people-sketch: Night Flight to Lisbon (pt. 2)

I.

The central hub of Terminal C...the international terminal...is easy access. You can go into it, leave it, without a problem. However, to get into the offshoots...the huge corridors where the departure gates are located...you have to go through security. Once you do that, you're committed. Locked in. Hubless.

I find the right offshoot. The security line is long...winding...slow. Gives me time to examine my wardrobe. I look down... realize that I chose the wrong t-shirt for today. It reads, in big letters, "I Accept Packages From Strangers." Fuck! What was I thinking?!

No, no. Untrue. This is my airport joke.

Up front, where the scans are taking place, it's chaotic...people are bunched up, there's a lot of movement. I put my glasses on...squint...try to make sense of what's happening up there.

I see shoeless travelers feeding portable debris into the mouths of rectangular machines. The travelers are then walked through detectors. Some move on. Some get red lights...step back...try again...get red...go to the side for a once over with hands and magic wands. The travelers look bored, tired. The employees look focused, lively.

Most everything beeps.

I've never traveled much. But watching this, I get the essence of airport travel. It's just processing. Giving papers to people, receiving passes, being scanned, placed, shipped. The entire thing, from start to finish: processing. I look around at the line and think, "This is what mail feels like".

II.

A lot of line-time passes, which is fine. I'm indifferent to waiting. On some level? I even like waiting. What else is there? I subscribe to the Godot Philosophy For Living. It's...you know. What we do. As humans. We wait.

Fat guy behind me starts complaining. "I mean, come on. I've seen shorter lines at Disney Land. Seriously. We haven't moved in ten minutes."

He tries to make eye contact with people around him...looking for a sympathetic audience. He looks at me and says, "Can you believe this?" I take a cell phone out of my pocket...slowly raise it to my ear. It's turned off. I start uttering random words into it. "Right, right. Definitely. Uh-huh." He stops talking, looks away. I put the cell phone back in my pocket. His mouth opens. I take the phone out and start texting. His mouth closes. I put the phone away.

III.

After about thirty minutes in line...it happens. The bright spot in the day arrives.

For whatever reason, a lot of travelers are setting off the metal detectors. It's just one of those things. One after another, they get the red light, have to try again. Things get slower, grind to a halt.

A security guy behind a monitor stands up. He surveys the scene...rubs his hands together...and walks away from his monitor. He stands in front of the growing line...hops up and down...and starts to moon-walk. He goes one way, across the floor...then the other. Hundreds of people go quiet, watching. The guy stops...faces the crowd...and starts talking.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome! My name is Marcus! I will be your security coordinator on this lovely afternoon! May I draw your attention to several points of interest surrounding our friendly perimeter. Here you will find postings that contain relevant...even helpful...information. Please feel free to study in detail the content of said postings. Do! Read these carefully. Do! Stroll right on past our detector. Hit green and you are guaranteed a pleasant visit to our humble airport. However. Fail to remove ANY metal item from your person...items such as belts, watches, earrings, bracelets...fail to breeze right on past our detector...and you will be introduced to our star employee. There she is! Working hard! My girl. Say hi Bernice."

Bernice...who looks busy...rolls her eyes.

"That's right! Lucky contestants hitting red on the detector will receive...free of charge...a very skilled and thorough massage courtesy of Bernice."

He wiggles his fingers...looks around.

"Please note: you will not enjoy this massage! Nine out of ten travelers agree: it's weird. The postings, ladies and gentlemen. The rules and regulations. Highly...highly...recommended."

He moon-walks back into position...sits behind a monitor.

We get processed.

IV.

I put my shoes back on, walk into the corridor. I can't believe what I'm seeing. Jews! Everywhere! Wow!

The international terminal: different from the south.

I hear, "Gate 27a for Tel Aviv, now boarding".

It happens. I turn giddy around non-white people. The uniformity where I'm from, it's stifling, oppressive. I'm from a land of Large White People. Buffet People. The Dis-international. I wander about, look everywhere, soak up the Terminal C-ness.

Then I shut down for about ten minutes. I sit on a random bench, press my hands against my eyes. This place is all white lights and tall windows with sun. My eyes have steeped in it, feel heavy. I keep them closed and listen to the different languages, accents. A TV plays in the background...CNN. Wolf Blitzer is outraged about something. Plane sounds, shoes scuffling...two kids run by trumpeting sibling drama. "No! She said no, stupid!" And so on. Offshoot noises.

I check my watch: the flight isn't leaving for a long time. Five more hours. The flight itself is 8 hours long. I breathe it in, pull my hair...try to remember the Godot Philosophy For Living. I start hitting the food court for necessaries. I hunt, gather...and at a table, huddle with comfort: eggrolls...coffee...cheesecake.

Bonus info: M stress eats. Copiously.