An Unfinished Account of Post Christmas (really, i’ll be back soon)

My feet are killing me right now. I’ve been standing in line at Gate 7, the last gate of my tiny little town’s airport, waiting to talk to a customer service representantive. There are 5 people in front of me and the time is 5:00 AM. My flight is supposed to leave in half an hour but, alas, the gate seems to be closed. A petite, dark skinned guy with long gothic hair and a thick soul patch tends to the would be passengers in his navy blue sport coat. This guy, and I say guy because he is probably no more than a handful of years older than me, is coincidently the same person that helped check in my luggage and print out my boarding pass near the front of the airport when I first arrived here. “It’s like magic,” I tell myself. “No, this must be his twin.”

A curious and cute little boy behind me in line starts talking up a storm, asking intelligent and honest questions to what I can only assume to be his father. I listen to their conversation play out, staring forward blankly in a sleep deprived state. Styx is playing in on the sound system.

Boy: “Do we have to be here?”
Dad: “Yes, honey. We have to wait in line so we can reschedule our flight.”

The boy stares at a monitor above him.

Boy: “Houston. San Antonio. Look, Dad. El Paso. Why doesn’t it say Phoenix, Dad?”
Dad: “Because, honey, we’re not going to Phoenix right now. We have to go to Houston first before we go to Phoenix.”

Boy: “So, the computers in Houston say Phoenix because Houston is closer?”
Dad: “Yes, honey.”

Like I said, the child was adorable. But the father. Every time he called his son “Honey”, a loud explosive seemed to have went off right behind my ears. Who calls a boy, honey?! I wanted to ask him why he had to set off these bombs right next to my ears, given the circumstances, I figured it was best that I keep all talk of explosives to a minimum.

Bennie and the Jets is on now. The song reminds me of the Running with Scissors movie Stephen and I watched more than anything. A lot of Mexican Internationals are waiting for the same flight I am on. An old classmate of mine from high school is waiting here, too. We try to avoid eye contact from each other. Not that we don’t like each other. We just wouldn’t have anything interesting to say without being awkward. An old hispanic lady falls in and out of sleep as she clutches her purse.

~ by thisguyukno on January 6, 2007.