The women’s team wussed out on the ride. As it was pretty windy, I can somewhat understand and chose to view their presence as a generous use of their time, being that they arrived to watch me set up all of my road bikes only informing me of their cancellation after the final handlebar was torqued into place, and remained in the parking lot until I was completely packed up again. Then, I suppose, was indeed the safest moment to emerge from their vehicles to go for a run instead.
Typically, I might feel inclined to pass judgment on such an act, to tell those so called pie-plate pushers to man-up, for instance. But as it is, sitting here in my underwear, in a chair that doesn’t allow my feet to touch the ground, alternating between a juice box and gnawing at the top of a chocolate crucifix, I’m not really in the place to judge.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Columbia, MO
A few hours from now I will be surrounded by women looking to tear my legs from my body. Their goal being to suck on the severed tendon remains, using my failing spirit as an energy boost before tossing the pale appendage aside and demanding more. I can hear the grunts now, accompanying their low cursing as their throw their bike side to side on the repetitious torture of the local hill climb.
After three days in a hotel, suffering on a treadmill staring into my stick legs bouncing in the reflection of the mirrored wall, you’d think I ‘d be mentally prepared for such anguish.
I suppose it beats the snow in Minnesota. Here goes nothing.
After three days in a hotel, suffering on a treadmill staring into my stick legs bouncing in the reflection of the mirrored wall, you’d think I ‘d be mentally prepared for such anguish.
I suppose it beats the snow in Minnesota. Here goes nothing.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Minneapolis, MN
It was August. The gutters were lined with crumpled beer cans, plastic bags, and the dying shades of the first discarded leaves of autumn. The two of us were walking down Franklin towards where the old Acadia used to be on Nicollet. The hard soles of his cowboy boots ticked away the final breaths of the collapsing sun, the last days of summer before class started back up again, our schedules tearing us from our daily lunch meetings and coffee breaks, disintegrating our relationship down to tales of “this guy I used to know.”
He took a long drag on his cigarette before tossing it under the parked sedan to our left.
“You were on that ladder and I came over and introduced myself. You looked down at me and smiled and then promptly fell off. Remember that? It was the summer of Marlboro lights.”
I walked towards the curb, stepping one foot down to the gutter, pinched ambers from the cigarette and stared at him wide eyed as I placed the remains of his addiction into the garbage can on the corner. He shook his head letting a single chuckle escapes from his rounded belly.
“Yeah, you remember.” He extends his arm and shuffles his hand over the top of my head quickly tossing my hair side to side. “You remember.”
His third cigarette thrown at my heels as I rounded the corner was the final farewell of that American Spirits summer. My strongest memory now being his way of classifying time periods with the brands of cigarettes he was purchasing.
It’s only now that I understand, now in my season of Basil Hayden’s.
He took a long drag on his cigarette before tossing it under the parked sedan to our left.
“You were on that ladder and I came over and introduced myself. You looked down at me and smiled and then promptly fell off. Remember that? It was the summer of Marlboro lights.”
I walked towards the curb, stepping one foot down to the gutter, pinched ambers from the cigarette and stared at him wide eyed as I placed the remains of his addiction into the garbage can on the corner. He shook his head letting a single chuckle escapes from his rounded belly.
“Yeah, you remember.” He extends his arm and shuffles his hand over the top of my head quickly tossing my hair side to side. “You remember.”
His third cigarette thrown at my heels as I rounded the corner was the final farewell of that American Spirits summer. My strongest memory now being his way of classifying time periods with the brands of cigarettes he was purchasing.
It’s only now that I understand, now in my season of Basil Hayden’s.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
St.Louis, MO
Unable to sleep, I let myself out of bed at the first sign of light to begin packing my necessities into two compact carry-on’s. They now sit, unbuckled, on the passenger seat, waiting for me to prod through them, looking for reassurance, and top them off with additional reading material.
These last few weeks have dragged on. Rain hasn’t helped. I’ve been trudging through water in four different states and now I’m a few feet in sight of the beach, too close to swim and too far out to run efficiently. St.Louis. My plane leaves in an hour in a half for Minneapolis. I’m on the freeway.
I hate being late. Having a father who honed his time skills down to the minute, it became impossible not to be affected. “Pick you up? Yeah I’ll leave right now. So let’s see, with traffic,” through the phone I can see him extending his fingers and tilting his head slowly to the right as his eyes gazed upwards mapping out the route, “Two stop lights… I’ll be there at 9:42. Meet you at the curb, don’t be late.”
My flight leaves at 7:40. It’s the end of spring break with many flights returning sunbathed and hair braided folks back to their motherland with newfound bragging rights. That adds a significant amount of people to the security line. And, let’s face it, have you seen security at that airport? One island-style counter separate from the X-ray conveyer. You’re forced to trade on and off with the folk on the opposite side, fighting your way to the conveyer belt while blocking the awaiting guest, in attempts to keep all of your drab grey trays together.
My GPS system estimates my arrival time at the parting lot to ten minutes. I pick up my phone and call a cab service to pick me up. I follow the white arrows illuminated on the miniature screen on the dash. Right off of the ramp, immediate left, right into the lot. I pick up the pocket sized notebook sitting in a cubby just beyond my turn signal. Park near frontage road. Backside of the lot. From my back corner of the lot I can make out the shape of bicycles in a three paneled storefront window just as my cab is rolling up. I shove my baggage into his back seat, lock the van until the lights blink farewell, and collapse into the warm vinyl next to my bags.
The sun is lowering behind us as we head towards the airport. I interrupt the silence of the first ten minutes of the drive by casually asking how much time it will take to arrive. The car shakes with the shrug of his shoulders. I lean between the front seats, looking up at the dash. The tank is on empty. We roll up to a red light; the driver puts the car in park, then neutral. He’s staring nervously out the window. I’m trying to remind myself that this is a trained professional, that he likely knows how many miles he can get out of a tank, that he makes this run to the airport multiple times a weekend. I’m not convincing. My confidence is replaced with images of walking on the side of the freeway, my carry-on dragging behind me as I speed walk towards the terminal.
“Sorry,” He mumbles, “This wouldn’t have been an issue if the address you had given me wasn’t wrong.”
There’s no reason for me to attempt words, as he witnesses my wide eyes through his rearview mirror.
“You didn’t notice? You parked on the wrong side of the street given the building number you gave me. Every other building had even numbers. I’m guessing the shop just tacked on that odd number for humor’s sake, you know? Steal the competition.”
I’m frozen. I sit staring out the window for a moment, letting the shake of the dying car resonate through my body, ignoring the potential of missed flights while my mind photographs my van with broken windows, bikes missing from their mounts, spray painted Trek tags on the seat covers. My fingers scramble towards my phone and I begin googling the shop address.
Yup. Trek dealer.
It’s too late. Tack on the added time needed to mall-walk towards the terminal when this car dies, the time it takes to get through security, to stand in line waiting for them to call Group 2. I’m screwed. Sweat beads form on my forehead as I mentally graph the pros and cons of missing a flight vs leaving my van with our known enemy. Leaving my van in front of the biggest competitor in the area could easily be interpreted as something done out of spite, a silent jab, the black and white Zorro sword fighting scene with delayed white font sentences trailing. The clash of swords, cling cling cling. "You think Lance is your saving grace, huh? Think doping is going to get us down, eh?" A sword punctures through the heart of the enemy, directly through the velvet cape covering his back. "I, am Tom Boonen, I am Specialized. (uninformed?) Sucker."
The car stutters to a halt in front of the American terminal as the final blood droplets from the feature film are pooling with my sweat. I toss some crumpled bills into the front seat, take my bags and make a run towards security. I’m convincing myself the van can survive one night alone. Just one night.
Hopefully.
These last few weeks have dragged on. Rain hasn’t helped. I’ve been trudging through water in four different states and now I’m a few feet in sight of the beach, too close to swim and too far out to run efficiently. St.Louis. My plane leaves in an hour in a half for Minneapolis. I’m on the freeway.
I hate being late. Having a father who honed his time skills down to the minute, it became impossible not to be affected. “Pick you up? Yeah I’ll leave right now. So let’s see, with traffic,” through the phone I can see him extending his fingers and tilting his head slowly to the right as his eyes gazed upwards mapping out the route, “Two stop lights… I’ll be there at 9:42. Meet you at the curb, don’t be late.”
My flight leaves at 7:40. It’s the end of spring break with many flights returning sunbathed and hair braided folks back to their motherland with newfound bragging rights. That adds a significant amount of people to the security line. And, let’s face it, have you seen security at that airport? One island-style counter separate from the X-ray conveyer. You’re forced to trade on and off with the folk on the opposite side, fighting your way to the conveyer belt while blocking the awaiting guest, in attempts to keep all of your drab grey trays together.
My GPS system estimates my arrival time at the parting lot to ten minutes. I pick up my phone and call a cab service to pick me up. I follow the white arrows illuminated on the miniature screen on the dash. Right off of the ramp, immediate left, right into the lot. I pick up the pocket sized notebook sitting in a cubby just beyond my turn signal. Park near frontage road. Backside of the lot. From my back corner of the lot I can make out the shape of bicycles in a three paneled storefront window just as my cab is rolling up. I shove my baggage into his back seat, lock the van until the lights blink farewell, and collapse into the warm vinyl next to my bags.
The sun is lowering behind us as we head towards the airport. I interrupt the silence of the first ten minutes of the drive by casually asking how much time it will take to arrive. The car shakes with the shrug of his shoulders. I lean between the front seats, looking up at the dash. The tank is on empty. We roll up to a red light; the driver puts the car in park, then neutral. He’s staring nervously out the window. I’m trying to remind myself that this is a trained professional, that he likely knows how many miles he can get out of a tank, that he makes this run to the airport multiple times a weekend. I’m not convincing. My confidence is replaced with images of walking on the side of the freeway, my carry-on dragging behind me as I speed walk towards the terminal.
“Sorry,” He mumbles, “This wouldn’t have been an issue if the address you had given me wasn’t wrong.”
There’s no reason for me to attempt words, as he witnesses my wide eyes through his rearview mirror.
“You didn’t notice? You parked on the wrong side of the street given the building number you gave me. Every other building had even numbers. I’m guessing the shop just tacked on that odd number for humor’s sake, you know? Steal the competition.”
I’m frozen. I sit staring out the window for a moment, letting the shake of the dying car resonate through my body, ignoring the potential of missed flights while my mind photographs my van with broken windows, bikes missing from their mounts, spray painted Trek tags on the seat covers. My fingers scramble towards my phone and I begin googling the shop address.
Yup. Trek dealer.
It’s too late. Tack on the added time needed to mall-walk towards the terminal when this car dies, the time it takes to get through security, to stand in line waiting for them to call Group 2. I’m screwed. Sweat beads form on my forehead as I mentally graph the pros and cons of missing a flight vs leaving my van with our known enemy. Leaving my van in front of the biggest competitor in the area could easily be interpreted as something done out of spite, a silent jab, the black and white Zorro sword fighting scene with delayed white font sentences trailing. The clash of swords, cling cling cling. "You think Lance is your saving grace, huh? Think doping is going to get us down, eh?" A sword punctures through the heart of the enemy, directly through the velvet cape covering his back. "I, am Tom Boonen, I am Specialized. (uninformed?) Sucker."
The car stutters to a halt in front of the American terminal as the final blood droplets from the feature film are pooling with my sweat. I toss some crumpled bills into the front seat, take my bags and make a run towards security. I’m convincing myself the van can survive one night alone. Just one night.
Hopefully.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Austin, TX
Friday
I jump up from the bed. The moment my feet hit the floor my knees give out and I topple over. I hit my head on the short dresser that holds the television and land in my suitcase. My legs have given up on me. I find myself lying there for longer than I should; taking in the room from the fetal position on top of fading denim and blue collared Dickies work shirts. My phone rings. I sit up, rubbing my head, and answer. My bare feet mingle with disregarded socks and the laundry I haven’t attempted cleaning as I listen to the voice on the other line. Cue teachers voice from Charlie Brown. Morning has crept up on me too soon, but the days can’t seem to pass fast enough. A crumpled flight confirmation reveals itself from underneath a water bottle filled with electronic cables and an assortment of chargers as I stand up. Sunday. 7:40pm St. Louis to Minneapolis. I can survive til Sunday.
I jump up from the bed. The moment my feet hit the floor my knees give out and I topple over. I hit my head on the short dresser that holds the television and land in my suitcase. My legs have given up on me. I find myself lying there for longer than I should; taking in the room from the fetal position on top of fading denim and blue collared Dickies work shirts. My phone rings. I sit up, rubbing my head, and answer. My bare feet mingle with disregarded socks and the laundry I haven’t attempted cleaning as I listen to the voice on the other line. Cue teachers voice from Charlie Brown. Morning has crept up on me too soon, but the days can’t seem to pass fast enough. A crumpled flight confirmation reveals itself from underneath a water bottle filled with electronic cables and an assortment of chargers as I stand up. Sunday. 7:40pm St. Louis to Minneapolis. I can survive til Sunday.
Austin, TX
Thursday
-Every so often I hear the voices. “Hard left. Swoop right. Steep drop off. River crossing. Pedal pedal pedal.” Branches claw into my shins with every corner I swing wide on. The voices are becoming less frequent and more distant. Soon all I am hearing is heavy breathing and repetitious pieces of Dosh songs buzzing playing through my mind with each rotation of my cranks like an untamed music box.
-The two of us are sitting on the front porch swing of a house we’ve never been to. The address is 2121 but looks like 2727. We could very well be sitting on the porch swing of a stranger we aren’t supposed to be meeting, but the closed curtains have a welcoming stitching into the bottom hem and the worn Welcome mat doesn’t look too threatening. Worst case scenario, cookies. Pottery remnants perfectly scattered about the yard as urban artifacts, toppled handmade pots holding spices and seasonal flowers. A car pulls into the driveway. We exchange pleasantries. Moments later, between tour busses and cabs, my handle bars collide with the mirror of a waiting vehicle. I gesture an apologetic wave and continue on. The city is a swirl around us. Rickshaws overloaded with passengers. Haircuts with tour badges line the sidewalk, ironic mustaches swoon over acoustic guitars being played in outdoor cafes. I am blocking neon colors and melodies mingling in the turn lane, attempting to focus on the wheel in front of me and one pedal stroke at a time.
-The one person I know in the room exchanges only silent glances at me from behind the long grey hair of an aged indie rock guitar player that has attached to him. I nod. There are no words. Having helped an exiting band carry gear out of one venue into the next, we were able to skip the hoards of folks waiting on the sidewalk. Four nods from security, two unclasped velvet ropes, fifty-some stairs, and three dark hallways later, we’re on a rooftop. Drinks are free. The music is mediocre, conversation is weak, but for this moment, we are something- someone, no one in the room knows quite what. Our shock and discomfort in unfamiliar territory leaves us interpreted as untouchable and mysterious. In no time we’re holding samplers.
-Every so often I hear the voices. “Hard left. Swoop right. Steep drop off. River crossing. Pedal pedal pedal.” Branches claw into my shins with every corner I swing wide on. The voices are becoming less frequent and more distant. Soon all I am hearing is heavy breathing and repetitious pieces of Dosh songs buzzing playing through my mind with each rotation of my cranks like an untamed music box.
-The two of us are sitting on the front porch swing of a house we’ve never been to. The address is 2121 but looks like 2727. We could very well be sitting on the porch swing of a stranger we aren’t supposed to be meeting, but the closed curtains have a welcoming stitching into the bottom hem and the worn Welcome mat doesn’t look too threatening. Worst case scenario, cookies. Pottery remnants perfectly scattered about the yard as urban artifacts, toppled handmade pots holding spices and seasonal flowers. A car pulls into the driveway. We exchange pleasantries. Moments later, between tour busses and cabs, my handle bars collide with the mirror of a waiting vehicle. I gesture an apologetic wave and continue on. The city is a swirl around us. Rickshaws overloaded with passengers. Haircuts with tour badges line the sidewalk, ironic mustaches swoon over acoustic guitars being played in outdoor cafes. I am blocking neon colors and melodies mingling in the turn lane, attempting to focus on the wheel in front of me and one pedal stroke at a time.
-The one person I know in the room exchanges only silent glances at me from behind the long grey hair of an aged indie rock guitar player that has attached to him. I nod. There are no words. Having helped an exiting band carry gear out of one venue into the next, we were able to skip the hoards of folks waiting on the sidewalk. Four nods from security, two unclasped velvet ropes, fifty-some stairs, and three dark hallways later, we’re on a rooftop. Drinks are free. The music is mediocre, conversation is weak, but for this moment, we are something- someone, no one in the room knows quite what. Our shock and discomfort in unfamiliar territory leaves us interpreted as untouchable and mysterious. In no time we’re holding samplers.
Austin, Texas
Wednesday
Running into folks from home in another city is not unlike bumping into an old boyfriend unexpectedly. Do you agree to coffee again, for old time’s sake? Maybe. Do you really want to go? Likely not. There’s a sudden need to prove yourself, what you’ve been up to, what you’re doing. At the same time, you are exchanging knowing glances, recounting where you last saw them, what they were doing, wearing. Surrounded by unrecognizable faces, the familiarity with our hometown unites us. We are the outcasts, and yet, this week, we visitors outnumber the locals. We cram into the left corner of a bike shop, pile around a projector screen and two shirtless riders showcasing Texan themed tattoos as they ride single speeds on rollers for bragging rights.
Running into folks from home in another city is not unlike bumping into an old boyfriend unexpectedly. Do you agree to coffee again, for old time’s sake? Maybe. Do you really want to go? Likely not. There’s a sudden need to prove yourself, what you’ve been up to, what you’re doing. At the same time, you are exchanging knowing glances, recounting where you last saw them, what they were doing, wearing. Surrounded by unrecognizable faces, the familiarity with our hometown unites us. We are the outcasts, and yet, this week, we visitors outnumber the locals. We cram into the left corner of a bike shop, pile around a projector screen and two shirtless riders showcasing Texan themed tattoos as they ride single speeds on rollers for bragging rights.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Jackson, Mississippi.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Ba-ba-ba-baby…”
The song is pouring out from under the door of the room across the hall from me. I can’t help but smile. I mouth the words to the next verse as I stick the keycard into the slot above the handle and enter my room.
Despite being in Little Rock for only two hours, the room already looks lived in. A mess of my belongings are scattered on the counter near the sink. There are several bags piled together at the foot of one bed mingling with dirty socks, cycling gear, a few books. I turn on Food Network for some background noise and return a few e-mails before dragging the clothing pile into the hallway.
“Ba-ba-ba-baby…”
I pause. An armful of grease-marked jeans and short sleeved jerseys slip to the floor. Seriously? Again? I replay my actions since last being in the hall and approximate a fifteen minute gap. Maybe fourteen. I laugh and hum the song as I kick the fallen articles towards guest laundry services.
Doing laundry in a hotel is a gamble. Who is really going to open your wash load and steal something? Likely no one. But realistically, I don’t get to do laundry too often. If someone were feeling bored and was jacked up on enough 5 hour energy, I would be left entering the local mall in either a tiny black dress or a swimsuit with leggings- the only items remaining in my suitcase. I’m feeling brave, so I turn back to the room leaving the items unattended.
“Here’s somethin’ that you’re never gonna forget.”
Now I am completely certain he has played this song a minimum of five times. What makes me think that this BTO abuser tick? Is he a businessman possibly getting ready for an interview, getting all psyched up? A magician, perhaps? As I was switching loads from the washer to the drier the music got a bit louder. I heard the steps grow closer and I forced myself to continue stuffing the drier in order to catch the specimen out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, his socked footsteps moved my way, into the attached room where he entered and disappeared in a flash. The only remnant of his existence being a sign taped haphazardly to the Coke machine. Out of Order.
Having just used the machine myself, I stared at the sign for a few moments wondering if I should take it down or possibly return it. I wondered if I should talk to the creature about his social experiment. If I should knock.
I stood between his door and mine. In one room, Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives. In the other? Something I’m never going to, never going to forget.
The song is pouring out from under the door of the room across the hall from me. I can’t help but smile. I mouth the words to the next verse as I stick the keycard into the slot above the handle and enter my room.
Despite being in Little Rock for only two hours, the room already looks lived in. A mess of my belongings are scattered on the counter near the sink. There are several bags piled together at the foot of one bed mingling with dirty socks, cycling gear, a few books. I turn on Food Network for some background noise and return a few e-mails before dragging the clothing pile into the hallway.
“Ba-ba-ba-baby…”
I pause. An armful of grease-marked jeans and short sleeved jerseys slip to the floor. Seriously? Again? I replay my actions since last being in the hall and approximate a fifteen minute gap. Maybe fourteen. I laugh and hum the song as I kick the fallen articles towards guest laundry services.
Doing laundry in a hotel is a gamble. Who is really going to open your wash load and steal something? Likely no one. But realistically, I don’t get to do laundry too often. If someone were feeling bored and was jacked up on enough 5 hour energy, I would be left entering the local mall in either a tiny black dress or a swimsuit with leggings- the only items remaining in my suitcase. I’m feeling brave, so I turn back to the room leaving the items unattended.
“Here’s somethin’ that you’re never gonna forget.”
Now I am completely certain he has played this song a minimum of five times. What makes me think that this BTO abuser tick? Is he a businessman possibly getting ready for an interview, getting all psyched up? A magician, perhaps? As I was switching loads from the washer to the drier the music got a bit louder. I heard the steps grow closer and I forced myself to continue stuffing the drier in order to catch the specimen out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, his socked footsteps moved my way, into the attached room where he entered and disappeared in a flash. The only remnant of his existence being a sign taped haphazardly to the Coke machine. Out of Order.
Having just used the machine myself, I stared at the sign for a few moments wondering if I should take it down or possibly return it. I wondered if I should talk to the creature about his social experiment. If I should knock.
I stood between his door and mine. In one room, Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives. In the other? Something I’m never going to, never going to forget.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Springfield, Missouri
After paying $1.50 for a banana and $3 for the plastic container holding fifteen grapes, I’m feeling bitter and exhausted. I’m in line to board the plane for the final leg of flight series towards Springfield, Missouri. The unfortunate footnote in the quest to find the cheapest possible flight combinations is two-fold. One, my daily workout needs to incorporate the sprint from one terminal to the next, including a jaunt through security if necessary. Two, I usually end up using multiple airlines within the course of one trip. The later is what leaves the attendant struggling to scan my ticket, as it is from a completely different airline that is no longer using a checkout scanner stolen from a Kum-N-Go.
She notices the problem right away, picking up a phone to exchange combat strategies with fellow ticketeers as she types information into her podium. My weight shifts left to right, shifting my bags across my hip. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn, as my eyes frantically check my bags and hands pat down my pockets wonder what I possibly could have dropped.
“Can you please go?” I’m not only stunned by the necklace creeping up over the fold over her turtleneck sweater, I’m taken aback by her request.
I have no time to react. The attendant finishes and hands me back my ticket and I move forward down the walkway towards the plane. The cameras in that area captured an expression I can only describe as befuddled. I’m sure security attendants will sneak the footage into their holiday reel somewhere between expressions of folks accidently soiling their pants and wondering what to do next and men realizing they’ve just walked out of a women’s restroom, and more importantly if anyone has seen them.
The four words have left me enraged. My exhaustion has gotten the best of me and I am fuming as I board the plane. I can feel her behind me with her baggage inching at my heels. There is a miniature, more honest, version of myself screaming inside.
Who does such a thing? You’re in the middle of a line! To board a plane! Even if I had moved aside when you asked, you would have been still waiting for the attendant to finish before she could scan your ticket. And even if the attendant decided, ‘fuck it, I’m going to throw caution to the wind, rip this ticket and throw the remains up in the air to bless the path of this phenomenal creature in front of me’ you would still be waiting for the thirty other people in front of you to shuffle through the tight aisle of the plane, manhandling their roller-boards into the overhead space- squeezing their bellies against the side of their row in attempts to politely let other guests rub up against them as they walk by. Yes, you would still be waiting behind suspenders, here, taking off his jacket to occupy what’s left of the storage compartment above his seat.
I’m coaching myself to breathe. I’m chanting lyrics to Yellow Submarine to the escalating rhythm of my heart.
AND, unless you are planning on knocking all of these folks down, turning them into your own personal blood red carpet as you mash your orthotic attempt at heels into their flesh making your way to your seat, the two seconds it’s going to take for me to get my ticket back from the damn attendant wouldn’t have gotten you there.
I’m trying to forget her as I take my seat, but I can’t resist looking back as I tuck my bag into the overhead. I watch as she stumbles, struggling to manage two oversized bags and her protruding waistline down the aisle. I see her check her ticket, her eyes following the printed digits lining the storage units. She spots her row, pocketing the ticket, and continues her shuffle. Her eyes gaze downwards and meet mine. I’m watching the chunks of her dried out fuchsia lipstick crack with her fading smile. I eyeball the seatbelt in the empty seat next to me. I have time to wad gum into the clasp or tie knots into the nylon belt. I do not, however, have the time or ambition needed to mentally recreate a childhood memory strong enough to turn my tight smile into anything resembling general care.
She takes her seat in the row directly behind me, kneeing my seat four or five times before settling back into her chair and sighing loudly. I miss Beatrice, my elderly flying companion on my flight from Wisconsin into Minneapolis. I know she would have some feisty choice words for this woman. I exchange a knowing glance with the invisible version of her in the aisle seat next to me- she being considerate enough this flight to have let me take the window seat. Again, I find myself struggling to relax. I want revenge.
Turbulence is rattling deep thoughts I had tried to push back. I’m picturing myself jarring my seat back into full reclining position after she sets her beverage on the grey plastic tray in front of her. Do I want it up? Do I want it back? I just can’t decide, ho hum. I shove my headphones into my ears, put my hat on, tugging the short brim closer to my eyes and cross my arms to keep my hands from tossing the contents of the seat pocket over my head into her lap.
I’m dosing off when her humming starts growing louder. She is now standing in the aisle next to me with one hand stabilizing her on the seatback. She begins walking the length of the plane, still humming loudly. The flight attendant comes on the speaker reminding everyone that under turbulence such as this, it is for safety reasons that the pilot has turned on the seatbelt sign. She takes another lap, then a third.
The attendant repeats into the intercom, “Please remain seated with your seatbelt securely fashioned unless using the restroom. Please remain seated…”
Her hum has changed to a whistle as she begins her fourth lap. The flight attendant shakes his arms in front of him and mouths Why Me looking upwards, he’s wondering why he took this flight when he could be in Tahiti with his boyfriend, Leo drinking Mike’s lemonade on the beach, or a cabin in Montana, anywhere but here.
I turn up my ipod and stare out the window, avoiding vigilante justice.
We land. She is up out of her seat the moment the wheels hit the ground, juggling her bags from the overhead. The attendant has given up on the woman and has turned instead to his watch, hiding out in the dark space between the cockpit and the cabin. He makes the typical landing comments without making an appearance to collect trash and soon enough we are at the terminal.
I stand and hang my bag over my shoulder, turning to face the woman as she stands just barely even with my row, inching her way forward. I decide jumping in front of her and sticking my tongue out is just childish, so I motion for her to go ahead, smiling. Her face fills with skepticism and doubt but she moves up immediately, groping the next person ahead of her. The doors open, but there is a slow start to our exit as the baggage is being unloaded and set near the door for pick up.
My hand moves separately from my body. I see it rise, and for a moment it hangs behind her. My eyes have delivered a death stare to my finger. No. No. No. No. Awe, come on! No. No. There is no going back. My hand might has well have crumpled to a fist, turned and nodded back at me. Instead, it taps her on the shoulder.
She turns and I clear my throat, raising my index finger to let her know that I will address her when I’m finished with this precious personal moment.
“Eh, yes. Can you please go?”
She’s shocked. She whips back around, waving her arms rapidly towards the inching line in front of her, eyes wide and mouth open. I cross my arms and smile at her, then pull out my cell phone again, hold out my index finger before she can muster a response, and answer an incoming call.
I am an asshole. More proof to follow.
She notices the problem right away, picking up a phone to exchange combat strategies with fellow ticketeers as she types information into her podium. My weight shifts left to right, shifting my bags across my hip. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn, as my eyes frantically check my bags and hands pat down my pockets wonder what I possibly could have dropped.
“Can you please go?” I’m not only stunned by the necklace creeping up over the fold over her turtleneck sweater, I’m taken aback by her request.
I have no time to react. The attendant finishes and hands me back my ticket and I move forward down the walkway towards the plane. The cameras in that area captured an expression I can only describe as befuddled. I’m sure security attendants will sneak the footage into their holiday reel somewhere between expressions of folks accidently soiling their pants and wondering what to do next and men realizing they’ve just walked out of a women’s restroom, and more importantly if anyone has seen them.
The four words have left me enraged. My exhaustion has gotten the best of me and I am fuming as I board the plane. I can feel her behind me with her baggage inching at my heels. There is a miniature, more honest, version of myself screaming inside.
Who does such a thing? You’re in the middle of a line! To board a plane! Even if I had moved aside when you asked, you would have been still waiting for the attendant to finish before she could scan your ticket. And even if the attendant decided, ‘fuck it, I’m going to throw caution to the wind, rip this ticket and throw the remains up in the air to bless the path of this phenomenal creature in front of me’ you would still be waiting for the thirty other people in front of you to shuffle through the tight aisle of the plane, manhandling their roller-boards into the overhead space- squeezing their bellies against the side of their row in attempts to politely let other guests rub up against them as they walk by. Yes, you would still be waiting behind suspenders, here, taking off his jacket to occupy what’s left of the storage compartment above his seat.
I’m coaching myself to breathe. I’m chanting lyrics to Yellow Submarine to the escalating rhythm of my heart.
AND, unless you are planning on knocking all of these folks down, turning them into your own personal blood red carpet as you mash your orthotic attempt at heels into their flesh making your way to your seat, the two seconds it’s going to take for me to get my ticket back from the damn attendant wouldn’t have gotten you there.
I’m trying to forget her as I take my seat, but I can’t resist looking back as I tuck my bag into the overhead. I watch as she stumbles, struggling to manage two oversized bags and her protruding waistline down the aisle. I see her check her ticket, her eyes following the printed digits lining the storage units. She spots her row, pocketing the ticket, and continues her shuffle. Her eyes gaze downwards and meet mine. I’m watching the chunks of her dried out fuchsia lipstick crack with her fading smile. I eyeball the seatbelt in the empty seat next to me. I have time to wad gum into the clasp or tie knots into the nylon belt. I do not, however, have the time or ambition needed to mentally recreate a childhood memory strong enough to turn my tight smile into anything resembling general care.
She takes her seat in the row directly behind me, kneeing my seat four or five times before settling back into her chair and sighing loudly. I miss Beatrice, my elderly flying companion on my flight from Wisconsin into Minneapolis. I know she would have some feisty choice words for this woman. I exchange a knowing glance with the invisible version of her in the aisle seat next to me- she being considerate enough this flight to have let me take the window seat. Again, I find myself struggling to relax. I want revenge.
Turbulence is rattling deep thoughts I had tried to push back. I’m picturing myself jarring my seat back into full reclining position after she sets her beverage on the grey plastic tray in front of her. Do I want it up? Do I want it back? I just can’t decide, ho hum. I shove my headphones into my ears, put my hat on, tugging the short brim closer to my eyes and cross my arms to keep my hands from tossing the contents of the seat pocket over my head into her lap.
I’m dosing off when her humming starts growing louder. She is now standing in the aisle next to me with one hand stabilizing her on the seatback. She begins walking the length of the plane, still humming loudly. The flight attendant comes on the speaker reminding everyone that under turbulence such as this, it is for safety reasons that the pilot has turned on the seatbelt sign. She takes another lap, then a third.
The attendant repeats into the intercom, “Please remain seated with your seatbelt securely fashioned unless using the restroom. Please remain seated…”
Her hum has changed to a whistle as she begins her fourth lap. The flight attendant shakes his arms in front of him and mouths Why Me looking upwards, he’s wondering why he took this flight when he could be in Tahiti with his boyfriend, Leo drinking Mike’s lemonade on the beach, or a cabin in Montana, anywhere but here.
I turn up my ipod and stare out the window, avoiding vigilante justice.
We land. She is up out of her seat the moment the wheels hit the ground, juggling her bags from the overhead. The attendant has given up on the woman and has turned instead to his watch, hiding out in the dark space between the cockpit and the cabin. He makes the typical landing comments without making an appearance to collect trash and soon enough we are at the terminal.
I stand and hang my bag over my shoulder, turning to face the woman as she stands just barely even with my row, inching her way forward. I decide jumping in front of her and sticking my tongue out is just childish, so I motion for her to go ahead, smiling. Her face fills with skepticism and doubt but she moves up immediately, groping the next person ahead of her. The doors open, but there is a slow start to our exit as the baggage is being unloaded and set near the door for pick up.
My hand moves separately from my body. I see it rise, and for a moment it hangs behind her. My eyes have delivered a death stare to my finger. No. No. No. No. Awe, come on! No. No. There is no going back. My hand might has well have crumpled to a fist, turned and nodded back at me. Instead, it taps her on the shoulder.
She turns and I clear my throat, raising my index finger to let her know that I will address her when I’m finished with this precious personal moment.
“Eh, yes. Can you please go?”
She’s shocked. She whips back around, waving her arms rapidly towards the inching line in front of her, eyes wide and mouth open. I cross my arms and smile at her, then pull out my cell phone again, hold out my index finger before she can muster a response, and answer an incoming call.
I am an asshole. More proof to follow.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Springfield, Missouri.
There is a set of tasseled shoes sitting in the row behind me chastising someone on the other end of his phone call. The person happens to be named Amy. In general, it’s a bit odd meeting someone with your same name. Listening to someone discipline an unknown version of you is even more towards unsettling.
“You need to dress appropriately for work- AMY.”
“No more holes in your jeans- AMY.”
He leaves a distinct pause before including my name at the end of each sentence, raising his voice just a bit which is starting to make me think he might actually be speaking to me. I slump a little in my chair, transforming back into fifth grade, avoiding eye contact in attempts not to be called on.
“No tennis shoes to work- AMY.”
I can’t help but analyze my apparel in terms of my working conditions. But, strangely enough, the items he is suggesting I wear, the A-line skirt, and business suit, would be some of the few options deemed inappropriate for my work setting of national parks and shop parking lots. I imagine changing cables and cleaning chains in a tight fitting vest over a collared dress shirt. Nylons. Heels.
I feel myself sinking into But Mom... statements. I’m suddenly ashamed of the hole in the top layer of fabric covering my slip on shoes. I brush the dirt off of the bottom of my pant leg before tucking my feet underneath my chair.
“No, AMY. Not anymore. No.”
I’m picturing the mounting process involved in standing in front of a road bike while wearing a form fitting knee length skirt. I’m thinking of the footwear and outfit necessities needed to hide any visible tattoos, when his phone call suddenly ends.
He curses, pulling the phone away, and walks closer towards the window on my left in attempts to gain service. Nothing. He turns to me,
“Do you have any change for a dollar? I need to use the pay phone.” He then turns to his cell phone and shakes his head, shrugging. “Kids, you know? When will they learn?”
I laugh awkwardly and nod, handing over the change from my pocket.
“You need to dress appropriately for work- AMY.”
“No more holes in your jeans- AMY.”
He leaves a distinct pause before including my name at the end of each sentence, raising his voice just a bit which is starting to make me think he might actually be speaking to me. I slump a little in my chair, transforming back into fifth grade, avoiding eye contact in attempts not to be called on.
“No tennis shoes to work- AMY.”
I can’t help but analyze my apparel in terms of my working conditions. But, strangely enough, the items he is suggesting I wear, the A-line skirt, and business suit, would be some of the few options deemed inappropriate for my work setting of national parks and shop parking lots. I imagine changing cables and cleaning chains in a tight fitting vest over a collared dress shirt. Nylons. Heels.
I feel myself sinking into But Mom... statements. I’m suddenly ashamed of the hole in the top layer of fabric covering my slip on shoes. I brush the dirt off of the bottom of my pant leg before tucking my feet underneath my chair.
“No, AMY. Not anymore. No.”
I’m picturing the mounting process involved in standing in front of a road bike while wearing a form fitting knee length skirt. I’m thinking of the footwear and outfit necessities needed to hide any visible tattoos, when his phone call suddenly ends.
He curses, pulling the phone away, and walks closer towards the window on my left in attempts to gain service. Nothing. He turns to me,
“Do you have any change for a dollar? I need to use the pay phone.” He then turns to his cell phone and shakes his head, shrugging. “Kids, you know? When will they learn?”
I laugh awkwardly and nod, handing over the change from my pocket.
Springfield, Missouri
My friends, I have betrayed you. After countless e-mails regarding my lack of updates and short verbal exchanges from folks in a huff, I’ve come to terms with it. My virtual world has been at a stand-still as my frequent flier miles keep tabulating.
And so, dear readers, I’d like to take a moment to thank Sloane Crosley and the Twin Cities publications praising her work for refueling the fire. I shall cap my pen and return to the keyboard, no longer censoring passages. Embrace the return of overly articulated diatribes, airport musings, and the world at large.
So thanks, Sloane, and your (grumble grumble grumble) essay compilation of "I Was Told There’d Be Cake."
And sorry to anyone at Cars R Coffins this morning who heard my cursing.
And so, dear readers, I’d like to take a moment to thank Sloane Crosley and the Twin Cities publications praising her work for refueling the fire. I shall cap my pen and return to the keyboard, no longer censoring passages. Embrace the return of overly articulated diatribes, airport musings, and the world at large.
So thanks, Sloane, and your (grumble grumble grumble) essay compilation of "I Was Told There’d Be Cake."
And sorry to anyone at Cars R Coffins this morning who heard my cursing.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Minneapolis, MN (recap)
I’m sitting in a bucket seat in airport terminal C in Springfield, Missouri spilling preflight parking lot thoughts into a hardcover notebook. He approaches and tosses his bags into a chair between us before bending to sit, collapsing one leg underneath him and turning to face me.
“Both of those bags yours?”
“Yeah.” I close my book and tuck it into the bag at my feet. “I’m not going to risk checking baggage when I have three flights today, not with the way this morning’s been so far.”
“Ha. You’re one of those people, hogging up all the overhead space with your two bags.”
“One fits under the seat perfectly, and the other is smaller than a roller board, which is the real bandit of overhead space if you ask me. Folks who shove all their dirty laundry into the front zippers of their suitcase and have to turn it sideways taking over three overhead spaces, claiming it’s an approved size? Witnessing those folks is what makes me wish for a water landing, heavy turbulence.”
Heads turn towards us, roller-boards being politely nudged out of eyesight. I saw you when you walked in Mr. Mustache. Nice loafers, though.
He smiles, shaking his head and begins picking at a dirt stain on the jacket in his lap.
“I had to park far away, I hate that,” he mumbles.
“Bummer. Where are you flying next, Dallas?”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck. I mean, I suppose it’s all fine and good if you have four hours on your hands to ride the tram completely around to reach whatever terminal you want, but if you need to catch a flight in twenty minutes? Yeah right, save your time. Grab a drink at the bar and walk to the closest attendant whimpering. Rebook. Running is no option in that mess. A complete maze of tucked away terminals and escalators leading to cul-de-sacs of restrooms and water fountains, what a waste.” I finish my grape juice and toss the bottle hand to hand before lifting it over my head and extending both arms into prime free throw position, taking aim at the trash can across the aisle. It bounces off the rim creating a resonating hum along the aluminum before falling in. I recreate crowd noises from NBA jams. My follow-through needs work.
He stops picking at his jacket and takes his boarding passes out of his pocket. His shoulders slump a little and his lips press together, twisting to the left.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“No, No. Me, too. Absolutely,” I nod, digging into my bag for Lifesavers. I’m reminding myself that two hours of sleep is far little to interact with the public. Six am is too early to crush dreams. I try and recover from my burst of negativity.
“So where are you headed after Dallas?”
“Portland.”
“Ah.”
“Then Eugene,” he says smiling, his eyes have a glimmer of hope as if he’ll get there, on time as scheduled with bags, driver waiting for him at the curb holding a sign with his name on it. Birds will be twittering, KC and the Sunshine band will be bursting through airport speakers. A woman will be seated in the backseat of the vehicle and their silhouettes will meet lip to lip as the car drives away into the sunset.
“What about you, where are you headed after, eh,” he leans forward to glance up at the sign above the opposing desk. “St. Louis. You aren’t just flying to St. Louis are you?”
“No. No. Milwaukee. Then Min-ne-a-pol-is,” I drag out the final destination, breaking down each syllable and frost it with an Arkansas accent.
“Minneapolis, huh,” he says this with a sort of muffled chuckle and turns his head away as if to say, I’m taking airline advice from a six year old who was just given plastic captain’s wings.
“You know it. Ever been?”
“Nope. Never.”
“And why not?” I pick up my water bottle, shoving it into my mouth to keep from adding Mr. I’m so well traveled with my checked baggage and my neck-pillow. Mr. my Snuggie is on backorder but lets see if that hinders from reclining my seat back into your knees.
"Cold,” he puts his jacket back on, spotting through the window that he will have to walk through the lot to board his plane as it wasn’t able to pull in directly to the gate, “And I’m not crazy,” he adds.
“There’s a saying in Arkansas, Don’t like the weather? Wait. ‘Cause one day is snowing and the next it’s seventy degrees. There’s got to be something similar for Minnesota. Don’t like the weather? Stay. Complain to your freezing companions only to gloat about how tough you are when you cross state lines. There’s a lot of pride tide into folks and their cold in that state. I don’t get it.”
I shrug and grin. “We wouldn’t take you anyway.”
“Why, cause I’m not a sadist?”
The parents across the aisle break from their stares in our direction, whipping their heads towards their three year old in the stroller and exchange concerned glances. They stand in unison and move the stroller to the opposite end of the terminal.
“Well, I’m guessing that’s not true,” I say, nudging the hard soles of his tight leather boots.
“Take your precious Arkansas, for example. You don’t hear folks talking about the good aspects of the state because they plain don’t want you to come.”
He chuckles.
“You ever been to Arkansas?” I ask, elbows on my knees leaning in towards him.
“Once.”
“And..?”
“Decent airport.”
“Ha.” I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms and looking upwards. “Just wait ‘til Dallas, my friend.”
“Both of those bags yours?”
“Yeah.” I close my book and tuck it into the bag at my feet. “I’m not going to risk checking baggage when I have three flights today, not with the way this morning’s been so far.”
“Ha. You’re one of those people, hogging up all the overhead space with your two bags.”
“One fits under the seat perfectly, and the other is smaller than a roller board, which is the real bandit of overhead space if you ask me. Folks who shove all their dirty laundry into the front zippers of their suitcase and have to turn it sideways taking over three overhead spaces, claiming it’s an approved size? Witnessing those folks is what makes me wish for a water landing, heavy turbulence.”
Heads turn towards us, roller-boards being politely nudged out of eyesight. I saw you when you walked in Mr. Mustache. Nice loafers, though.
He smiles, shaking his head and begins picking at a dirt stain on the jacket in his lap.
“I had to park far away, I hate that,” he mumbles.
“Bummer. Where are you flying next, Dallas?”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck. I mean, I suppose it’s all fine and good if you have four hours on your hands to ride the tram completely around to reach whatever terminal you want, but if you need to catch a flight in twenty minutes? Yeah right, save your time. Grab a drink at the bar and walk to the closest attendant whimpering. Rebook. Running is no option in that mess. A complete maze of tucked away terminals and escalators leading to cul-de-sacs of restrooms and water fountains, what a waste.” I finish my grape juice and toss the bottle hand to hand before lifting it over my head and extending both arms into prime free throw position, taking aim at the trash can across the aisle. It bounces off the rim creating a resonating hum along the aluminum before falling in. I recreate crowd noises from NBA jams. My follow-through needs work.
He stops picking at his jacket and takes his boarding passes out of his pocket. His shoulders slump a little and his lips press together, twisting to the left.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“No, No. Me, too. Absolutely,” I nod, digging into my bag for Lifesavers. I’m reminding myself that two hours of sleep is far little to interact with the public. Six am is too early to crush dreams. I try and recover from my burst of negativity.
“So where are you headed after Dallas?”
“Portland.”
“Ah.”
“Then Eugene,” he says smiling, his eyes have a glimmer of hope as if he’ll get there, on time as scheduled with bags, driver waiting for him at the curb holding a sign with his name on it. Birds will be twittering, KC and the Sunshine band will be bursting through airport speakers. A woman will be seated in the backseat of the vehicle and their silhouettes will meet lip to lip as the car drives away into the sunset.
“What about you, where are you headed after, eh,” he leans forward to glance up at the sign above the opposing desk. “St. Louis. You aren’t just flying to St. Louis are you?”
“No. No. Milwaukee. Then Min-ne-a-pol-is,” I drag out the final destination, breaking down each syllable and frost it with an Arkansas accent.
“Minneapolis, huh,” he says this with a sort of muffled chuckle and turns his head away as if to say, I’m taking airline advice from a six year old who was just given plastic captain’s wings.
“You know it. Ever been?”
“Nope. Never.”
“And why not?” I pick up my water bottle, shoving it into my mouth to keep from adding Mr. I’m so well traveled with my checked baggage and my neck-pillow. Mr. my Snuggie is on backorder but lets see if that hinders from reclining my seat back into your knees.
"Cold,” he puts his jacket back on, spotting through the window that he will have to walk through the lot to board his plane as it wasn’t able to pull in directly to the gate, “And I’m not crazy,” he adds.
“There’s a saying in Arkansas, Don’t like the weather? Wait. ‘Cause one day is snowing and the next it’s seventy degrees. There’s got to be something similar for Minnesota. Don’t like the weather? Stay. Complain to your freezing companions only to gloat about how tough you are when you cross state lines. There’s a lot of pride tide into folks and their cold in that state. I don’t get it.”
I shrug and grin. “We wouldn’t take you anyway.”
“Why, cause I’m not a sadist?”
The parents across the aisle break from their stares in our direction, whipping their heads towards their three year old in the stroller and exchange concerned glances. They stand in unison and move the stroller to the opposite end of the terminal.
“Well, I’m guessing that’s not true,” I say, nudging the hard soles of his tight leather boots.
“Take your precious Arkansas, for example. You don’t hear folks talking about the good aspects of the state because they plain don’t want you to come.”
He chuckles.
“You ever been to Arkansas?” I ask, elbows on my knees leaning in towards him.
“Once.”
“And..?”
“Decent airport.”
“Ha.” I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms and looking upwards. “Just wait ‘til Dallas, my friend.”
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