The Saga of Airport Waiting Rooms

There’s something rather poetic about being trapped in an airport.

This thought occurred to one Rudolph Larens, as he sat, luggage on lap, straight-backed in his private lounge chair. As an author, he was often quite taken with the ideas presented by the situations in which he found himself.

That this place, which should allow near-limitless freedom, should become my prison…

He squirmed with that particular excitement that awaits the scholar embarking on a new journey of expression. The life he lived afforded him many such moments, and this was merely another. To be grounded allowed him time to reflect.

This was not the case for his fellow passengers.

Jonathan “Pillz” Pullman, sat three rows behind and four seats to the left of Rudolf, looked at his watch, increasingly agitated. Energy burst through his every pore, setting his toes tapping and his fingers clenching.

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon… repeated a rhythmic refrain in his head.

His eyes darted up to the departures boards, gaze dancing between each one in a furious tango. As if somehow he could entice the large-lettered, “CANCELLED” s, to boogie down and flip around to, “BOARDING”.

He had a show to get to, god-dammit!

… and please, oh Lord, speed us on to a quick and easy departure, Amen.

This latest sermon delivered in the mind of Pastor Gains had been as long, as wordy, and as dry as any delivered before the pulpit. Prayer delivered to on high, he retrieved his reading material- a dog-eared bible. It was a truly lovely text, gold-edged and illustrated with marvellous renaissance works.

The Pastor greeted this old friend with a warm smile, then flipped to 1: Samuel 17:50. Accompanying the stirring tale of God’s chosen warrior overcoming a greater foe- a story that Pastor Gains likened to his own struggle against secular America -was a printed depiction of Daniele Ricciarelli’s painting of the battle.

David sat astride Goliath, sword in his raised right hand, as his left firmly grasped the hair of his prostrate foe. The two were turned to face each other, and the pale young man leaned close, almost as if considering an embrace. For some strange reason, the Pastor often found himself returning to this page.

Weary Martha Sykes had very nearly tumbled into sultry sleep, when came to interrupt her falling, a tiny, warbling voice a-calling, repeating that cursed word: “Mommy, mommy!”

So her head she uplifted, her well-worn body shook and shifted, rousing her out of the lovely lands of silvered slumber she so sought.

Her eyes now widely open to answer entreaty spoken, she raised her hands and roared a single-worded question, “WHAT?”

She this outburst soon regretted, as her child’s cheeks were wetted by tears of fearful sobbing from frightened senses swiftly borne.

With tired yawning leaned she down, with open arms gathered round her darling daughter whose innocent call she met with scorn.

Hugging limbs surely fastened, around dearest youngster chastised, she crooned a calming comfort to the little girl that she adored.

Greta Geiger, across the way, observed this interaction with dismay. Though she was childless, she was quite sure that she could manage better than her.

“Adolf, Adolf, look there!” she hissed to her husband.

Adolf Geiger, a man whose name had started his life off badly, had little concern left for anything else.

“Yes, dear?” he muttered into his Candy Crush.

“The little girl, she was asking her mother something-”

“Really?” he feigned, swiping an oily finger to complete a six-match combo.

“Yes, and she- the mother that is- she shouted at her! How awful!”

“Repulsive,” he concurred, not caring one whit.

“Some people really shouldn’t have children.”

“Mmm.”

This sentiment Greta unwittingly shared with a man in the row behind her. Said man believed that the person who shouldn’t have children was himself. This as his darling little tiddywinkles were engaged in a competition: namely, who could scream the loudest.

“Sophia!” he growled, “Lamis! Stop, please!”

The girls ignored him. Anger flowed through him. It was hot and bitter. Like tea. He wished he were drinking tea right now. The girls continued their competition. He was tempted to grab them by the ears. That would quiet them. But he’d promised his wife that he wouldn’t do such things. He prayed for strength.

Ya Allah! What must I do with these two?

An idea occurred. It must have been divine inspiration. He retrieved his chess set from his luggage. He set up the pieces. The girls watched him. He ignored them. The pieces were soon all in place. He started to play a game against himself. The girls saw that he was ignoring them. They quieted and watched.

Thank you, God. He thought.

“I will teach you to play, if you are quiet,” he said.

The girls nodded and sat on either side of him.

“Now, to start, the pawns…”

“Looks like those kids finally shut up, thank god.”

These words from the pitch-black lips of a rockin’ pink punk splayed over three seats to herself.

“Huh huh, you, like, don’d’even believe in god, Tracy.”

That reply from the neon-blue slip of piercings and stitches that Tracy’s head was in the lap of.

“It’s an expression, Joan.”

A gripe. Tracy loved to gripe, it was her entire personality.

“But, y’know, like, it’s still kinda… y’know, funny, sorta.”

Joan’s personality was more weed. That, and Tracy.

“… I guess it is funny. Kinda. Sorta.”

The two giggled like schoolgirls, which they almost still were.

Hot. Tired. Boring. Run. Caught! Struggle. Foiled! Upset. Cry. Rocked. Tired. Hot. Bored. Louder. CRY! Song. Sound. Nice. Sleepy. Fight. cry. Song. sleepy. Sound. Sleep.

“Sir! Sir, please calm down!” plead Sophie.

She and three security guards were attempting to placate an irate giant, a man that resembled a polar bear wearing clothes. He even had that pointed face that polar bears did, thrashing around as he yelled and kicked things.

“Sir, I’m sorry that all the planes have been grounded, but please-”

The man kicked over a bin, spilling trash all over the ground.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” she groaned.

It wasn’t her responsibility to clean up after guests, but she knew the janitors.

Enough is enough.

“HEY!” she yelled, stepping past the security guards, “ASSHOLE!”

That got his attention. He turned his big, dark eyes on her, fists balled at his sides.

“We’re all stuck here, not just you!” she snapped, “no flying until the storm passes. Yeah, it sucks, you think we like it?”

Mr. Bear’s lungs worked like a bellows as he scowled. But he was listening.

“You’re making everything worse for everyone,” she continued, “on top of that, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

She gestured to the people spectating, causing him to take stock of his surroundings.

“In light of the situation, I’m prepared to give you a pass,” she offered, drawing back his increasingly sheepish attention, “but if you keep at it, I’ll have you tased and arrested.”

She stepped in close, causing him to lean back.

“So sit down and shut up!”

He stared her down, and she held his gaze, standing firm. At last, he turned and went back to his seat, watching her the whole time.

There was a slight smattering of applause, breaking the tension. She straightened her cap.

“Jayzus, Ellis, ye can’t jus’t cancel all the flights!” needled Captain Kilpatrick.

“I’m-sorry-zzz-Ca-zzz-but-zzz-storm-zzzzzz-too danger-zzz-”

The buzzing from his sat phone’s speaker was so loud that he held it away from his ear.

“T’is connection is shite, can ye hang on?”

He glared at the roiling black clouds, as if he could calm them with a look. The clouds, for their part, stuck out tongues of white lightning, crackling and booming with thunderous laughter.

Kilpatrick stood as close to the window as he could.

“As I was sayin’- ye can’t cancel the flights, now!” he repeated, “just delay ‘em! The storm’ll clear up soon, surely?”

“Can't do that, Sean” came the buzzing voice on the end of the line, “Weather’s not supposed to clear for three days.”

“Tree feckin’ days?” he spluttered, “what’r people supposed to do, exactly?”

“Go back to their homes and hotels, I guess.”

“Wi’ this weather, the roads aren’t safe!” he protested.

“Yeah, well, the skies are worse- click.”

“C’mon, ya’ve got t’ give me something- … hello?”

Bastard hung up on me! He thought, staring at the phone aghast.

Coffee, the nectar of gods, shared with mortal man. The utter, exquisite ache that a night of debauchery brought was nicely alleviated by a bit of coffee.

David slopped onto a stool at the airport hotel bar- a tawdry spot, to be sure, but resplendent with the beverage he so desired.

“Cooooooffeeee…” he moaned, a caffeine-deprived zombie.

Words were spoken, words of such dreadful weight and terrible meaning as to rend the mind and stretch the senses, elevating one to a higher, more dreadful perspective above all that was: “Sorry, sir, we’re all out.”

A ghoulish grin stretched upon ebony features, as the loathsome creature tending bar brought this foul phrase to a close.

“Nooooo cooooffeeee?” he pleaded, clinging to the faint scraps of his sanity.

“No, sir,” spake the beast, its wagging tongue a worm on a fish-hook.

David, the poor wretch, could scarcely comprehend the horror that would issue forth from that mouth in the coming moment. Four simple words, yet they were a parable of putrescence, enough to drive to distraction any sage or scholar, let alone the simple man that David was.

Four words, a singular question:

“Would you like decaf?”

He let out a howl, for his mind was gone.

Jamila watched as the man, clad in Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, and straw hat, mouth agape and dripping spittle, slowly keeled over.

“Sir?” she asked, alarmed, “Sir!”

She rushed to catch him, but he was off the stool and on the floor before her fingers could so much as scrape his shirt-back. There was only one other patron in the bar, a besuited, bespectacled individual that rushed to their feet.

“Oh dear,” simpered she and the patron in tandem, as together they rushed to aid the man. The suited individual checked his pulse as the two rolled him into recovery.

“His heart is, erm, strong… yes, good.”

“You a doctor, sir?”

“Mm… yes, a doctor… but, em, that is to say, of Psychology.”

They smiled, though it was more of a grimace.

“Perhaps, we… should, uh, call a, you see- a physical doctor?”

Jamila got on the phone to the airport first-aid suite.

“Hey, Laeticia,” drawled the intercom, “some tur-ist had a bit too much down at th’bar. Could’ya check on ‘im?”

Laeticia was drowning in paperwork, and more than happy for the lifeline.

“On my way,” she buzzed.

“Thank you.”

She’d dive back in later.

It was a five minute walk from her office to the bar. Three minutes later, she was there to assess the patient.

“Oh, um- thank goodness.”

“Holy- would you look at that rain!”

It was impressive, Hilda had to admit.

“Yeah, it’s somethin’.”

She may not share Julio’s enthusiasm, but she was grateful for it. Anything to distract from the numb boredom of waiting.

“Good thing the flight was cancelled,” she mused, “we might’a missed this!”

Julio flashed her a joyous look.

“You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that!”

She rolled her eyes. He had a habit of missing sarcasm.

Above all their heads crackled a voice; a calm, smooth cadence meant to soothe.

“Attention,”

Rudolph looked up from his furious scribbling. He was halfway through a treatise on the nature of freedom, and normally would not allow anything to interrupt his flow, but this seemed important.

“All passengers,”

Pillz tapped the tempo of the announcement on his wrist, heart hopping and hoping that this show would soon get on the road.

“We regret,”

Oh dear, mused the Pastor, it would seem that the Lord wishes to put us to the test.

“To inform you,”

Dismay all running, trembling, tapping, inside Martha’s head a-rapping, as her hopes of pressedly leaving all were calmly shorn.

“That all,”

Greta sat, chewing nails, as the voice above detailed exactly how bad this trip was going to end. Adolf booted up Angry Birds.

“Flights are,”

Flights were what? He hung on every word. Chess would not distract the children forever. Already they were drifting away. He tried to make it interesting. The girls were listening. It couldn’t hold forever!

Oh Allah, all merciful, he prayed, please.

“Cancelled,”

“We knew that already!”

Black lips parted in a snarl, Tracy flipped the bird to the speakers.

“Like, Tracy, uh… you know- you know they can’t see you, right?”

Joan was so high that she needed to make sure.

“Sure, Joan. Eat your brownies.”

“Due to,”

Sleep. Dark. Quiet. Stress. Unhappy. Mom. Unhappy. Voice. Cry. Rocking. Upset. Cry.

“Inclement Weather,”

Sophie stared the polar bear down , daring him to complain. He returned her stare coolly, his expression sour as ever.

“We Apologise.”

“Oh fer Chri’s sake!” Kilpatrick shouted, running to the control centre. “Hey, who told ye to send out a message?”

He was met with a lot of shrugs and shifty eyes. He threw up his hands.

“Well I guess t’was the intercom fairy, eh?” he cried.

“For,”

A message from the divine, that wormed its way into David’s addled consciousness. The horrors of a caffeine-less world had struck him with the force of a crashing wave, but his bleary thoughts quickly gathered as he swam out of the depths.

Something slipped out his trembling mouth, words born of the deep and desperate need of his drink-hurt soul.

Then, as he grasped the true meaning of what his treacherous lips had so slanderously spoken, he let out a cry of profound agony, slipping back into the cool and fathomless deep.

“The Inconvenience.”

Jamila and the shrink watched Laeticia work, chewing their nails in tandem.

“Dearie me,” the psychologist muttered on repeat, “dearie, dearie me.”

“Well he’s not concussed, at least.” She diagnosed, her pen-light showing normal function of the pupils.

“I think he’s just well and truly wasted.”

“Anything you can do, Doc?” Jamila asked.

Laeticia shrugged.

“Not here. When he wakes up we should get him some water.”

“He axed for coffee.”

Understanding lit up the doctor’s face.

“So that’s what he meant!” she exclaimed.

“Pardon? What, hm… what do you mean?”

Laeticia grinned.

“He said, ‘decaf’s fine’!”

“It was spectacular,” Julio reminisced, “I’m almost sad to see it go!”

After three days in an airport terminal, any goodwill Hilda might have fostered towards the rain was long gone.

“Uh-huh.” She grunted, flashing her passport and ticket.

“Have a great flight!” bubbled Jamila.

She’d moved over to departures to help out with the backlog. She grinned very widely at the next passenger, a man in a familiar Hawaiian shirt.

The line moved with tepid slowness, a welcome fact for David. His wretched, self-inflicted sickness had not soon faded, and he teetered still on the precipice of that deep and treacherous chasm. His temper was not aided by the sight of the bar-creature, revealed in sobriety to be a lovely and beaming woman. He was embarrassed to have acted the boor before her, and so was brief in his interaction.

“Oh, hi… you.”

Switches flipped and pre-flight checks completed, Kilpatrick was happy to be off. This whole debacle would soon be a thousand miles behind him. He checked in with his co-pilot.

“How’s it lookin’, Sophie?”

Sophie flashed him an energised smile.

“Ready to be off, Sean.”

The bear had turned out to be more teddy than polar, once he’d calmed down from his hissy fit. He was seated now in row 24, on the aisle, and last she’d seen of him he’d already been nodding off.

Soft. Quiet. Happy. Giggle. Mom. Tickle. Laugh. Rocking. Sleep.

“Come on, let’s get going all ready!”

Tracy sure did love to gripe- she even did it when things were going smoothly.

“Tracy, like- cool it, come on.”

Joan rarely tried to stop her girlfriend’s complaining, but she wanted to be upbeat.

“Okay, okay, sorry.”

The apology was accompanied with a hand, their fingers entwining.

The girls were quiet.

Praise be to God. He thought. Peace at last.

He smiled at them and planted gentle kisses on their foreheads.

“Thank goodness we’ll be out of here soon,” Greta fussed, adjusting her hair.

“Yes,” Adolf replied. He’d gotten the same odd looks as always from the ticket collectors. He distracted himself with Cut the Rope.

Relieved at last of woesome sorrows, Martha reached, and asked, and borrowed, her dear man’s water bottle for their child.

The little one, now recovered- from the unjust scolding suffered, took up bottle and drenched herself with liquid therein stored.

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

Pastor Gains knitted his brows together, as he always did when someone took the Lord’s name in vain.

Honestly, have they no respect? He indigned.

He took out his bible to calm himself, turning to his favourite page.

Pillz had missed his show, but it was fine. His fans were cool, they went with his flow, that’s why he vibed with them so well. Still, a lotta people were disappointed, and that meant refunds. He could already envision the dollar bills sashaying out of his wallet.

Rudolph Larens was content. He had his thesis, written in furious penmanship, needing only to type it up and send it to his publisher. Truthfully, he was glad for the three days in the Commodore Lounge. Before, he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was going to write next. Now, he had an entire manuscript! As he settled into his first-class seat, he sighed in bliss. Was there anything better than a delay?

He didn’t say such a thing aloud though. Even he wasn’t that obtuse.