Spitball Army

Thursday, 31 July 2008

I awaken at 7:00 a.m.

My bags were packed the day before, early the day before. I boarded the cats with the veterinarian and his staff, who treat them like their own. In a way, it’s a vacation for the cats, too, who really do seem to enjoy their infrequent stays at the animal hospital. My clothes for the day have been laid out. All I have to do is shower, dress, lock up the house, and drive the three or four miles to the airport. I leisurely put some coffee on to brew, straighten up the signs of my activity so that I will return to a fresh house, all the while listening to the morning’s headlines on NPR.

My flight is at 10:50, so I’m taking advantage of a wide window of time. At about 9:00, I’ve had enough relaxation, and head over to the airport. Parking is a cinch, there are no lines at the check-in counter. It is a sunny, clear day, and the morning light is streaming through the great panes of glass in the airport lobby in solid dusty shafts. Nearly idyllic, if airport lobbies can be described that way.  I breeze through the security check without incident and amble, like the Merry Wanderer, through the terminal toward my gate. I stop at the gift shop to pick up a copy of the New Yorker.

I see the evidence of my earliness, as there is no one waiting or standing at the gate for my flight. One female flight attendant is standing at the counter. She nonchalantly waves at me to go ahead through the gate, then continues quietly at her computer screen. I can hear my steps as I walk the lonely gangway toward the door of the plane. An auburn-haired stewardess checks my ticket with a very friendly “Good morning!” I turn to step into the cabin and am greeted by a plane full – literally, full – of morning commuters. How very odd! It’s over an hour before the scheduled departure time! I fall into what appears to be the one last empty seat on the plane, a window seat, next to a middle-aged couple.

“You almost didn’t make it!” the man says, leaning over the woman who is sitting between us. She is staring straight ahead at the headrest in front of her.

I look at my watch. 9:45 a.m., it reads. “But it’s only 9:45,” I say.

The woman harrumphs. “Flight leaves at 9:50, you know.”

“I thought it was 10:50. Are you sure?” I pull the flight ticket out of my satchel. 9:50 a.m., right there in plain numbers and Latin abbreviations. I feel like an idiot. “Well, I’m glad you all waited.”  Mentally, I thank whoever it was that trained me to arrive early at airports.

“Alright, then, I’m here. Let’s go!” Nobody laughs.

Diane and Walter, my new travelling companions, are married and live just south of Birmingham. It takes me fifteen to twenty minutes to extract this information from them. Good thing I’ve brought a book with me. I pull my copy of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly from inside the bag and begin reading. This is one of the rare instances when the movie has encouraged me to read the book. Usually, I use the film as an excuse to avoid reading the book – a visual Cliffs Notes, of sorts. This movie was so, so good, however, that I felt compelled to explore its source.

As I begin the second paragraph of the book, Walter leans forward. “Have you been to San Diego before?”

“Yes, I grew up in that area,” I tell him. My thumb is holding my place in the book.

“Oh.” He leans back in his seat and begins re-reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal that was occupying his lap. I open my book and begin Paragraph Two again.

I turn the page. “We’ve never been to San Diego,” offers Diane. She continues to look directly ahead. “It’s a beautiful city,” I reply, and we have a short conversation – in fits and starts, all three of us – about interesting historical spots, beaches, and regional food. I start talking about Mexican food.

And it is like – as Groucho Marx once described the loquacity of one of his co-stars – I’ve been injected with a phonograph needle. I have been telling everyone how excited I am to be returning to California for the first time in eight years, and how one of the things I am most looking forward to is the Mexican food. “Mexican food” has become my summer mantra, and a fish taco my imaginary talisman. In my mind, there is a vision of a menu coated in plastic.  I continue to burble on and on to Diane and Walter about the gastronomic riches to be found in the cantinas and taco shacks of San Diego County. On and on and on. It eventually wears us all out.

Exhausted, I return to my book. Diane and Walter remove a very expensive-looking portable DVD player from one of their bags. I watch them out of the corner of my right eye, pretending, somewhat ridiculously, not to notice what they’re doing. She unveils a DVD copy of Babel, still in its shrink-wrapping. Maybe she can tell that I haven’t turned a page in my book for awhile. “We bought this in the airport gift shop. Have you seen it?” Well, at least she didn’t ask me if I liked it. “Yes, I have seen it,” I answer, not elaborating.

“Is it good?”

Doh. “It’s very serious. Heavy.” I leave out the part about having to watch it over three nights because I kept falling asleep. I decide not to tell her that the film made me want to step out into busy traffic. No matter, she sees right through me. “Oh, it is? Walter, he says this is a dark movie.”

“It’s the only one we’ve got. We have to watch it.”

How odd, I think. “We” have no choice but to watch a depressing movie on this crowded airplane ride. I guess friendly conversation is completely out of the question. I go back to my book while Diane and Walter don their noise-cancelling headphones and fire up their disc of despair.

(continued at Reunion Journal: 31 July 2008, part 2)