Notes from Gate A1, Burbank Airport, Ca
Terminal A, Gate 1
A short middle-aged man in a janitor’s uniform is pushing a trash can down the length of the terminal, and for awhile his path and pace coincide with those of an attractive young woman. She has dark curly hair, the sort that always looks a little wet like she just stepped out of the shower. The janitor is four steps behind her and for a second he watches her, then quickly looks at the ground out of shame or common decency. But only a few yards farther along and he has started looking at her backside again, with hunger, yes, but I see something else in his eyes as well, and I imagine it to be that peculiar form of hope that you sometimes see when people let themselves dream.
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Two men come face to face, and their mouths are moving rapidly. Then they walk past each other, each of them still talking, one of them with a slightly embarrassed look on his face, the other oblivious, everything brusque and business-like about his demeanor. I realize they are, of course, wearing blue tooths.
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I am munching on a subway sandwich: turkey breast on flakey toasted whole wheat bread. A cute asian girl in business attire is coming down the terminal. She looks at me and smiles, then she laughs silently and walks on by. After she's gone, I look down at my clothes—I am covered in bread crumbs, lettuce and olive bits.
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The gate attendant is making an announcement at A2. A balding man in a tweed suit is bending back and forth at the waist, trying to see around the woman with big hair in front of him in the line. The gate attendant asks a question that I can’t quite hear. The man raises his hand in response, then he looks around and sees no one else is raising their hand. Uncertainly, he lowers his hand and continues to lean out of the line to try to see.
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A person with shoulder-length platinum hair walks by. The person is wearing a black tank-top and on the upper left arm a colorful tattoo of red hearts and stylized green vines is visible. For a second I am unsure of the person’s gender. It is either a flat-chested woman or a saggy-chested man. Then I notice the goatee. Later I will see him on my flight and wonder how I ever thought he was of uncertain gender.
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I am reading the signs on the opposite wall of the terminal. An older man walks down the carpet and he too is reading the signs on the wall. I want to believe he is a poet—his hair is wispy and a faded leather satchel rests atop his suitcase, and he looks at the signs thoughtfully as though he were trying to divine some deeper meaning in them.
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I see a lot of Jewish people here. At first this surprises me. Then I remember I am in L.A (or the Valley, to be precise).
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A flight attendant walks by and smiles at me. It is a warm, kind smile of the sort that one reserves for younger children. I smile back at her, and I am tempted to wave a silly wave like I am some gap-toothed preschooler swinging his legs from the chair. When she passes, I look at myself again: I have packed my clothes in a pink Chinese grocery store bag, my backpack is stuffed to the bursting point, my sandwich is still sitting beside me half-eaten, and I realize that I present the image of a teenager running away from home.
A short middle-aged man in a janitor’s uniform is pushing a trash can down the length of the terminal, and for awhile his path and pace coincide with those of an attractive young woman. She has dark curly hair, the sort that always looks a little wet like she just stepped out of the shower. The janitor is four steps behind her and for a second he watches her, then quickly looks at the ground out of shame or common decency. But only a few yards farther along and he has started looking at her backside again, with hunger, yes, but I see something else in his eyes as well, and I imagine it to be that peculiar form of hope that you sometimes see when people let themselves dream.
--------
Two men come face to face, and their mouths are moving rapidly. Then they walk past each other, each of them still talking, one of them with a slightly embarrassed look on his face, the other oblivious, everything brusque and business-like about his demeanor. I realize they are, of course, wearing blue tooths.
--------
I am munching on a subway sandwich: turkey breast on flakey toasted whole wheat bread. A cute asian girl in business attire is coming down the terminal. She looks at me and smiles, then she laughs silently and walks on by. After she's gone, I look down at my clothes—I am covered in bread crumbs, lettuce and olive bits.
--------
The gate attendant is making an announcement at A2. A balding man in a tweed suit is bending back and forth at the waist, trying to see around the woman with big hair in front of him in the line. The gate attendant asks a question that I can’t quite hear. The man raises his hand in response, then he looks around and sees no one else is raising their hand. Uncertainly, he lowers his hand and continues to lean out of the line to try to see.
--------
A person with shoulder-length platinum hair walks by. The person is wearing a black tank-top and on the upper left arm a colorful tattoo of red hearts and stylized green vines is visible. For a second I am unsure of the person’s gender. It is either a flat-chested woman or a saggy-chested man. Then I notice the goatee. Later I will see him on my flight and wonder how I ever thought he was of uncertain gender.
--------
I am reading the signs on the opposite wall of the terminal. An older man walks down the carpet and he too is reading the signs on the wall. I want to believe he is a poet—his hair is wispy and a faded leather satchel rests atop his suitcase, and he looks at the signs thoughtfully as though he were trying to divine some deeper meaning in them.
--------
I see a lot of Jewish people here. At first this surprises me. Then I remember I am in L.A (or the Valley, to be precise).
--------
A flight attendant walks by and smiles at me. It is a warm, kind smile of the sort that one reserves for younger children. I smile back at her, and I am tempted to wave a silly wave like I am some gap-toothed preschooler swinging his legs from the chair. When she passes, I look at myself again: I have packed my clothes in a pink Chinese grocery store bag, my backpack is stuffed to the bursting point, my sandwich is still sitting beside me half-eaten, and I realize that I present the image of a teenager running away from home.
posted by Bloo at 3:35 PM
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