Terminal C Is Your Home Now, Shit-For-Brains

It's been far too long, you dirty, dirty fuckers, and if I even exist in your consciousness at all I'm sure I take up little more space than the sign language you once picked up from an encyclopedia entry or the personal and professional goals of your one-time sexual partner.

I needed a break. I was at the end of my rope, some people said, and others were more optimistic, placing me at the middle somewhere, unwilling, in fact, to regard me and my precious life with any sort of urgency whatsoever, alienating me and my pulsating friendship and sabotaging any chance they may have at future glory. I have no pity for them. Their doubt washes over me like a warm foam.

I also did these plays two plays, which were altogether something, and left me confused. My head was a mess. They were exhausting, sure, for all of us involved. And I don't think I'm alone, I don't think I was the only one around who feels he hasn't quite fully "ridden the people-mover back to the clubhouse," haw haw, haw. A lot of hours went into the plays, and goddamn it, Time meant something once again; it seemed to pass with a slow plodding gait--the sultry feminine meander of the sexual dynamo that her underdeveloped and crippled twin sister Space will rue till the day she keels dead in her sodden cot. But in the weeks since the play's end Time has begun her retreat to an unsightly indistinctness that brings me no more sexual arousal than the rorschach blots that I can see when I stare at a light and squint my eyes.

As a result, well, a kind of warping takes place; and it's this I blame for my absence.

And if the plays weren't enough, well, I just had to go and fuck my mind all up by visitng good old Kenyon College, a place where I don't belong and was in many ways unwelcome, and so of course there was no choice for me to go prancing on in in the middle of an end-of-the-year festival with my head held high and my purported adulthood (and simbiotic confusion) pinned to my sleeve like a supernumerary epaulet. A place I new I was seeing for the last time. I had a good last look around, and said goodbye. Because, hey, last time I was there, my friends were there, I fit in, and as I had walked away from the place I looked behind me and the suspension bridge that crossed the precipice separating the school from the outside world was firmly in tact. No good. Had to go back and burn that fucker down.

And I thought I was gonna' get away clean, with a flight from Columbus to Dallas, another one from Dallas to L.A., planned with precision to give me as little a layover as possible, so that I could miss the travel time, just fall down drunk and asleep on one plane and wake up at home. Fate, however--dressed as an American Airlines employee (I didn't look at her nametag, but if I had I'm sure I would've seen the initials "MJ," for Moses Josh was also undoubtedly lurking somewhere deep inside her skin)--had different plans for me.

"It's gone," she said with a blank stare as I ran huffing up to the gate.
"What...the plane?"
"Yeah. It's gone. It's on the runway."
"I missed it...?"
Her eyes say yes. But I look at the clock, and notice that it wasn't time for the plane to depart yet.
"Well...it had to pull back from the gate early."
So much for my quick layover. Now I have a good seven hours before the next flight to Burbank, where I must go, because my car is there, and because my bag is going there. And because my car keys and house keys, are in my bag.

(Normally I never check my bags, but I had been drunk enough when I got to the airport to make a very energizing decision to emancipate myself from the burden of luggage. "T-take it," I gurgled, and thrust my bag at the attendant. I do believe I even made a hand-washing gesture as I stumbled away. Ha ha.)

Now, as the American Airlines woman in Dallas turns her attention forever away from me after booking me on the next flight, I have nothing but the clothes I'm wearing, a book in my hand, and what's in my pockets. Fortunately, that last listing happens to include:
Wallet
Cell phone w/ low batteries
A small notepad and pen
Two (2) weed cookies crumbled & melted in a plastic ziplock bag

Thank god for those last two items. I will now take you to what I wrote in the notebook:

Things are about to get worse. But they're getting better too. Sure, my flight took off without me, even though I was there before the scheduled departure time, and sure, I'm going to be hanging out here in Dallas for another 6 hours. But at least I brought the weed cookies in my pocket and didn't leave them in the bag that will be travelling to Los Angeles ahead of me, arriving to see the daylight hours that I can only imagine.

I started eating them right there in front of the desk at the gate but then went to finish them in the bathroom stall. The coating of hash chocolate had melted off the cookies on to the bag, so after I sucked most of the crumbs out of the corner I inverted the bag and licked and toothed the chocolate off the plastic. When I finished, I opened the door of the stall and moved to the sink, and miled back at the two men who stared in awe as they saw me emerge from the toilet with what appeared to be shit all over my face. I finally understood the meaning of the term "shit-eating grin" as I smiled back at them. It means freedom. It means letting go. Welcome to Dallas/Fort Worth.

I've wiped the chocolate off my face and tried to eat something--half a mozzerella sandwich with tomato and pesto from a place called Au Bon Pain. I'd make some sort of joke about this but it's funny enough as it is. I notice on the bag that Au Bon Pain exists in Atlanta Boston Bangkok Chicago Dallas London Miami New York Philadelphia Pittsburg Taipei Washington D.C. But not in Paris. And not in L.A. I try to imagine myself a devotee of the establishment, jetsetting from one locale to the next, in search of the lone Au Bon Pain in the region, a beacon in the strange wasteland that guides you to a soft salvation of Pestoed Meats and Southwestern WRaps. This is going to be a problem. I'm afraid to look at the time and see how desperately long I have until my flight, but I know it's long, and I'm worried I'm going to have to find a bar, or at least a television set that shows nothing but advertisements and clips of music videos. But I do know one thing now. I've been stopped here for a reason. I've been slowed down and made to transition, and to take note of my journey. I slept the entirety of my first flight, was going to sleep through the second, and then wake up and be home with no sense of the trip itself, with the movement gone in the blink of an eye. This was fine with me; this was what I wanted. But I've been show that that was WRONG, that I wanted the wrong thing. Open your eyes and watch, you cocksucker. That's how it's supposed to go, apparently. I can see that now.
I don't want to finish my fucking sandwich, and I throw it away.

I make a very important decision--to stop, and move my plane ticket from inside my book to my LEFT BACK POCKET.

I don't think the name "La Bodega Winery" has quite the ring they think it does. It's ahright; I don't believe this is a largely-spread chain like Au Bon Pain, so the stakes are lower. Since they offer wine-tasting, and have a bar that has been painted with grape leavees and is adorned with what I'm sure must've been at some point referred to as "rich oak paneling," I decide to go in and have some wine.

I'm drinking somthing called "El Guapo" at $6.95 a glass. I hear a strange, mechanical voice calling out words...it sounds like it should be flight information, but the tone is wrong, the voice is studdering...I step outside to hear what it's saying, but it cuts off as soon as I leave the windery. I look at the time, and am horrified. I'm not sure why I chose to drink "El Guapo." I sat down, and the girl seemed kind of ready to make a sales pitch, so I let her; but she has stage fright when I say "what do you recommend...?"
"Umm...mggh..." she mutters. But then she gets her footing, and begins to pull out a few bottles, giving me descriptions...I can't really pay atention to what she's saying, but she sounds like she's gained some confidence, like she knows what she's talking about. The voice comes back, but I still can't make out what it's saying.
But it doesn't matter, because there is a business deal going on next to me. The Owner of the Winery is negotiating with two distributors, an Australian and an American, who is younger, and I hear the Owner, a Texan, throw in a phrase like, "now, if we're gonna' do business together..." He's trying to be intimidating. He presses them: "so, how're you gonna' bring it up here?"
The American counters, "well...we have a driver...but...well, well I'll bring it...yeah, I'll bring it up in my truck, I'll just throw it in my truck..."

I have left the Winery, for too many reasons, reasons I won't go into now, other than to say I overhear as part of the business deal a full explanation from the Winery owner of how to easily and simply bypass airport security and sneak right into the terminal. But I have left. I am on the train (tghe inter-terminal tram, that is, or, as they call it, the TRAAIN). Yes, I am on the TRAAIN. And the TRAAIN is going nowhere.

There is a problem with the TRAAIN doors. The TRAAIN doors do not close. Maintenance has been dispatched to fix the TRAAIN doors, and please be seated because the TRAAIN doors will close.

I had scurried down the stairs and hopped in the TRAAIN, thinking I had just caught it, before I learned that there was a problem and that the TRAAIN was not moving. Now, I sit in he still TRAAIN and every couple of minutes I watch someone else do the same thing, fly down the stairs and leap triumphant into the promised land that's about to break it's promise.

* * *

The TRAAIN is moving again, and I've made a decision. I'm going to ride the TRAAIN for a little while (I don't want to arouse too much suspicion, so probably just one full revolution or two).

This is what I get for riding the TRAAIN.
I get stuck on the TRAAIN again.

Sometimes, feeling the truth about yourself and ripples and compresses like Doppler waves through your entire body. It's only something minor and is gone in a moment because it doesn't deserve to stay. Huh. And I can't even let myself write about it because it'd have to come far too much into focus.

I realize this in Terminal C, my new home. Terminal C looks something like Terminal A. In addition to my realization, I also check my phone messages (these two items tend to travel as a pair, I've found). One from my friend Gabe, a day old, which, had I listened to it when he left it, would have cleared up a misunderstanding we had had at the time. The other from Justin Struble. A friend in Santa Barbara, who had asked for and wanted nothing more than a phone call so he could share in the weekend. Whom I had forgotten to call. Fantastic. One more failure to add to the list of failures. One more lapse. One more thing to remind me that I'm not always who I think I am.
But it doesn't matter now. The clock is ticking, slowly, and the copy of Angle of Repose that I carry to assure the crowd around me of my normalcy may give me camoflauge but it does not give me shelter. And even if it did, I wouldn't deserve it.

Terminal C is your home, shit-for-brains. Whether you like it or not. Hope you enjoy the sensations. Hope your head can hack it.
But what a wealth of sounds. I was walking earlier, and I heard them like music, a wonderful rhythm--which of course happen all the time. But this one was no fucking joke, I tell you, and it lifted through the air just when I needed it, and I wanted it to almost bring tears to my eyes. And so I'll sit here now, listening.

* * *

I am a dumb, dumb motherfucker, and have not spent nearly enough of this time at newsstands. The cover pictures of all the nice people draws attention away from me and the Hershey's with Almonds gives me comfort. Furthermore, they are able to remind me that the country is a bg place, the world an even bigger one. You start to get a sense of the scope, and you start to remember that there are lots of places to hide from your mistakes. A lot of distance can be put between yourself and the truth. I start to realize that whole states that exist for this purpose, such as Nevada, Belgium and Perth, Australia. And here I am--in Dallas/Fort Worth.
I am unsure how to feel about the presence of a second Au Bon Pain in Terminal C.

It occurs to me that this trip wouldn't be complete without a good solid vomit, and I'm wondering when that's going to take place.

It's walking time again. I move through Terminal C in this fashion, I walk, I sit...and when I feel stagnant I walk again. I could get back on the TRAAIN, but I'm afraid to get stuck. So I'll walk again. If things stay on track I'm moving toward the end of this thing, with an hour left before I board. Since it's a known fact that airports induce cravings of cinammon, butter and frostings, all airport eating establishments are stocked with some cinammon roll-like pastry in order to avert a crisis. I am no exception to this brutal situation, and as a result Auntie Annie's Pretzels can be pleased to call me a customer.
I eat my frosted raisin pretzel, and I feel inadequate for a moment, but why should I...? People eat their meals all around me and they disgust me. I'd like some sugar, so what?, and the pretzel must've had some sort of effect on that because now I find myself walking up to a man and at the abutting Starbucks and asking him for a Drinking Chocolate.
"You mean a...uh, a Chantico?" he responded, hopefully, but I refuse to continue the conversation if he carries on with that kind of language. Call it a Drinking Chocolate, like the explaination says.
"I think you heard me," I tell him.

As I get in the goddamn line to board the goddamn plane, I feel what I always feel when I get on an airplane, and that's guilt, and regret. I've felt them before. And sometimes that's something bad, and other times it isn't. These things have a habbit, I guess you could say, of growing away as you grow older. (I'm now beginning to understand that this is in fact what a habbit is.) Things behind you get smaller in a way that never seemed possible, and what used to make my stomach churn, just makes me smile now, and wish for more, more, please...And of course, the fact comforts me--something I have to say out loud every now and again, something it's nice to remind yourself of, as much as it feels so swimming to say the opposite too--that I haven't done anything wrong.

No.

I could've done things better...but I didn't do them wrong.