Didn’t faze him and he punched out my ticket. Almost a pun there, I’d just punched Juan’s ticket. I paid by credit card, always the anxious moment. Was Siobhan as good as she claimed, was the money going through as smooth as she promised, he handed me a pen, asked,
“Sign here, please.”
I did.
Siobhan was on the money.
Security was even tighter on domestic flights. I joined a line of shoeless people, a man in front, turned, looked at me, said,
“You’re going to have to remove those, buddy.”
I nodded, took off my loafers, put my change, watch in my jacket, took that off, bundled them in a tray. The security people were grim-faced but kept the line moving, a woman protested,
“I’ve got film in here.”
The guard, patient, said,
“Then take it out.”
She started to complain, saying she was the mother of four grown kids, did she look like some... like... terrorist? Even I knew she was buying grief. Sure enough, after she stepped through the metal detector, she was herded to one side, given the full treatment. First, stretch out her arms, the hand detector all over her body, then, “take a seat, Ma’am.” The loaded politeness in the address, the easy intimidation through manners and then, raise her right leg, then the left. All done with deliberate slowness, my turn and as I stepped to the base, ZING. The guy said,
“Step back, sir.”
I did, was asked if I’d any other metal on my person, I touched my neck, said, “A medal.”
The guy nodded, motioned me through, he asked,
“That Saint Christopher?”
“No, it’s the Miraculous Medal.”
He stared at me, said,
“Irish, huh?”
“Yes, “sir.”
Bounce them manners right back, he said,
“That’s like a talisman, a good luck deal, right?”
Did I want to make a convert, explain the significance of the Mother of God? I settled for,
“She keeps us safe.”
And got a tired smile, he was in the security business, at the literal hands on end of the business, he said,
“Man needs all the protection he can get.”
Argue that.
I was going to say, a Walther PPK doesn’t hurt either, but you don’t mention weapons to those guys, especially when you’re almost clear, so I asked,
“You get a lot of hassle in your work?”
He rolled his eyes, like tell me about it, said,
“Some. The way it is, some folks get real uptight, but me, it’s my job, do it right.”
He was waving me by, added,
“What we do, they get difficult, we go real slooowww...”
And winked, then,
“They move fast or slow, ain’t never no mind to me, I get paid by the hour, not the passenger.”
The American work ethic right there. The job gets done. Then he was calling the next passenger. Manners might not make the man but they sure as hell smooth the passage. I went to Starbucks, got a tall latte, added a little vanilla, get those flavours blending, then looked round the airport, most everyone had a coffee in hand, a caffeined world. No wonder the planet was jittery. I’d some time yet, headed straight for the music outlet, bought a Gretchen Peters CD, the new one, Halcyon, strapped on my headphones.
I got a seat near my gate, took a sip of the latte, began to listen to Gretchen, she soothes my soul. A track from years ago, what first got me tuned to her... “On a Bus to St. Cloud.” Such longing in the lyrics and, too, the awful loss that never goes away.
My flight was boarding.
Bhi curamach... Be careful
I got my seat, the aisle of course. The window was taken by an obese man. Bulging over the small space, the seat belt like a bad girdle, barely containing him. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt like the squad in Jack Lord’s outfit, sweat was already climbing under his arms, I nearly went,
“O-la.”
He gave a sheepish grin, said,
“Guess I should have booked two seats, you think?”
I thought he needed to cut out the burgers, but smiled noncommitedly. He extended a fat hand.
“Bob Milovitz, outta Chicago.”
His hand was drenched in perspiration and did I want to touch it, like fuck, took it, said,
“Stephen Blake.”
Wanted to add the rider,
“Outta my depth.”
He gave a huge grin, delighted, asked,
“Irish, yeah?”
“Yes.”
He went into the near mandatory American reply:
“I got me some Irish on my mom’s side, third generation then Polack on Granddaddy’s, even some Scottish Presbyterian.”
The Americans present themselves like a cocktail, a mix of genetic influences, delivered with pride.
U2, pride in the name of love or whatever.
He gave me a quizzical look, asked,
“You in the services?”
Came out of left field, I faltered, went,
“Excuse me?”
His brow was awash in sweat, rivulets coursing down his swollen jowls. Thing is, I liked him. Not knowing one item about him, intuition told me he was a decent man, and like, how many of those do you meet? In my forty years, I met maybe three. Was it worth the wait? I do know it’s so rare, you recognise the quality straight off.
There’s a lighthouse off Galway Bay, the beacon is erratic, sweeps the water at the most unexpected moments. When it does, your spirits are lifted, especially if it happens obliquely. He apologised,
“Don’t mean to pry.”
I thought, then why are you doing it? He continued,
“But hey, we’re on our way to Vegas, where truth is the flip of a card but you sit like an army brat. You mightn’t believe it but I was in the corps, did a hitch at Fort Bragg.”
And he laughed, a deep rumble, continued,
“Yeah, catering, as you can see, thing is, I recognise other vets, they never lose that bearing.”
As I said, I liked him, so I conceded,
“Yeah, I did a jolt.”
“In these here United States?”
Since 9/11, the dignity ordinary joes imbue that term with, he had it in bucketfuls. I said,
“No, another man’s army.”
I wasn’t prepared to give any more. He gave a rueful grin, said,
“Same deal, am I right?”
I was saved a reply by the engines rumbling. He said,
“Man, I hate flying.”
We didn’t talk till after takeoff, the plane levelled out and the seat belt sign clicked off. Bob asked,
“Any sign of the drinks cart?”
I looked round, said,
“Any minute now.”
Fifteen minutes later, it came. He ordered a Bloody Mary and I opted for Maker’s Mark. Bob said,
“You know your hooch.”
We hit a blast of turbulence and the plane veered, put the shite crossways in me, Bob went pale, muttered,
“Uh-oh.”
I was with him on that. Five more minutes of lurching and diving, I’d downed the bourbon in one. Bob’s glass was empty, too, I said,
“They’ve suspended the trolley service.”
He’d gone paler, staring straight ahead, he asked,
“Wanna get drunk?”
Without moving his head, he pointed down, said,
“My carry-on, could you reach it?”
I could. He said,
“Open it.”
Jesus, I remembered Juan, in the limo, the first time, nudging a briefcase, saying those exact words.
No guns here but maybe as lethal, stacks of miniatures, every brand. He gave a sheepish grin, said,
“I collect ’em.”
I selected seven: three vodka, two Easy Times, two rum.
Got the vodka in his glass, I drank the bourbon from the tiny bottle, drank fast. The turbulence eased and Bob uncapped a few more. In jig time, I’d a nice buzz building, Bob asked,
“Where you staying in Vegas?”