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Tuesday, August 23, 2005
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Airports: The Acne Of America
For as long as I remember, I've felt comfortable when flying. When I was younger, my parents were divorced and living in separate states; my mother in Idaho, my father in Oregon. So, I flew back and forth several times a year for many years. I can still remember the day when my mother and I first heard about this innovative new program called "Frequent Flyer Points." Normally only offered to business travelers and statesmen that travel so much they lose track of what city they're in, I was the first ten-year-old boy to be signed into this revolutionary play for "consumer loyalty."
Those were in the good old days of air travel. Those were the days of multiple airline companies all in competition with each other for my business, well paid pilots, pre-assigned tickets, well trained and professional security, and legroom.
I had become accustomed to taking comfort in boarding an airplane. I was finally going to get an hour's peace from whichever parent I was leaving behind, sit in a comfortable chair, listen to music I like, and be waited on by the flight crew. For that matter, the ladies of the flight crew were more than happy to attend to my every need, for as a child I was freakin' adorable. If I had ever had any anxiety about being several miles above the ground without a safety net, it was quickly abated the first time the young lady wearing a uniform with an open blouse offered me a free Pepsi. Even at that age, I was a sucker for cleavage and cola.
Well, that was before. Before competition gave way to cooperation, salaries and wills to live began to whittle away, and security was a school yard bully just out of rehab being told that it's okay for him to pick on people now, so long as he only do to people of a certain skin color.
My grandfather passed away two weeks ago, and two days later I found myself on my way to the airport more out of obligation than respect. I had been planning on not taking this trip for a while now, but I knew that my mother would be exhausting herself with unnecessary responsibilities, and if I didn't get down there to stop her I'd be flying to her funeral instead. My father has a wife and three other kids to take care of him, should he ever be in a crisis. My mother has me, and no one else.
I take the train to O'Hare Airport and I'm instantly appalled at the condition of it. The floors are stained with years of grime. The walls had a soft look to them, like they were made of unfired pottery clay and would cave in if you leaned on them. There are square holes in the walls where TV monitors once sat, now only housing the exposed wires that used to transmit whatever information it was that those monitors had shown. Since there was is no real security until you get to the terminals, there were homeless people and beggars, sleeping and wandering the hallways....of the airport.
I had this felling like I was visiting a cancer patient. The place was already dead, it just didn't know it yet. It goes to show that places age just as people do. You can lengthen the life span with some maintenance, but decay and death is inevitable even for a building and no amount of Gingko Biloba is going to stop it.
When I went to the kiosk to electronically check in for my flight, I found that I was unable to for many a confusing reason. I was not the only one since the line to check in personally at the desk was over an hour long. Four people worked at the desk and they slowly worked through checking ID's and finding reservations as the rest of us stood there, helpless. I looked upward at the windows that looked down on us, following a hallway that led to offices on the next floor. I saw a man in a suit stroll past the windows and peer down at us momentarily before ducking into an office. He walked with a shuffle, his shoulders hunched forward, and a look of embattled hopelessness that Norse Warriors once referred to as "The Fey." And yet, the suit he wore was easily the most expensive one in sight. From that I could see clear as day that this man was a spineless, opportunistic weasel that had forsaken all humanity and was only interested in his own benefit.
"This is all your fault, isn't it?" I thought. "You're the one who decided to pad your own pay by cutting back the desk staff."
I passed the time in line by glaring intently at the doorway I saw him escape into, mentally hurling curses and hexes in his direction.
My concentration was broken by the woman and her teenage daughter that were standing in line behind me. They were making comments about my suitcase. Everyone else was walking around with black nylon travel cases on wheels. I held an old fashioned brown leather suitcase with no wheels. I had stolen it from my ex-wife for this very reason. It made me look cooler than every other traveler in the terminal. The daughter followed up her observation of my luggage with "He's pretty cute. I hope he's on our flight."
Now, I was really listening.
"Calm down," her mother replied, "He's too old for you."
As casually as I could, I turned my head to face a monitor screen that stood beside us (the very one that sent me to this line) and looked into the reflection on it's surface, stealing a full gander at the ladies standing behind me. I was shocked to see that the mother was correct, I am definitely too old for this girl. She was just barely old enough to give out hand-jobs to a High School Jr. Varsity Team.
The wind momentarily left my sails as it sunk in; I'm too old for high school girls. I never thought the day would come. How long before I start to resemble this pathetic airport, exposed wires hanging from the hole where my penis used to be.
Ever since my divorce, whenever I'm getting stressed out, I'm visited by a hallucination that I've named Libido, because that is what he is; my sex drive incarnate, usually in the form of Kermit The Frog. I took medication for about six months to make him go away. Unfortunately, the side effect was that my actual libido also went away. So, a compromise was reached; I allowed Libido to exist, and he promised to stop screaming like a rape victim whenever I got turned down for a date.
This time, Libido appeared as a cheerleader wearing a Phi Beta Kappa sweater. Odd, since I couldn't remember for sure if PBK was a sorority or a fraternity.
"Don't forget college girls," Libido said, "You can still fuck college girls."
"Maybe so," I reply, "but for how much longer?"
Libido giggled. "If you go back to school and become a professor like you planned," she said, "you can fuck college girls for the rest of your life."
I think about it....
"Even Ivy League?"
"Especially Ivy League."
I smile. There are those rare moments when Libido actually makes me feel better. He fades away, and I go back to waiting in line. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
By the time I make it to the counter, I can see by my itinerary that my flight started boarding fifteen minutes ago. My face is burning hot. I'm trying my best to stay calm, but I'm sure that my face is a deep red. Libido has appeared again. This time as Bridget, an old co-worker from Portland, and is pole-dancing on the conveyer belt behind the desk. After the check-in is finished the desk attendant starts to hand me my boarding pass (i'm already ready to run for it) then pulls it back.
"Wait a minute," she says, "your flight already boarded."
News-Fucking-Flash! Libido splits into a pair of Bridget Twins and starts making out with herself.
"You see this schedule here?" she continues, holding the pass just out of my reach. "That's when the plane takes off. It boards before that. You should've gotten here earlier to board on time."
I had made a point to keep my temper this entire time. As low level worker in the Hospitality Industry I knew full well that this whole thing was because of the spineless fuck upstairs and the rest of these people were blameless. Getting angry at them would succeed only in proving to all present that I am an asshole.
But that was the dumbest thing I had ever heard.
"I have been in that fucking line for an hour! Now give me my fucking pass!"
My switch from "calm" to "cunt-rag" was so sudden (almost schizophrenic) that the attendant froze, completely stunned. I snatched the pass from her hand and ran right into a security checkpoint with a ten minute line.
I thought for sure that after that outburst I was going to be "randomly" selected for a cavity search. But instead I was left alone, stewing in the fact that I have to wait as all these fuckers who's digital check-in worked for them and therefore are in no hurry whatsoever just lollygag around the security process and what kind of a moron are you everyone in the world knows they make you take off your shoes what the fuck are you wearing those fucking boots for and jesus christ is this guy made of metal how many times are they going to make him walk through that detector he's obviously packing heat why don't they just shoot him and get it over with why aren't they going any faster why does the X-Ray machine keep stopping you put your boarding pass in your suitcase what are you retarded what is that smell why do they keep looking at me like that what the fuck time is it now are the airlines on the same clock as that one there god I hate you people hate you hate you hate you hate you hate you....
Libido appeared again, this time as Henry Kissinger. "If you start masturbating now, they'll all get out of your way."
For second, it seemed like a good idea.
Luckily, I was able to get through the security checkpoint without having to rub one out. I ran trying to read signs as fast as I can. "A Gate, B Gate, there's C Gate. C-25, is --- at the other end, God dammit!" I ran all the way to the other end of the gate, lugging my suitcase, and coughing up smoker gunk the whole way.
I got to C-25, all I can do is grab hold of desk to keep from falling to the ground and belt out "Me (gasp) fly!"
She looks at my ticket. "I'm sorry sir, the plane just took off."
I let go and hit the floor. By now I'm positive that I'm only seconds away from being tasered by Homeland Security. I close my eyes and welcome it.
"Are you Mr. Ems?"
Deep breath. "Yeah."
"Mr. Ems, the terminal called us after you, um, left there. We've already arranged a new flight for you. It boards in twenty minutes at Gate C-17."
Another deep breath. I stand.
"Where is the nearest bar?"
"Next to Gate C-10."
"You are a scholar and a saint. I thank you." I take my new boarding pass and head to the bar for a cigarette and a shot of Jagermeister.
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Wednesday, August 17, 2005
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I, Observer.
Yesterday I was on my way to work, like a good little corporate peon, and as I passed through my neighborhood to the train station I had a bit of an epiphany. It was not quite on the grand scale as an epiphany, more of a realization, but I feel that "realization" has become overused and "epiphany" is more en vogue.
I pass by this one house and notice this girl sitting in the window. She looks to be about 14, maybe 15 years old, and she's just sitting at the window watching the street. She stares at me as I pass by. I pretend not to notice that she's there. She looked much like a puppy at a pet store, desperate for attention. I was afraid if I made eye contact with her that she may want to talk to me from her second story window and I would be forced to tell her to fuck off, not fun for either of us. Not that I have anything against her personally, it's just that should I be lucky enough to find someone in my neighborhood who speaks english, they are usually borderline retarded or want to talk about how much fun they had shooting bottle rockets at cars yesterday. My new project is to learn to say "I'm sorry, I don't speak English" in as many languages as I can.
Anyway, as I'm passing by this girl it occurs to me that she is just sitting there at the window, waching the street. She's not reading, or listening to music, or writing, or even watching TV. She's just sitting at the window looking at the neighborhood. Cars drive by. People walk by. Drugs are sold. And she just sits there taking it in, silently and without response. Granted, at least she's not melting her brain with the boob tube, but even a rerun of Seinfeld that I've seen a hundred times is more stimulating than watching traffic go by. Has this poor girl's passion for her own existence been so deeply drained from her that a stop light actually gives her a feeling of contentment?
Then it hits me, everyone in this fucking neighborhood does this. Sure, I notice the odd little face peering out from the window like a 90-year-old cat lady on an episode of Little House On The Prairie, but I completely glazed over the whole households of people sitting on their porches right on the street doing the same thing. They aren't chatting it up or covorting with their neighbors, they all just sit there waiting for something to happen.
The concept of The Watcher is motif that can be found in just about every great Sci-fi and fantacy concept. Buffy The Vampire Slayer and Highlander both have main characters that are members of secret societies who's sole purpose is "To observe and document, but never interfere." The idea behind it being the necessity for an unbiased account of our history from those who saw it firsthand. But, interference is inevitable as historical events have a lasting effect even on the unbiased. Refusing to take part in history that is unfolding right before you is a sign of weakness and cowardace, so the final argument says.
As I contemplate these things, I've arrived at the train station and I see a dirty vagrant of a man duck under the turnstiles and make his way onto the train without paying. I am instantly angered by this. They've just announced that the fare will be raised in order to offset losses from thousands of people a day doing this very thing. It would have been easy for me to get the attention of the station attendant and expose the filthy bastard, but I don't. I observed, but I did not interfere; a weakling and a coward more concered with getting to work on time than doing my civic duty.
I was reminded of my time in school, when I cavorted with a group of High School Theater geeks called The Spam Weasels. We staged kidnappings, gang fights, domestic disputes, and even hate crimes in full view of the public sector. No matter how horrible of a situation we created, not once did any member of our audience ever step forward to rescue our "victim."
And now, on the even grander scale of things, our own government of "elected" officials violate and bastardize every moral and ethic that our nation was founded on we the people just sit here and watch them do it. Step out side the borders of the US and you here wispers of the rebirth of the Third Riech, but here in the Homeland we simply bow our heads in shame and do nothing. Sure, we wave our signs in protest, make funny web videos, and rant away on our blogs. But none of us will ever actually DO anything. We are the United State of Status Quo. We observe, but never interfere. We are weak willed cowards too afraid of being made an example of, knowing full well that none will follow us once the example is made. Ladies and Gentlemen, the terrorists have won, and they're in The White House.
All this, because of a damn girl in a window. |
