Next to me a young dad is reading a Star Wars book to his eight-year old son. Are they going to Las Vegas, like me? If so, are they going to visit family, or is Dad taking young Annikin to the dark side where he will initiate him into the practices of gambling and whoring? I've always understood that eight is a great age for initiation. You know. When children truly understand the meaning of accountability.
This airport is a mixed bag for me. A lot of memories, mostly involving old boyfriends. I think I recall screaming into a payphone over there....somewhere. I look into people's faces and they're so stressed. Anxious. They don't want to go where they're going, they want to get there faster, they feel so lonely travelling alone, oh God do I really have to sit next to my husband/wife/child/lover would it hurt their feelings too much if I just boarded a plane to a different destination, say...Jamaica and never came back? Live on cash so you can't trace my trail why are you so slow, don't walk so fast, I really really wish you hadn't forgotten to brush your teeth this morning. It's a cesspool of irritation. It's alienating, it's clausterphobic, it's barren, it's teeming with yucky humanness.
I don't like being aroung a lot of people. They remind me that I'm a people. So I board the plane and find my safe place, my island, my inner buzz and please sir, please, do not start a conversation with me no matter how nice you are because right now, so far, this morning is not so bad.
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