On the Brink

Airports have always held a strange fascination for me. I love to watch the people come and go, and wonder what their stories are.

I observe the tearful goodbye of a couple,and try to guess why they are so distressed. Are they newlyweds? Is this the first time that they are separated? Perhaps they are lovers, and he is leaving after a period of mad abandon, to go back to his other life of family and everyday things. Are they parting never to see one another again?  A twinge of sadness pierces my inner being as I enviously watch and wish that someone cared so much about me that they would mourn my departure.

I also note the individuals sitting, waiting for their flight to be called. I wonder where they are going, and why. Are they returning home with the "big order", or after landing the "big account"?  Are they returning home in defeat after losing to a fierce competitor? Are they off on a "lost weekend" with a new lover they have met on a previous occasion? Could it be that they are going in search of someone with whom to have a casual liaison?  Perhaps they are looking for someone who will listen to them without criticizing them or telling them what they should be doing with their lives. Is the man with the anxious look anticipating a visit with his mistress?  Some appear to be off on a well-deserved vacation, which has already been put off too long. What are they thinking about? Are they worried about paying their creditors? Perhaps they are thinking about their destinations; maybe a big seminar, where they will be challenged to perform to the limits of their ability.

My name is Paul Randolph. I am myself returning from New York after attending an AIA seminar for architects specializing in old building renovations.  It was a stimulating meeting;  there were many ideas and materials which I will be able to share with my colleagues who are working on the renovations at Charity Hospital. Now there is a challenge if there ever was one. The old barn should have been bulldozed or dynamited years ago. In fact, it never should have been built in the first place.  A 2200 bed institution is far too unmanageable.  Even closed down to 900 beds as it is now, the strain on services, personnel, and fiscal resources is almost unbelievable. However, they are paying me to renovate the monster, and so that I will do.

My mind is still disturbed over the commotion in the next room that caused me sleepless nights during my stay in the posh Plaza Hotel. I am looking forward to getting home to my own bed where I can relax, and catch up on my sleep.

The gate agent made the announcement that the herd had been awaiting.  he flight is now available for check-in. As if for some priceless treasure, they all surge to the gate desk in order to be checked in and receive a seat assignment. Some, who are experienced in travel, had the foresight to stand at the gate before the call was made, sometimes only to be shooed away by the gate agent if they queued up too early. Once they acquire the Golden Fleece that is the little sticker for their boarding pass that designates their seat assignment, they return to their previous seat in the waiting area in anticipation of the next great rush to the plane.  I stand in line with the great proletariat, and receive my usual window seat.  As I return to my seat, I marvel at the wide variation of shape, size, color and design that is the group of persons with whom I will share the flight.

There is the usual non-assortment of black, navy, and grey business suits, for both men, and in increasing numbers, for women. I note that the women are becoming more hard looking, an apparent aggression induced phenomenon that is seemingly defeminizing.  They are less like women, and more like men with breasts.  I wonder if they are like that of their own choosing, or if they are instead forced to become like that by the very men with whom they compete.  The otherwise attractive woman sitting across from me with the hair severely pulled back into a small bun, sits in a pose that seems to say that she has been to the wars, and has learned her lessons well.  I wonder how many throats she has cut this fine day, and how many backs she will crawl over (or under as the situation requires) in her climb to the top of the heap.  I wonder who she is, and for whom she cut these throats.  What a pity that women are compelled to take such unnatural actions in order to succeed. My mind began to toy with the idea of the men with whom she may have lain.  What did they look like?  Had she done some delicious things with their manhood?

I look up and notice another man staring at the female businessperson across from me, and I try to guess what the man is thinking.  I wonder what they are doing in his mind's bedroom, maybe some fantasy perversion about which he dreams and that one day he will act out in anonymity?

Someone sitting in the chair next to me disturbs my wonderment.  It is a handsome man with a shock of prematurely grey hair.  The man is holding a Playboy magazine, and begins to leer at its pages.  He is particularly interested in the picture of the nude woman as she fingers herself into some sort of two-dimensional ecstacy.  I am fascinated by this prurient interest that the man is displaying, and wonder why I am not as fascinated by the nude woman as he is.

The call finally comes for which all of my fellow travelers are waiting: "Ladies and gentlemen, flight 456 is now ready for boarding, anyone who requires special assistance in boarding, such as those traveling with small children, or anyone else who requires extra time in boarding the aircraft should now board through gate 44A."  A few people come forward, and the rest begin to mill around and advance upon the gate agent. Then the second announcement, "we are now ready to continue boarding flight 456, all those with pink or white boarding passes with seat numbers 35 through 67 may now begin boarding the aircraft."  A number of the "old seasoned travelers" keep their seats in apparent disdain of the declasse who are pushing and being generally discourteous in their attempt to hurry and board the plane.  These "old timers" will wait until the flight is boarded, and then waltz on and crawl over the others to get to their seats, in an apparent attempt to "be cool".  I wonder if they take some unknown thrill in almost being left behind?

 
Once aboard the plane, I notice how people prepare themselves for a several hour flight.  I see the panic that comes over the first time flyer when he finds his assigned seat taken by a claim jumper.  An astute flight attendant sees the problem, and after checking boarding passes, smooths over an otherwise unpleasant situation by ushering the trespasser to his proper seat.  On comes the little old lady with the armload of packages who begins to pack the overhead compartment as tightly as her size twelve stretch pants are stuffed with her size eighteen derriere. I wonder what she could possibly have in all of those packages that is too precious to check with the rest of the luggage.  I begin to dig in the pouch in the seat back in front of me for some suitable reading material, but all I come up with is the inflight magazine, which I have read before. I also find the gift book, which is filled with all kinds of interesting, overpriced gadgets that are engineered to self-destruct three weeks after the bill is paid.