It is with little trepidation that I detail my life, for you dear reader—with it’s many faults and foibles. As a collegiate chum I once had sa
id “I don’t mind being the butts of others’ jokes, so long as it brings them laughter.” (This is paraphrased of course, for in the middle of his quote he slipped on a banana peel and broke his wrist. He kept repeating the phrase “brings them laughter” over and over again as the paramedics hauled him away. They, however, looked more confused than amused). And it is in this spirit that I tell you the story of the bomber that got away at the airport. It is a completely true story, like all those I tell you. (Okay, some of them are more “mostly true,” than truly true, but this is not the case here). This is, as exactly as I can remember it, exactly as it happened. My wife and I, having been married nearly four years at this point, were taking a well-deserved respite from our labor to visit her eldest sister, who lived in the fabled land called “The South” (in years past, by us Northerners, called “The Enemy Soil”—but no mind, water under the bridge). We had a thickish layover in an airport that shall not be named (as I can’t remember it) and were resting amongst our heavy burdens, as well as our luggage. As I sat, trying to focus on one of the five or six books I had brought with me (never can know what reading mood may strike you)—I noticed a surly looking gentleman with a suspicious beard and heavy piece of leather baggage. My suspicious beard eyed his suspicious beard, and yet he did not notice. My beard is subtle. For some reason, I could just tell there was something amiss about this man. For one, he was alone. Now, let me say that I, having grown up an isolated introvert with no confidence and a propensity for drawing comic books for long hours in my room, have nothing against loneliness. I have often said, that loneliness, to me, is like a warm fall coat—mostly because I have never liked warm fall coats—I found them stifling, and therefore, often found myself as a child shivering at recess. But I am a married man now and have friends, even church friends, and faith in God, and this has a way of changing the hermit-qua-desperado in anyone. So, I naturally feel one of two things when I see other, lonely desperado types—no, three things—either wistful delight in the memory of my tragic past, pity for the poor specimen before me who has found neither God nor company, or, most of the time, suspicion. I suppose I, like most people, tend to hate most the things closest to what I am. So, there you go, I was suspicious of this bearded wunderkind because he looked as I might, forty years hence, had I stayed in that room at my parents home and drawn comics for the next forty years—although his posture and complexion were perhaps better than mine might have been. Regardless, this is the type of story that tends to get away from a writer as he ponders in prose all the psychological history, the personal symbolism, the prejudices, and so on that surround the actual narrative incident. This can stretch on for paragraphs and provides so many fine professors of literature across the country many a competent lecture—but gives us plot lovers very little of the real meat of the thing. So—as I have digressed long enough, let us look into it—the sights and sounds that proceed from the set-up I have hopefully given full explanation of. I need add only one or two other details, primarily that the gate my blushing bride and I waited at was bustling with people—all distracted, sleeping, or busy on their technological gadgets of various kinds; a baby or two cries, a toddler whines, grandma snores…and I thought all of this made it very unlikely that any of them would take notice of this suspicious bearded bag conveyer. What is his strangeness? That look in his eye? The amount of times he checks his watch? The way he smugly reads his Wall Street Journal? Then, things began to happen. He checks his watch again, he receives a phone call. What is he saying? It looks very business like, he nods, his beard nods in consent, and then he hangs up. He looks around—and he leaves the premises. His beard leaves the premises. I am relieved. My beard is relieved, and the whiskers that had been on end now relax. But then, I see it—his bag! He has left his bag! That glossy, brown horse saddle pretending to be a bag! My mind races, my heart pumps, sweat beads on my pale, furrowed brow; my glasses fog up and I can’t see! I am in agony. Do I report the bag to the nearby authorities? Surely, this is the last straw in his suspicious behavior—he is going to blow us up with a dirty bomb before we ever take flight! I shall never see the South. Or, if I do, I shall never see the South without a third arm and severe dependency on iodine capsules. I turn to my wife and recount the deadly details. She thinks I need not report it. But I do not believe her. She says she is sure there is an explanation. I think on this. I say, I am sure there is an explanation—and that it is he is a Southern terrorist taking revenge on Abraham Lincoln’s political children. I am about to report, against the wishes of my certainly too-frightened-to-think-straight wife, and yet, something holds me back. Is it embarrassment? Is it doubt in my conclusion? Is it the deep, brotherly affection for one lonely hermit so like myself? (Although unlike myself in that I have never once taken a radioactive bomb to an airport, especially not when traveling to the South, though, had Ulysses S. Grant been in my shoes, he might have). My armpits are full, like steaming cups of non-caffeinated tea (more floral than spicy, yet pungent, and a total nuisance); if I had windshield wipers on my glasses they would have been slinging furiously across the opaque surface of progressive lenses. If I had still had a full head of hair, I am sure it would have begun thinning at this moment. The world was in slow motion, the scene, far away, my ears ringing with nothingness, my life flashed before my eyes—and so fast I saw nothing but the end—the final k-boom at Gate C37, Flight 198, that took the life of myself, my wife, our potential brood of nine to ten children, and a bunch of other people. Suddenly, I found myself on the plane, palms flowing like waterfalls, my wife next to me—flushed with fear—or was it anger? But why would she be angry? I could not tell. But, I realized, we had made it on the plane and The Beard had not returned. I pitied the many who would die in terror at the gate behind us due to my insolent silence about the danger, but perhaps we would live! A deep consolation. And then, The Beard arrived on the plane, carrying that deadly bovine turned piece of so-called luggage. As the plane was about to take off, I was trying to think how I would explain to the flight attendendent that I was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man in seat 5D was a suicide bomber about to make us a spectacle of news channels the world over. And then my wife looked at me with that look—the look I dreaded and yet accepted: “Aaron, stop.” Said she. And I stopped. I realized perhaps The Beard was nobody but a man with an ugly goat and an even uglier piece of leather luggage, and that I had blown things all out of proportion. When the plane landed at our destination and we still had not been blown to bits by him, I began to relax. Some time later I was watching the film “The Big Year.” When the birds attack the poor honeymooning couple in Atu, Alaska, Bostick (played by Owen Wilson) remarks on the scene “Hitch-cockian.” And I realized, this was my essential problem. I had perhaps as a youngster watched too many suspense films, full of slow moving Cary Grants and Jimmy Stewarts, ordinary men thrust into extraordinary danger—the only ones aware of their predicament. Clearly, my sophisticated childhood film tastes had done some mental damage. But on the upside, I had something to discuss with my shrink at the next session. I hate going in with nothing to bring to the table, except a vague sense of having not done very well since our last meeting. It’s like showing up to a potluck and forgetting to bring the dish you signed up for. Well this would certainly be a chewy one. And so, I see that, like in all those old movies, everything works out well in the end. Especially if you are Cary Grant. Hey, who’s that bald, round-faced fellow over there?
|
AuthorAaron K. Alexander ArchivesCategories |