“And your final destination today is Hartford-Springfield?”
“That’s right.”
The blonde squinted at the screen. “I never heard the name Caelum before,” she said. “Is it from the Bible?”
I shook my head. “Old family name.”
“Well, at least you weren’t named after some stupid song on the radio.”
I squinted to read her name tag: Layla. My eyes bounced over to Big Red’s, too: Vivian. That’s the tricky part about women and name tags: to read them is to check out the frontal real estate. Which I was doing when Vivian caught me. “Well,” I told Layla. “You could do worse than being named after a Clapton song.”
“Picture ID, sir?” Viv said.
I nodded. Fumbled for my wallet. Handed her my driver’s license. Layla asked me if I was traveling for business or pleasure.
“Neither,” I said. “Sick relative.” Freshman year, Rocco and I had had four classifications for the girls we scoped out from afar in the BU cafeteria: wouldn’t screw her blindfolded; would screw her blindfolded; wouldn’t throw her out of bed; and, for girls of the highest order, would screw her grandmother to screw her. Rocco and I were both virgins back then, of course—huddled together, eating our turkey à la king and room-temperature Jell-O and rating girls we were too chicken-shit to approach.
“My son’s sick, too,” Layla said. “Four ear infections in one year. Wanna see his picture?”
Viv’s nostrils flared. “I think what Mr. Quirk wants is to get to his gate,” she said. She gave me a professional smile. “This is her first day on the job.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “And actually, I’d like to see her son’s picture.”
Viv’s smile became a grimace. Layla produced her purse. Her son dangled from her key ring, in a little plastic frame. Nappy hair, coffee skin.
“He’s cute,” I said. “How old?”
Three, she said. His name was Shabbaz. Vivian asked if I was checking any bags with them today.
“Uh, no. I just have the one carry-on.”
“And has anyone asked you to hold anything for them since you entered airport property, sir?”
Only the heroin smuggler, Viv. “Uh, no. Nope.”
“And has the bag you’re carrying on board been in your possession at all times since you packed it?”
Pretty much, except when I left it with the Unabomber. “Uh-huh.”
She looked up, concerned. “What?”
Had I just said Unabomber? “Yes. Yes, it has.”
She nodded. “Aisle seat? Window seat?”
“Window, I guess. Better for sleeping.”
“Try sleeping when you’re a single mom,” Layla said. “Last night—”
“Well, then,” Viv interrupted. “You’re all set. Concourse B, gate thirty-six.” She handed me my boarding pass. “Have a nice flight.”
“Have a nice flight,” Layla echoed.
Ten or twelve steps toward the security gate, I looked back. Layla was getting chewed out in spades.
AT GATE 36, I JOINED my fellow sojourners: guys with laptops, guys on cell phones, tanned retirees in jogging suits and gold jewelry. A college-age couple leaned against each other, napping. A Mexican dad passed out churros to his kids. I caught a whiff of the fried dough and started thinking about the Mama Mia Bakery. Maybe I’d stop by, check in with Alphonse while I was home. Or maybe not. Alphonse’s e-mails were depressing: all those politically incorrect jokes, all that silent salivating over some latest counter girl he’d just hired. Pushing fifty, Alphonse was still afraid to approach women. Still searching for his holy grail, too: a 1965 yellow Mustang hardtop with 289-cubic-inch engine, four-barrel carburetor, and solid-lifter valve train. He belonged to something called the Yellow Mustang Registry. Checked eBay five or six times a day. Phoenician Yellow, his dream car had to be, not the paler Springtime Yellow, also available back in ’65. “Eat your breakfast now,” the Mexican dad said.
“Whoever don’t finish theirs don’t get on the plane.” One of the kids began to cry.
I got up, grabbed a seat closer to the TV. CNN Sports. Tim Couch had gone number one in the NFL draft. The Eagles had nabbed McNabb. Darryl Strawberry was in trouble again.
I watched the approach of a freaky-looking couple. Early twenties, maybe. She was fat, her hair a bunch of pigtail stubs. He was rat-faced. Nose ring, tattooed hands and fingers, missing teeth. She was eating a churro, too. They plopped down across from the napping college couple, whose eyes cracked open, then opened wider.
“Hi,” Pigtails said.
“Hey,” College Guy said.
“What are you guys going to Chicago for?”
They answered in unison. “Back to school.”
“Guess why me and him are going?” The college kids both shrugged. “We’re gonna be on Jerry Springer.”
“Really?” College Girl said. College Boy leaned forward.
“They’re picking us up in a limo and paying for our hotel. The chauffeur’s meetin’ us at the baggage pickup. He’s gonna have a sign with my name on it.”
“That’s awesome,” College Boy said. “What are you going to be on for?”
Pigtails smiled at Ratso. Her fingers grazed his chest. “Me and him are lovers. And first cousins. Which is fine, because he got fixed.”
The airline rep announced that boarding would begin, small children and passengers with special needs first.
“Acourse, what’s fixed can get unfixed,” Ratso assured College Guy. “You know what I’m saying?”
“See that fat cow sitting over there?” Pigtails said. “That’s my mom. She’s gonna be on the show, too.” College Boy, College Girl, and I followed her gaze to a sad, puffy-looking woman with dyed black hair, seated by herself in the otherwise empty sea of chairs at gate thirty-seven. She was glaring back. “He done her, too. When we get on Springer, there’s gonna be a showdown!”
“This so rocks,” College Boy said. He raised his fist and punched the air. “Jer-ry! Jer-ry! Jer-ry!”
“She had sex with her own nephew?” College Girl said. “Eww.”
“It’s gross, ain’t it?” Pigtails said. “I don’t blame him, though. She was always strutting around our apartment half-naked. Throwing it at him like Thanksgiving dinner. His mom? Her sister? She disowned her.” She shouted across the walkway. “What are you looking at, slut?” Now she had everyone’s
