Neither here nor there

I am sitting at Reagan National Airport, on a two hour layover, awaiting the third and final leg of my journey. My computer tells me it is 4:48 pm, but here it is 7:48 and the sun just set, in a less-than-spectacular display, as we taxied up the runway.

Unlike most trips, I have not slept, not even a wink, and I suppose that can owe to the fact that at 3:45 am, Pacific time, I forced myself to sleep, and I must have completed an entire REM cycle, because I awoke chipper and at peace. Sarita picked me up at 7:20, as I wanted a full two hours, even though it was SB airport. Note to self: after the crack of dawn rush, the airport is as sleepy as a tryptophan - stupified baby, just suckled…

So for the first time ever, I had over an hour to sit and contemplate the University, rising up on its little perch, from the interior of the restaurant balcony. It was a beautiful sight, but I didn’t feel sad, or happy. Just ready. I wanted to pull out my computer and write about that feeling, the not-unpleasant ambivalence, the twinkling of the ocean, the foggy parenthesis hugging the buildings that glistened in the early-morning sun.

I must say, there is a certain sense of satisfaction in leaving my house in absolute cleanliness and order. Trash removed, books neatly stowed on shelves, papers, trinkets and tchatchkes boxed and thrust into the far corners of my barren closets. I was patting myself on the back for such excellent calculation of food stores that not a single item was wasted or left behind. Save for the condiments, and really, who doesn’t need to inherit condiments from a friend?

I sailed through security, though it was with mild trepidation that I sealed certain sex-toys in a plastic bag, and hoped for the best. After minimal revision, I re-assembled myself with slight torpor from an all night grading/ cleaning fest, but the coffee really must have been high test stuff, because I crossed the entire continent and didn’t sleep a wink, nor did I talk, or think… not really, not in that dangerous, self-defeating way I normally have of thinking, at least. Or best.

It has been a mostly uneventful journey, well, if you don’t count the absurd Santa Barbara lady that opened the waiting room door, after passing through security, to chat with her friend who was outside the building. I am amazed that they didn’t tackle her to the ground and drag her by the hair out again. It was far less dramatic. They just whisked her back through security. Again. Two points for stupid.

I decided that I like the aisle seat better, after all, especially if I don’t intend to sleep, because I made about 7 trips to the bathroom and usually I have a whole interior monologue pitting guilt against bladder control. I sat on the toilet, looking at the duo-toned wavy lines in plastic, reminiscent of nothing at all, and wondered what design concept could have been invoked, and why that particular pattern would be chosen. I didn’t need to sit on the toilet for quite so long, but I thought, "I’ll just relax for a moment, and contemplate." I thought about writing a story that included such wavy-lined cream and grey walls, but decided against it, being an utterly isolated and mundane fact that instead of adding verisimilitude, would act as a noisy and irrelevant detail. Though there is sometimes a place for such details. I will meditate on this some more, perhaps.

Maybe I was influenced subliminally by the comment that even a seat in the loo would be nice, by the man whose seat my neighbors had co-opted after the hour-long re-check-in line, due to a downsizing of our aircraft. (I wonder, if an aircraft is downsized, does it get to collect unemployment?) There were scores of mildly annoyed people, 45 more were due to fly than the number that the plane could accommodate. Needless to say, I didn’t offer to be bumped. I. might have a conniption if I weren’t there, snuggled in next to her when she awakes tomorrow.

Earlier, there was a couple in the SB airport, she was thin and had a face that wasn’t ugly, but at the same time wasn’t particularly pretty. Nondescript wavy/ straight brown hair, light eyes. It was much like the face of a woman that haunts me, tight-lipped and proper. He was also nothing special to look at, with cold-blue eyes, but wtith smile crinkles in his prematurely stress-aged face. But they had a pretty post-bald baby girl in a pink sleeper that sat more angrily than coyly strapped to her car seat. And yet, there was something so wonderfully solid in that baby-body. I thought about how I wanted to hold one, remember what it was like when I. was that age, and holding her was like holding a solid grounding medicine-ball of affection. I can’t wait to kiss her round cheeks.

So it was an uneventful journey, though there were a few minutes where the success of this endeavor seemed in jeopardy. I sat comfortably, in jeans! and watched the world go buy. Somewhere towards the 2/3 point of the journey an octogenarian, clearly traveling alone (I say this only because I saw him wheeled past me 15 minutes ago, chatting with a paid wheelchair pusher, and accompanied by no others. At the time I kept wondering if there was anyone to take care of him. I did the best I could) was forced to lean over my seat, muscles trembling, for far too long as the bathroom line accrued in anxious wait. I recall noticing his smell, not quite nausea-provoking, but disquieting in that slightly putrid smell of aging. I smiled at him and wondered if I should offer to help in some way, but given the tight space of the aisle, my presence would have in no way ameliorated the situation, and holding him up would have been an impossibility. Plus my entire upper body aches from the deep-tissue massage Erin gave me last night. Totally useless was I. Until…

Several minutes later, the gentlemen staggers in a wobbling sway, bracing against the more robust of the cabin attendants, neither of whom seemed openly gay. I watch him in this detached way, like the wandering eye of the camera, with a low mid-angle shot, that pans in slow motion on a limited arc. There is blood on his arm. Quite a lot! And it is fresh. Perhaps he banged himself in the bathroom? It looked like he was trying to hide the injury. I mouthed the words to the attendant who then examined the dorsal side of his left arm. The attendant visibly paled and there was a look of sheer panic in his eyes, a fear, I imagine of his inability to follow protocol (he couldn’t put on latex gloves because the man was sustaining all the elder’s weight) and of in-air crisis aversion. There were many low key movements of crew-members, both on and off duty, gloves procured, ice-bags applied, and for a moment I felt selflessly purposeful. It was a good feeling.
So now I wait, it is almost an hour later. The flight appears to be on-time, which means that I need to board in about 20 minutes. Travelers seem to meander at a leisurely pace to and fro. I should probably eat some sort of meal in order to withstand the rest of my evening’s activities, and I suppose I shall do just that.


Final Update: I am sipping a complimentary Cabernet Sauvignon, chatting with a charming divorced father, Mark, from London. They say that we will be leaving shortly, as soon as they fix the mechanical problem but I am dubious. It is 10:45, we were supposed be in Manchester by now. My entire body aches, and my neck is sore from turning my head to face him, so I shall unbuckle myself and spend some time on my knees instead.