.  I bound down the escalator to the baggage claim.  Flight, flight…Flight 2317 from Houston, carousel 8.  I’m there.  I wait.  Passengers from my flight arrive and wait as well.  But they leave.  The carousel stops.  It’s not starting again.  Why isn’t it starting again, I don’t have my bag yet.  I don’t have time for patience.  I run over to the help desk. 
         “Where is my bag?”
         “Alright sir, where were you coming from?”
         “Flight 2317 from Houston, everyone else on my flight has their bag.  Where is my bag?”  This idiot needs to hurry up the hell up. I’ve already wasted fifteen minutes and it takes fifteen more to get to the insider’s meeting place.
         “It seems that, alright, it seems that your bag hasn’t left Houston yet although it should be here in a few hours.  If you want me to file a Property Irregularity Report…”
         “Bullshit!  This is bullshit!”  Did I yell?  Yes I did.  Loudly, actually.  Did she just signal a police officer for assistance?  I think so.  I hope this doesn’t affect my chances with the Broadmoor account.