Souls in Transit

** in December 2010, i met a stranger who changed my life. this is a true story and nothing in the re-telling below has been enhanced or fabricated... i was so touched by this experience that i immediately knew i wanted to write about it. i took notes almost instantly afterwards, and months later i started to to weave the story back together. this experience has met draft after draft, and about two years later, after setting it aside and coming back to it many times over and over again, i am ready to share this very personal story. my meeting with David continues to give me faith, love, inspiration, and hope when i need it most.**

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Chicago felt like it was negative thirty degrees that day. 

Ambulance sirens were blaring, trains overhead were rumbling, the blustery city wind was smacking me in the face like I’d done something very wrong, and the bus shelter looked icy and miserable. The walls were slick with frozen sheets of condensation and the small bench was covered in a thick coat of gray snow. A shockingly cold gust of wind punched my lungs as I breathed in, and as I cried out in sharp pain, I could see my shallow exhale forming pitiful halos in the bitter winter air.

Hot chocolate.

Hot chocolate was suddenly of the greatest importance.

Despite the likelihood I would miss the bus that would get me to my doctor’s appointment on time, I made the split second decision to cross the street, knowing full well that hot chocolate would soothe my tired, weary, chilled self more than being on time would.

I swiftly opened the door to Caribou and ordered a medium. It warmed my gloveless fingers and I turned the cup into makeshift mittens as I walked back to the bus stop. The shelter looked deserted and I quickly assessed that I’d most likely just missed the 156 by minutes.

My hot chocolate consoled me. I looked down at the paper cup and it spoke to me. “It’s okay, friend, I’m frothy and delicious,” it offered. I sighed for only the wind and my beverage to hear. I would just have to wait for the next bus.

I suddenly noticed an old man in the corner of the bus stop. He appeared homeless. He had a pale weathered face the color of ancient aging paper, and bulging eyes that took you in with precision. He had practically no hair, and wore a tattered hat and scarf set that was yellow and dark blue. There was something in his face that looked off, and I immediately supposed he was one of those characters you’d run into in the city who would start talking to himself out of the blue--one of those people you’d always see on buses muttering about Jesus and chocolate bars and yelling at the lady sitting across the aisle to goddamn stop staring at him when all she was probably doing was trying not to look anyway. He shifted and leaned against a metallic red walker. It was the color of a flashy red race car.

If you must use a walker, I supposed, you might as well use one with style. He caught my eye and we held a brief gaze.

“It’s cold.” The homeless man spoke.

I mustered a half nod and then looked away.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

I didn’t want to answer him. Why would I tell a stranger my destination, let alone one who looked as bedraggled and crazy as the man in front of me?

“Lakeview,” I finally responded. “Where are you going?” It was almost a challenge.

“Maple,” he said simply. “Are you just off work?”

More silence.

“Yes,” I decided to answer.

He looked at me as if I was going to say more and when I did not, he looked away. I thought he would be quiet now-- I was tired and had left work early to go to the doctor. My body was sore and I was aching and the last thing I wanted was to engage in conversation with a crazy old man. The wind whipped around my face and slapped me a few more times.

“Are you married?” the homeless man asked.

I was somewhat stunned. “Married?” I made a noise that sounded halfway stuck between laughter and disgust. “No.”

There would be no silence, I realized.

“Well, how old are you?”

The man was getting personal. I didn’t feel like getting into a conversation with him about anything, let alone why I was still single, especially when we were going to be riding the same bus, but all of a sudden, he didn’t seem so crazy. There was something about him that seemed completely unthreatening. He looked a little helpless even. For a flash, I saw my grandfather in his stance and in his eyes.  And in that moment, I decided to humor him.

“Twenty-nine,” I said. My mind struck me with lightning. “Wait, I’m twenty-eight! Oh God.” It was approaching my birthday and I had already started to accept one more year.

“You’re fine,” he smiled. “You’re young. People get married later these days. Not like when I was growing up---”

I interjected. “Yeah, my grandparents got married when they were just eighteen or so…” 

“---Back then, people got married when they were eighteen,” the old man and I both said eighteen at the same time.

I smiled back at him.

“People didn’t live as long back then.”

“Well, my grandparents lived into their eighties,” I told him.

“Ahh, they were babies,” the man responded.

I focused on the icy ground, contemplating my deceased grandparents and their beautiful sixty-year marriage, unsure whether or not I should be upset that this strange man seemed to be making assumptions about them, unclear as to whether he was insulting them or simply commenting on marriage in the past.

“How old do you think I am?” he asked me.

“Oh I don’t know…”

“Come on, how old.”

I took a good look at him. He looked like he was maybe in his seventies.

“I don’t know, thirty-eight?” I answered playfully.

He rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air. “Oh, come on.” He paused for effect as if he was both very proud and very sad at the same time.

“I’m ninety-four years old.”

“Ninety-four!” I was shocked. “I never would have thought. Well, you look very good for ninety-four years old!”

The old man looked pleased with himself.

“I’m David,” he told me. ‘What’s your name?”

Normally I would have given a fake name to a stranger-- partly out of suspicion and partly as a fun game to see what name I could come up with quickly, but somehow, I was not afraid to give him my real name.

“Katherine.”

“I like to talk, you’ll talk with me?” It was both a question and a statement.

“Yes,” I smiled at him again, somewhat charmed by his oldness and his oddness.

He slowly shuffled to the bench and made his way into the seat with great effort. Just as he sat down the bus turned the corner and I immediately felt concerned he’d just exerted so much energy only to have to get up once again. “David, the bus is coming. Let me help you.”

“Oh, it’s here? Finally.”

I took David’s arm, and as the bus rolled up to the sidewalk and stopped in front of us, I stood behind him, making sure he got on okay. We took the row that faced outward and I purposely left one seat between us.

“Sit next to me so I can hear you,” David told me.

I hesitated for a split second but moved next to him anyway.

“I need you to do me a favor. Don’t let me forget this bag of medicine. I did that once before. That’s what I came down here for. I’ll ask you a few times.”

I imagined David getting home and realizing his whole afternoon had been a waste-- that he’d just thrown away precious money on pills he’d left on a lonely bus. “I won’t let you forget it. Promise.”

“Good,” David said.

I looked around. There were several people on the bus, some of them giving me funny looks, I’m sure wondering why I was speaking with this old man who looked very much at first to be something he was not. I ignored them. I imagined how lonely he must be. Ninety-four. Getting his own medicine. Astonishingly able to navigate the city by himself at his age, he was a bit of a marvel. And it seemed he just wanted someone to talk to. I had time, my doctor lived Near North and David was getting off at Maple. Maybe we would have ten, fifteen minutes on the bus together.

“What do you do,” David asked me.

Here we go. “I’m an actor.”

“An actor… It takes a lot of work and a lot of luck in your field.”

“I know.”

“There are a lot of untalented people in your field.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You need luck for money, to be at the top.”

“You sound like my mother,” I sighed.

“And without that luck, you’re never going to be making a lot of money.”

I was quiet, contemplating why I had ever chosen this career. A life of rejection and self-imposed poverty. So often it made me question everything about myself…my talent, my looks, my purpose.  So often it was so difficult.

“You know that,” he said. Again, it seemed to be both a question and a statement the way he said it.

“I know all too well, David....” I didn’t know what else to say.

David quipped in. “Do you love what you do?”

Visions of my work flashed in my eyes. The words, the emotions, the tears, the humor, the intense joy I would feel when the right human qualities would surface at just the right moment, the unexpected beauty and grief that would surprise me, the constant search for answers…There was so much uncertainty in a life on the stage, and yet there was nothing else I could ever see myself doing.

“Yes…I do. I really do,” I told him. And I meant it with all my heart.

David took me in with his huge eyes. His pale skin and large nose made his face look like an antique painting. I saw so many people in his face. People I had never met, people I had always known, people I would meet in the future. We had a powerful and silent understanding in that moment.

“I loved what I did,” he offered.

“What did you do, David?” I asked. I was truly interested in this man’s life.

“I was a liberal lawyer, graduated class of ’39 at Northwestern. And then World War II was two years later…. I’m Jewish.”

“That’s amazing, David.” I meant it.

“I still work sometimes. Corporate law.”

“Really?” I was a bit surprised, but his mind, indeed, was still very sharp.

“Yes, people still ask me for help. I love that. It’s a compliment.”

“It is definitely a compliment,” I agreed.      

“I don’t do it as much anymore. All the lawyers I help keep dying.”

I realized what an astonishing man this was. David had lived such a full life and had outlived so many. At ninety-four years of age, I wondered if he had anyone left in his world he could talk to, if he had any family or friends he could count on. We could both feel this reality sting the air.

“I would have guessed you were an actress, anyway, with your personality,” he changed the topic.

“Why is that, David?” I smiled.

“You keep doing these funny things with your mouth.”    

   

I laughed, embarrassed. “I’ll take that as a compliment?” I wondered aloud.

“Yes, it’s a compliment!” he assured me. We sat for a moment. “Do you have a boyfriend?” David asked me. He was in no way coming on to me, he really just seemed curious about my life.

I had one once, I thought to myself.

“No,” I said simply.

“If you find a doctor or a lawyer, grab him,” David advised me seriously.      

        

“Ha, now you DO sound like my mother!” I laughed.                                        

“Your mother’s got a lot of common sense.”

All of a sudden the bus lurched forward and David grabbed my hand as I moved my arm in front of him. I felt protective of him, and visions of my mother driving me in the car as a child flashed through my mind. I remembered how she would always move her right arm in front of me whenever she had suddenly pressed on the brakes, as though her arm would protect me from flying through the windshield, as though her arm had the power to protect me from traffic and bad guys and everything else in the world that could ever hurt me. Sometimes I wished I still had my mother’s arm in front of me, protecting me from the world.

David was still holding onto my hand. He looked a bit embarrassed and apologetic. “I’ve fallen before,” he explained. He still didn’t let go of my hand. And I didn’t let go of his.

“It’s okay, David,” I told him. We continued to hold hands on the 156 LaSalle bus going north. We were a strange pair, the two of us, and yet, I think we were both slightly comforted by this random act of human connection.

“You have warm hands,” he told me. “Warm hands, warm heart.” I smiled  that he had confused the proverb.

“I think that’s because I’m drinking hot chocolate!” I guessed. “Normally my hands are always cold.”

We were quiet for a moment.

“…Does it bother you?” he finally asked.

“What, that my hands are always cold?” I laughed, confused.

David looked serious. “No, that you don’t have a boyfriend…”

I looked away. I had only just met this man, had only just started to talk to him maybe fifteen minutes earlier, but in this short time, David had somehow found the two things in my life that I was most uncertain of--my career as an actress and the lack of love in my life--and had exposed them both. He had looked into my eyes and seen through my hot chocolate and my layers of winter gear and had stripped me down to the most very basic elements. And the very simple facts on this very cold and very gray winter day in Chicago were that, yes, I felt uncertain of the direction of my life and, yes, I felt very much alone. And it did bother me. Not all the time, but when it did bother me, it bothered me very much. I knew that past relationships had ended for good reasons, had ended because they were supposed to, but the truth was, it was hard to be alone in the city--hard to be alone in general--when you had at one time not been alone. It occurred to me that David was very much alone, as well.

“No, I’m doing alright.”

“It shouldn’t bother you.” He could see through me.

I turned back to him, afraid I might unravel.  “No? Why’s that, David.”  

  

His own eyes twinkled as he looked straight into mine.

“Because you never know what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

And I could say nothing in that moment.

His words resonated within my heart. I hadn’t known why I’d met David. I had almost gotten on a different bus altogether. I had almost avoided any type of conversation with this man at all. But his warmth and strangeness, his wisdom and knowledge had all culminated in this one last exchange, in this one beautiful and simple message that seemed to calm all of my insecurities at once. We looked into each other’s eyes. I felt a calmness and an affirmation I hadn’t even known I’d been looking for.

David kissed my hand.

“This has been a very fruitful ride for me,” he beamed.

“…For me, too, David.”

“I think you’re going to be alright,” he assured me.

We started passing the streets that meant his street was coming up. I pulled on the cord for the next stop. “This is you, David.”

I helped him get up slowly. “Oh! Your medicine!” I grabbed his bag for him and hung it on one of the handles of his walker, assisting him to the front of the bus. He had told me he would remind me more than once not to forget his medicine. But he’d forgotten. I was glad I’d remembered for him.

I helped him through the opening doors onto the sidewalk. David stood outside and I stood in the doorframe, a final tableau of a meeting I would never forget.

His next words endeared him to me even more.

“I hope that I brought you good luck,” he whispered.

I took him in, this unexpected man, and let his words hold me. “Me too,” I managed to breathe. “Merry Christmas, David. Happy holidays.” The doors closed. It occurred to me as soon as I said it how silly it was of me to have wished him a “Merry Christmas.” He had told me he was Jewish earlier in our conversation. I wished I’d told him I’d been raised Jewish too. I held his image in my heart, part of me wanting to get off the bus with him. I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye. But the doors closed and the bus drove off. I looked behind me and saw David steering his race car red walker down the icy sidewalk.

I sat back down, the entire conversation replaying in my mind. It was remarkable how intimately we had spoken with each other in so short a time. How deeply he had observed my soul and how simply I had offered my soul to him to be observed. I wondered why I hadn’t asked him more questions--how I didn’t know anything about his current life, if he had someone to take care of him, if he had a daughter or a wife, a grandchild or a caretaker---if he had anyone. But even though he’d obviously enjoyed having someone to talk to, David had seemed to know right from the start that this meeting was not to be about him. Rather, he had known that this chance meeting on this chance winter afternoon had been about teaching me a lesson I desperately needed to learn. 

You never know what is going to happen tomorrow.

I thought about David and I thought about my existence and tears came to my eyes as I realized I would never forget him and the lesson he had taught me. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps this meeting had not been by chance like I’d first thought, but rather, it had always been meant to happen.

And almost as if I had been visited by an angel, the bus continued on its way north while I held close to my heart David’s beautiful belief that, yes, I was going to be alright.

These Smiling Crying Strangers

She had a ridiculous grin on her face.

Sometimes I wonder why people have an ear to ear grin taking over their heads.

This particular offender walked down the street smiling at nothing in particular, her smile sitting stupidly smack-dab in the center of her face, clogging up the sidewalk as I tried to pass her.

"Why was she smiling to herself like a fool," I thought to myself. Had she just gotten a job? Been proposed to? Found out she'd won the lottery? Heard a funny joke?

And then sometimes, I whisk away my jaded bitter self, and remember that I have, at times, been that person too.

I have been that person for many reasons....because I had just gotten good news, because I had a good date, because I was in love, just scored a lead in a show, someone told me something silly, or I'd seen something beautiful and meaningful---many different reasons had made me burst out into a silly offensive grin that made no sense to other people.

And I admit, sometimes I get very distressed by these people who are smiling. Don't they know they look like idiots? At other times, I think it is magical--their inability to mask their happiness--the sheer gloriousness that is bubbling from within them and spilling out from their cells in an uncontrollable, unapologetic smile.

But what is even more fascinating to me than these random strangers smiling, is our inability as humans to hide extreme emotion. Maybe not all people, I'm sure some people can hide their emotions and put a lid on it. But for the visceral many (or few?), emotion dances upon our faces in ways that we cannot control or are unwilling to control.

The most fascinating of this type of behavior is the person you pass on the street who is crying. Perhaps it is one tear, perhaps it is someone sobbing, perhaps it is the person on the train who is looking down so no one will see their eyes...

The same unbridled emotion that causes someone to smile is the same unbridled emotion that causes someone to cry...It is bubbling emotion, uncappable emotion--but instead of overflowing happiness, it is overflowing sadness. Pain. Despair. Hopelessness. Helplessness.

As I cross these people as they walk down the street, tears sweetly streaming down their cheeks, I wonder why they are crying...

Have they just lost a friend, a parent, a job, a lover? Has someone just dashed their dreams, broken their heart, left them, hurt them....Do they feel as if they don't know the way....Has someone died......Is someone sick....Are they just lost....I see these people and I always wonder what their pain is. I wonder why they walk these streets and grieve. They mourn the loss of something, and are so overcome with their pain that they simply must be present with it.

And in moments of compassion, I soberly understand I have been that person too.

I have been that young woman crying in public.

Perhaps at first trying to hide the tears but then giving in to the emotion, realizing that nothing I can do will stop the tears from their descent. It is in these moments that you give in to the pain and you just let it be. Because at that point, who cares who sees your despair. It is present and it has overcome you and to hide it would hurt even more. So you let the tears fall.

...And yes... It is because a lover has hurt you, left you; it is because family has passed away, it is because your family is hurting; it is because you feel alone or trapped or lost or betrayed. It is impossible to hide the pain, so you don't try anymore. You let the pain exist. This extreme emotion that once bubbled over and made you smile like a fool has now bubbled over and made you cry like a fool.

It is truly devastatingly beautiful. 

Because when you live in the city, you are a soul in transit, and sometimes you must walk with your sadness.

I continue to pass these strangers, and when I see the crying man or the smiling woman, I try to give them my understanding. I silently wish them well, whatever they might be dealing with--whether it is beautiful or devastating.

Because, I daresay many of us have walked these streets, as well. 

And we can only hope that us souls in transit will continue to smile more than we will cry.

Count not thy Chickens

I currently cannot decide if I am incredibly jaded or incredibly wise.

I am caught in thought.

Is it better to be excited until you have a reason NOT to be, or to remain unexcited until you have a reason TO be?

Years of experience have taught me the latter. Does this make me bitter or smart? Cautious or closed off?

I have recently made more of an attempt in my personal and professional life to remain neutral. I have come to embrace the notion that it is not the outcome of an event that steals our inner peace, it is the attachment to certain outcomes that is the culprit.

By attaching ourselves to outcomes that don't occur, we have created a fantasy that is difficult and sometimes painful with which to part.  But had we not attached ourselves to the idea of something before it happened, perhaps then we would not have experienced such letdowns.

Looking back on many past events, it was the attachment to the outcomes that took my peace, not necessarily that the desired outcomes didn't occur.

I, at one point, had the frame of mind that it was silly to only be pleasantly surprised when things did go our way. That cutting off our minds and hearts from the daydream of possibilities was a horrible waste of our souls. Now, a few years later, I look at that former thought as a bit naive and a tad too optimistic. Even though I practice optimism as often as I can, I don't always think it is the course of action.

Because I have seen all too many people have their hearts stomped upon when a relationship didn't take off, when they didn't get that job, and when they didn't get that big part. I've experienced these things firsthand, as well. And just like I have trained myself to go to an audition and give it my all but then walk away and forget about it (because that is the only way us artists can possibly go about our lives and not let the sting of rejection poison our bodies) I feel as though I have trained myself in a similar way to subdue expectation and anticipation in other parts of my life, as well. It is a defense mechanism, of course. So I can protect myself until I have reason to let excitement permeate my soul.

But it is a defense that I don't think is altogether ridiculous.

There's that old saying "Do not count your chickens before they're hatched." That saying has been around for hundreds of years for a reason.

Counte not thy Chickens that vnhatched be,
Waye wordes as winde, till thou finde certaintee.

Thomas Howell, 1570

And I sincerely don't know if this means I have simply grown wiser, or if I used to be eternally hopeful, or if now I am just a jaded old woman.

Perhaps now I just have a more adult way of blending together both sentiments.

Hope and disconnect.

Two totally different frames of mind.

But perhaps they CAN co-exist peacefully?

Because it is not that I have abandoned hope or expectation altogether.

I have just learned to take things day by day. And I don't think that's necessarily wrong.

 

 To see my more optimistic thoughts on this matter from May, 2010 check out
 Great Expectations. 

The Dangerous "What If"

Sometimes we choose one path instead of another. Make strange choices. Do silly things. Take actions that seem right in the moment, but after the fact, lead us down a spiral of self-doubt and regret.

Which way???

*

If I had said this, things would be different.


If I had done that, everything would have worked out.

*





If I hadn't hurt my knee, I would have had a faster race time.

If I hadn't stolen that boyfriend, he never would have broken my heart.

If I'd gotten into UC London, I never would have ended up locked away in Scotland.

If I had taken my cell phone, they would have found us sooner.

If I'd waited longer to sleep with X, we would have dated.

If I hadn't admitted a crush on Y, we could have met up for a beer.

If only I'd made up with her in person before she died...

If I hadn't cheated on my 5th grade test, I never would have lived a life of crime.

If only I had lost ten more pounds...


If only I'd just memorized that entire side....

If only I hadn't bombed that audition....

*
That rogue little "IF" is a dangerous idea to dance with.

Did we do the right thing, say the right thing, make the right decision?

The truth is, we agonize over what we've done and what we've said when the outcome is not what we expected. When we cannot find an answer to explain what has happened, we play the "What If" game. And it is only after our brains have gone through the limitless possibilities that we are able to rest. Our minds are wired to see a better outcome, and because we are all masochistic to a degree, we almost enjoy pressing repeat on scenario after more attractive scenario. We all do this. All of us.

And we only do this when things go wrong. You will rarely see someone who has had a successful outcome mull over his decisions and say, "Why did I do that!"



If Zack asks Kelly out and Kelly says yes, you won't see Zack moping about saying, "I never shoulda let Kelly know I liked her."


Now if Slater asks Kelly out and she says no, it is likely that Slater will be wondering if the outcome would have been different had he done something differently.


But who is to say that the other side of the "IF" wasn't right?


Perhaps it was meant to be.


Perhaps it's not necessarily that Slater should have never asked Kelly out in the first place-- it's not even that he should have asked her out in a less macho way-- it is more likely that Slater's attempts failed not because of something he did, but rather, because it was Zack who was always meant to be with Kelly.

The magical "if" does not exist.

It is something we create to alleviate wonder and prolong obsession.

The "if"game is something we play to distract us from life.

Because the other side of "if" IS life.

And who is to say that these bobbles, these outcomes, these events weren't always meant to happen?



Who is to say that life has not conspired to take us down the path we're currently traveling.

Sure, it is satisfying/torturous to romanticize about the way things could have gone, but the truth is, that's not life. That's daydreaming.


If you look at life from a fatalist point of view, you could have done this or that, but you were really only turning a page in a story that has already been written.


We're just filling in the details however we like.


And,  yes, perhaps we could have said or done things differently, but what if the major points in our lives have already been designed for us and whatever actions we take are the right course of actions because it takes us closer to that next designated point?

What if life throws us this wrench and that wrench at us and puts this roadblock up and knocks us down a few times because those events are crucial in getting us to the next part of our journey?

What if the world is truly knocking us down so that we will find ourselves ready for the good stuff.

So this is what I choose to believe.

And when I find myself playing the "IF" game, I will now say, "Well, then what?"

And then "So what."

The other side of "If" is what's real. It is our fiber, our choices, our mistakes, our paths. And we are meant to be walking these roads.

When things don't go my way, I will no longer wonder "What if..."

I will now say, "What's next."

Because it's coming.

And it's going to be good.

Your Flight Delay Survival Guide

There are certain things that happen to you when your flight gets delayed.

By three hours.

After the initial shock wears off, various other feelings start to emerge. You feel as though you should be allowed to do anything.

You feel somewhat entitled.

Somewhat rebellious.

Somewhat angry.

A little bit…trapped….and yet… a little bit free?

Yes, you have nowhere else to go. You are bound to the airport.

But now…you are free to make your own rules! You’ve earned it. You are both a captive AND an instigator. You, my friend, are running loose in the airport.

So how do you pass the hours?

First things first: Abandon all sense of normal.

You are creating a New Normal.

Welcome! Bienvenidos! Edelweiss! Merci!

Number 1.

Take little fun pack of Jello out of your purse---the one you forgot you stowed in there this morning for lunch---and rip off lid. Don’t even attempt to use lid as a spoon. You are past that. Squeeze plastic container and suck oozing lava-like Jello right from top. Ignore people as they stare. Better yet, stare back and smile. Waive! Enjoy the moment. It is dear.

Number 2.

Spirit Airlines is trying to charge you $40 dollars to carry on ONE little suitcase? Excuse me? Perdon? ARE YOU SERIOUS? When did airlines start stripping you of your last traveling rights? First your water bottle, now your carry-on bag? No. Not today! Go to the self-check in and touch the “0 Bags” carried on button on the screen. Scroll over the “Bags Checked” screen and select “0” on that one too. Print boarding pass. Quickly. Do it.

Number 3.

Get in security line but wait until very big family with sixteen kids gets in front of you. The person checking your ticket will likely be flustered and will now possibly miss words that say “No carry-on” even though you obviously are dragging suitcase behind you. Observe family and sixteen children as they horrify attendant. Nonchalantly stroll up to desk and slide your ticket over to attendant while she is collecting herself… Hold breath, expect to be sent back to the ticketing area…. Get passed through to X-ray!  SCORE! You have made it to Security.

Number 4.

Set off alarms with button on your jeans. Maybe it is your navel jewelry. Put your arms over your head as futuristic laser beam scans your body up and down while, behind wall, little airport men with mustaches comment on how boring your underwear is. Get the A-OK. Put your belt back on. Congratulate yourself all of your liquids made it off conveyor belt even though they were not in 1 qt. baggie.

Number 5.

Now you are in Terminal 3! Find the one person playing ukelele in airport and listen to him strum a happy acoustic version of Outcast’s “Hey-Ya” while foreigners whip out cameras and take precious airport footage. Watch foreigners dance to ukelele music. Dance with foreigners from your corner in mutual spirit. Join foreigners if you are really ballsy. Enjoy the applause. Make decision that Ukelele Guy was really sent from Airport Heaven to entertain stranded travelers.

Number 6.

Buy book. Very raunchy one. Decide against "Shades of Grey" because you are not that desperate. But pick out thriller. Or scandal. Something with murder and sex in it.

Don’t forget the murder.

And the sex.

Number 7.

Go to bar. You deserve a beer. It does not matter it is middle of the week. Drink the beer. Do it. Peer pressure yourself. Make friends. Talk to other people also stranded on their way to Motor City. Or ignore them. Pretend you are a Princess or a Sheik and they are not allowed to speak to you. You can do whatever you like: YOUR FLIGHT HAS BEEN DELAYED.

But do not be a douche. You can be silent and powerful, just keep that decision to yourself.

Number 8.

Buy salad and sit on floor. Yes. Chair next to thousand screaming babies is comfy and all, but you want to sprawl out. Make very big scene as you shake your salad like a maraca and evenly coat your greens with Paul Newman’s Southwestern dressing. People-watch as you eat your salad. Decide Paul Newman must have been really stellar guy.

Number 9.

Go for walk and try to find Australian accent. Check. Keep walking and look for someone in very trashy looking outfit. Check! Look for Southern girl in bookstore telling cashier she is 22 years old and “Shades of Grey” is the first book she has ever wanted to read. Check.

Number 10.

Saunter on and count number of attractive men you hope are sitting next to you on your plane…

Why are there no attractive men in this airport?

Lower standards.

And, wait for it….

Yes! There are many interesting prospects. Consider walking up to one such prospect and striking up conversation:

“So… Oh, hi there! What? You’re stranded too? Ah, you’re going to Detroit. You know, we should have road-tripped together. It is the Motor City, you know! Lots of engines revving. Damn, we could’ve been there by now… you, me, our Ford... Could’ve been one hell of a ride...” 

Smile suggestively and bat eyelashes devilishly.


Realize you are talking to poster. Note you are insane. Continue on your walk.

Number 10.

McDonald’s makes chocolate dipped ice cream cones? YES. Sprint to counter right before they close at 10pm and beg for one. Take dipped ice cream and sit in empty chair. Really enjoy eating your ice cream cone. I mean really enjoy it. Ignore strange man watching you eat your ice cream cone. Shake your foot up and down. There is music playing. Don't worry only you can hear it. It is a good song. Rock out and eat ice cream cone. Finish ice cream, scrunch up your napkin, and 3-point shoot  paper wad into nearest garbage can. High five random French guy walking next to you as you run through halls like you have just won National Conference.

Number 11.

Sit down and actually wait for plane. Strike up conversation about merits of Mizunos vs. Brooks vs. minimalist shoes with couple across from you that runs distance races. Write a 'How-To Guide' while sitting in your comfy chair. Listen to screaming babies. Learn your flight has been delayed by close to 4 hours because THERE IS NO CREW to fly plane. Crew is missing. Where is crew. Decide Spirit’s promise to give everyone a $50 credit “should you choose to fly with Spirit again” is a bunch of bullshit.

Number 12.

Definitely decide to open a can of DETROIT on lady if she gives you hell about your smuggled suitcase. Realize lady is aware it is 12:30 in morning and she already senses you will open a can of whoop-ass on her so she lets you go through anyway.

Number 13.

Board plane.

Number 14.

Listen to flight attendant do stand-up routine no one wants to hear. Silently curse flight attendant.

Number 15.

Buckle seat belt.

Number 16.
Decide making your own rules in airport when your flight is delayed is only way to go.

Number 17.

Congratulate yourself for eating Jello like rock-star, defying Baggage Laws, and making friends with strangers.

Thank you for flying Spirit Air, and fuck you very much.

We hope you enjoyed your flight!
  

******PS: Those fuckers delayed my flight again on the way back to Chicago. AND made me pay for my bag.

The Nipple

*This is so random and more of an exercise than a finished product*


"There's something wrong with my nipple, honey," she said simply.

"No, there's not, darling," he caressed her face. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's true. There's something wrong with it." She pouted and brought her hands to her sides.

"Darling, you're just not twisting it hard enough. Play around with it a bit."

"Oh, like you're the Master of all Nipple Function. I don't want to twist it anymore! It doesn't work."

"Dear, calm yourself down."

"Don't tell me to calm myself. You're the one who got us into this mess."

"Oh, now you're pointing fingers. Lovely. Last time I buy you anything." He walked away from her.

"The old one was fine. Bastard! But no, we need all the new toys. We always have to try all the new things." She took a breath and tried to collect herself.  "Google it?" she suggested sweetly. "There must be loads of videos on YouTube."

"No, I don't want to look up videos on YouTube, that's embarrassing. We're educated adults."

She looked under a stack of newspapers. "Fine, where's the manual?"

"It comes with a manual?" he asked in awe.

She glared at him venomously.

"Come here, baby...I'm sorry."

She crossed to him and he hugged her. "I'm sorry too," she whispered.

"Okay then."

"Okay."

"So when does the sitter get here?" he asked.

"Ten minutes."

"Grand. And where's the old bottle?"

"In the kitchen."

"Okay, we'll give the sitter the old bottle to use tonight and tomorrow we'll return this fancy dumb one. How does that sound?"

"Deal." She curled up on the couch.

He took a seat next to her and they both sighed in relief.

"We've got ten minutes," he said.

 They sat in silence a few moments.

"Porn?" she suggested.

"Sure," he picked up the remote, "Why not."

Random Thoughts Before Midnight---* or "Cinderella's Gonna Turn into a Pumpkin"

Mouse Noose

1. When Mama said 'there would be days like this,' did she know that sometimes tomorrow would still suck a little bit more than the day before? Where's her song for that? Oh that's right, Mama didn't write a little ditty for that. That is why doctors prescribe Xanax. It is also why cookies exist.

2. If I could be a cookie, I'd be a Nutella cookie. With a big glob of peanut butter in the middle. Or maybe a peanut butter cookie with a big glob of Nutella. They both sound delicious. It makes me want to bake. Except I don't know how to bake. No one ever taught me. And I just had two margaritas. And someone who can't bake who just had two margaritas should never turn on an oven.

3. Do Cobblers like cobbler pie? Or do they find it ironic and un-funny. I feel that if I were a cobbler, I would constantly want to eat pie while fixing shoes. I'd also insist my name was Gus. Of note, my Cobbler's name IS Gus. He's not really MY cobbler because I only went to him once. It's just that I feel important when I say I have a Cobbler. So I am possibly a liar. But damn, can Gus can fix a pair of boots.

4. When people say they wish they were a fly on the wall, are they really thinking about the consequences of being a fly on the wall? Life would be forever altered. What if you could never revert back to human form? What if someone smacked you with a newspaper and you scrunched up and bit the big one? What does it even mean to 'bite the big one'? What does 'the big one' even mean, really. Obviously, it's death. But is death like a big putrid sandwich we're biting into? Is it like a big piece of plywood that cracks your teeth open? All of that for a bit of gossip. That is why gossip is bad and why people who watch TMZ should die.

5. When you see sharp objects or seemingly ordinary objects that are somewhat dangerous-looking, do you automatically think, 'Gosh, you could kill someone with that"......? Because I do. Straws? They're weapons. I know so from Physics class in high school. With just the right velocity, you could stab a hole in someone's neck. Said person would die. Tiny piece of plastic you can tie into a cherry stem knot? Well that's a noose for a mouse. It's true. You could hang a mouse with that. Why is that the first thing I think of when I see a tiny piece of plastic on the ground? It's because I'm sick and twisty. Mouse Noose. What about a broken window pane? Obviously an opportunity to off someone like in the movie 'Ghost' when the bad guy bites the big one.

 And that's what you get for fucking with Patrick Swayze.

Ditto.