Airport Melancholia
6:40 on a Saturday morning, Gate 26 at Ronald Reagan International Airport in Washington D.C. I've been up since 3am, I've been through the hotel room 5 times to make sure I didn't forget anything, and I feel like my skull is full of cotton as I sit here in this bouncy vinyl chair. The place is sparsely populated with other muzzy-headed travelers. A few energetic people charge down the halls, gripping their huge cups of cardboard-clamped coffee. They stand out like bonfires in a city of ghosts.
A man approaches Gate 26. He is perhaps 50 years old, overweight in a bureaucratic, outdoor barbecue sort of way, and he's wearing a poorly tailored navy blue blazer over a grey silk shirt open at the neck. A silver chain lurks menacingly within the coils of his curly grey chest hair. He looks like a younger, less attractive John Ashcroft, if such a thing is possible.
He scans the nearly empty waiting area, passing his eyes over row upon row of totally unoccupied seats, discards all of them, and proceeds to sit down right next to me. Not one or two seats away, so as to maintain a bubble of personal space. No, he's using my armrest.
He has three carry-ons: a laptop bag, a roller bag, and an off-white, stained and splattered canvas tote bag that claims to be from the Shanghai National Museum. At this point, I'm guessing lobbyist or perhaps State Department Flunky. He piles it all in front of him and catches his breath for a moment.
I know what's coming. There is only one possible thing in the entire universe that this man could do at this point in time. He is like a juggernaut on steel rails; he could not deviate from his trajectory now if his life depended on it. Knowing this, I feel a bit like a fair-haired damsel tied to the tracks.
He pulls out his cellphone.
He has a surprisingly mellow baritone voice, which is frequently marred by a hacking cough and loud snorts as pints of snot are transferred efficiently from his sinuses to his throat. Sexy, right? The first thing he talks about is how horny he is. This subject is discussed at length, and at the same volume (and, disturbingly, with the same enthusiasm) that one might use when discussing leaf mold or a colonscopy.
Next up is a pending trip to Vegas, where he is apparently going to "have some fun" in a way that again involves horniness. Following this lovely image is a brief and half-hearted attempt to convince the person on the other end of the line to move in with him. Apparently he already has a free bedroom, and this would allow the person to move out of their parent's house.
Now I'm forced to count the moles on the left side of his face. Twenty two, by the way, including the ear. I do not do this out of preference. I do this because it is infinitely more enjoyable than listening to him discussing what he would like to do to the caller with his tongue.
I am trying to work out a way to commit seppuku with a tube of Chapstick (you know, because moving to another seat would be rude), when he finally shuts up and gets off the phone. Sweet relief! Then it rings (sounds like Iron Butterfly), and he proceeds to take a call from the Governor of Maryland. A meeting is discussed, someone will be hired shortly based on their "awesome" performance with Mr. So and So, and then it's time to board. He is, of course, in First Class.
At first, I was amused by this bizarre encounter, but further thought led to sadness. So many people live their lives in a series of shallow relationships, with only tenuous connections to other people and the world around them, because they are unwilling or unable to attempt any kind of deeper bond. They skim the surface of life, anchorless, adrift and unaware.
A man approaches Gate 26. He is perhaps 50 years old, overweight in a bureaucratic, outdoor barbecue sort of way, and he's wearing a poorly tailored navy blue blazer over a grey silk shirt open at the neck. A silver chain lurks menacingly within the coils of his curly grey chest hair. He looks like a younger, less attractive John Ashcroft, if such a thing is possible.
He scans the nearly empty waiting area, passing his eyes over row upon row of totally unoccupied seats, discards all of them, and proceeds to sit down right next to me. Not one or two seats away, so as to maintain a bubble of personal space. No, he's using my armrest.
He has three carry-ons: a laptop bag, a roller bag, and an off-white, stained and splattered canvas tote bag that claims to be from the Shanghai National Museum. At this point, I'm guessing lobbyist or perhaps State Department Flunky. He piles it all in front of him and catches his breath for a moment.
I know what's coming. There is only one possible thing in the entire universe that this man could do at this point in time. He is like a juggernaut on steel rails; he could not deviate from his trajectory now if his life depended on it. Knowing this, I feel a bit like a fair-haired damsel tied to the tracks.
He pulls out his cellphone.
He has a surprisingly mellow baritone voice, which is frequently marred by a hacking cough and loud snorts as pints of snot are transferred efficiently from his sinuses to his throat. Sexy, right? The first thing he talks about is how horny he is. This subject is discussed at length, and at the same volume (and, disturbingly, with the same enthusiasm) that one might use when discussing leaf mold or a colonscopy.
Next up is a pending trip to Vegas, where he is apparently going to "have some fun" in a way that again involves horniness. Following this lovely image is a brief and half-hearted attempt to convince the person on the other end of the line to move in with him. Apparently he already has a free bedroom, and this would allow the person to move out of their parent's house.
Now I'm forced to count the moles on the left side of his face. Twenty two, by the way, including the ear. I do not do this out of preference. I do this because it is infinitely more enjoyable than listening to him discussing what he would like to do to the caller with his tongue.
I am trying to work out a way to commit seppuku with a tube of Chapstick (you know, because moving to another seat would be rude), when he finally shuts up and gets off the phone. Sweet relief! Then it rings (sounds like Iron Butterfly), and he proceeds to take a call from the Governor of Maryland. A meeting is discussed, someone will be hired shortly based on their "awesome" performance with Mr. So and So, and then it's time to board. He is, of course, in First Class.
At first, I was amused by this bizarre encounter, but further thought led to sadness. So many people live their lives in a series of shallow relationships, with only tenuous connections to other people and the world around them, because they are unwilling or unable to attempt any kind of deeper bond. They skim the surface of life, anchorless, adrift and unaware.
coughed this up at 1:02 PM
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