Typical Day at the Airport
A Descriptive Writing
Morning was missing a sun earlier when I walked here from the parking lot. It was dark, I felt like I just woke in the middle of the night getting ready for a fire watch. These cold mornings are arctic sometimes, but it doesn’t take long until Helios ride his chariot across the black above. It’s now very dark blue; I could kind of see the clouds shifting a little walking by these barb wire fences with my head facing down still a bit groggy from last night’s all nighter. Thinking about it, I smiled and slowly walked along the gates, kicking pebbles off the pedestrian walk. I wish I could get a day off. I wasn’t as sleepy any more; it’s hard to feel that way when big rigs and freight trucks keep roaring. Behind the gates they drive back and fourth casually stocking up food and accessories, staying on schedule. San Jose Jet Center makes their way around almost constantly filling the planes up with gas. I use to require ear plugs, but my ears are damaged enough from it to not even need it anymore. 24/7 it’s like sitting, listening to road constructions without the jack hammers. Instead we get diesel engines burning gas and parked airplanes with their propellers on getting ready to take off. There are no trees here, just short column buildings and a whole lot of wide open space, so it echo and booms. Once in a while you hear sonic booms. After a sound wave explodes, it leaves a “tick.. tick… tick…. Tick….. tick……” sound. Just like a “Friday the 13th” theme. Every tick tires and subtly fades. It’s really irritating when you’re trying to dispatch an emergency. Vehicle Gate 12, that’s where I am today. It’s the quietest gate, but it’s far from being quiet. It’s the least busy gate, but also the toughest gate to watch. You deal with more than just the familiars here, meaning there will be a lot of interrogations today. Oh it’s oodles of fun. There are plenty of outsiders that want in without identifications and validation stickers, which consist of dates, numbers and territorial icons that consist of tug trucks and emergency “E’s”. My job is to grab them by their collars and land my big black military boot on their ass and tell them to get the fuck out of here. Do I get to do that? Hell no. I have to be professional about it. “Sorry Sir, I will have to redirect you unless you show me proper permit.” I don’t have to, but I smile anyway just to be courteous. When I think about it, sometimes I feel like a TV mom. “Don’t forget to tuck your shirt!” Damn, I should quit.
There’s an old air conditioner in back of me. It’s my best friend in the summer. If it had boobs, hair and limbs, I’d date it. Then again, if it had boobs, hair and limbs, it’d be my grandma. I take that dating comment back. Like my grandma, it’s old but it’s useful. Well, I think the air conditioner is more useful than my grandma at the moment. My grandma doesn’t fan me when I’m glistening in sweat on summer days. The only air she can blow at me is with the hot air inside her teeth barren mouth. I don’t think I’d like that. I’m going to name this air conditioner Friedrich. That’s what it says on the bottom left corner in bold gray prints along with a copyright. I’ll pretend it’s a girl’s name. I love Friedrich. I turn her on all the time when I’m hot. I turn her hot when I’m cold. She’s a complimentary companion.
It’s a multi functional AC that also works as a heater. The knob turns from hi to low and from cold to hot with a money saver switch that is turned off. I think it’s for cheap people who want to sacrifice cool air for a small electric bill. It’s not on my tab, so it’s off. The face lift falls off once in awhile, so now it’s covered in bandages to keep from falling off. Covered in years of dirt and dust, once white it’s now yellow and even darker yellow collecting bugs and debris in its ventilation. Carved and fitted through, its butt sticks out a semi tinted window that’s been stained with tape gunk and rooting cracks. Its butt is supported by wooden pegs and blows out hot air like a really bad lunch. I’m grateful that my ass does not need pegs to stand, nor does it make the same type of noise. Not right now at least.
Sitting back against my declining spin chair, legs elevated on the counter top with arms in back of my head relaxed, Fredrick blows on me noisily like a broken record player repeating the same monotonous sound I don’t quite mind. Contained in walls of fogged up dirty glass and rusting metal white doors chipped corner to corner and side to side, festering stream of sun spill dance on my skin like salsa in a spinning microwave. I felt like a planet in arctic summer, burning in the Mojave up front, but fresher than Antarctica in the back row.
I’m an initial super hero without the super (and the hero). On Air 7 and Air 8, two black radios I have strapped on the side of my utility belt, like Batman, I monitor for plots and plans of super villains, listening on channel 4 which is dispatch and channel 2, ACC (Airport Communication Center) to stop the trenches of evil. It rests near my little handy black gun and ultra cool bat-a-rang. Yeah right, there’s no gun, just the bat-a-rang and super human tattle telling power. Most of the time it buzzes and cracks like the millions of black and white dots on static television screens with no signal. “Sam 5, ACC.” That’s me, I’m Sam 5 and ACC is calling me. Be right back, got to take the call!
“ACC, Sam 5. I just took care of the Joker.” It’s loud and obnoxious. The voices buzz and are very out of focus. Sometimes air time is completely wasted with small talks. Hello, good bye and how are you. I can’t think if you keep talking people. Come on now! I’m trying to finish this paper here!
About 500 feet away from me is a taxi stand, where all the Yellow Cabs, other cabs and Shuttle busses park waiting for people. There are mostly Indians and Italian guys parked there. With a long frizzle black beard, the Indian guy in white turban, playing hip off beat Hindi music yells at an Italian cab driver. “Lun how ta dreeve oss hole,” meaning, “Learn how to drive ass hole!” The Italian guy flips him off and reciprocates. Just after cussing out the Italian guy, the Indian guy pulls right in front of an oncoming blue air port bus as he pulls right into a busy road on the terminal. The bus, stocked with scared faces and Einstein hair slightly hits the breaks. Instead of worrying about being safe, he maniacally honks the horn. The driver whom was also Indian flips him off, gesturing both his arms like a drunken wild monkey holding bottles of Heineken in his hands, erecting his middle fingers all at the same time and cussed out, “Yo son of muh beech!” I couldn’t tell if he was trying to rave or bust out a notorious Egyptian dance, but I think that’s a lot of talent.
Of course they’re all great drivers, DMV don’t just give anyone a license.
Along the booth of the taxi stand, people of many nationality and culture comes out with luggages, dragging and or pulling as they are guided to a taxi. Big ones, small ones, it doesn’t matter. Whoever grabs them first gets them. These taxi drivers are leeches and their passengers are vessels of blood walking down broken lines being sucked up and tossed inside stomachs with 4 wheels. The traffic that flows a long the terminal line, adjacent from the taxi stands are multi shaped blood cells pumped with gas flowing through.
The plane to the left of me is about to take off. Its engines scream like street riots, its propeller cries like two knives viciously sharpening each other under a broken microphone. As it violently spins, its cries are overwhelmed with exploding air shooting out a lion’s thunderous yawn. The plane moves forward, it turns and roars. Its sound becomes a moaning ghost as it launches off into the open blue, vanishing into a point, leaving behind its tail, gusts of flying particles attacking my bomb shack booth like Pakistanian bullets. It rumbles and shakes, the windows wave like ocean currents. A solar orange truck, labeled on the side, “San Jose City,” stops and waits for me. I look inside the car. Two passengers and one badge. I have to search for bombs and interrogate. I look over at the passenger; it’s just a typical guy, no one special. There’s never anyone special at this gate unless a bomb makes him special.
“Sorry sir, I’m going to have to kick your ass for making me work.”
“Please don’t hurt me!” He gets out of the car, gravels and cries as I whack him over the head with a ham sandwich. Yeah right.
Another Nothing to Lose Title
The dark of smoldering clouds consumed of fear transcends across an augural dull moon, crying bullets of rain. It bounces on concrete like broken glass, shattering in a hundred wrecks. He sits atop a graying building, above a wet uncertain ledge, looking down at a local theater. A cesspool he believes. Staring from his pale narcoleptic eyes, he watches heartless, like ants, random heads of random strangers. Sodden wet and misty figured, his shining black hair bleeds liquid fear adrift. He sits with festering thoughts. “Is it wrong to fear? This feeling, it disquiets my nerves without an end to the utmost. The anxiety eats me up inside the more I see you smile. You hurt me so, you need to stop, I fear for you.”
Luminous white under darkened sky and blackened letter heads, below the sign she gracefully turns her body around, swinging her enticing polished wet hair like snail paced drapery poised in air. Traced in rain, she glows like an angel in a halo of pouring rain. Her lips, so soft and pink arched slowly upwards repealing the character “cold” and welcoming “Warm”. Her hazel eyes stare full of spirit, slowly blink once and stared towards another. Another arm, belonging to another man, it reaches over and blankets her body. It squeezes her softly. She rests her head on it’s chest, reaches over and returns her arms like it belonged around his body. It was warm in winter, now it’s cold eternally.
“Samantha, my dear, dear wife. Once you belonged to me, now you belong to a dead man. You triggered unsettling movements to my knees. I sit here trembling, I sit here enraged and in fear of the lost of you. I can no longer fear a beat.” He stairs down precariously with no concern, at the man now his enemy. Watching every movements of this mysterious man, the pulsation of his heart grew more violent one minute after the other. His focus on the two became immortal as he victimizes his quarrel. His eyes broke tension when a sudden scream abruptly noise across the street.
“Heyyyyyyy SAM!!!” One guy in line yelled out, breaking distilled silence above the roof top across the cinema. Quickly acknowledging a voice calling for her, she spotted from a distance, a man. Glaring with one eye, she sees him calmly waving and waves back slowly with hesitance unsure of who it is. The man with her looked back a bit puzzled. In line, the man leans back up against the wall and continued waiting. The mystery man turned back and once again wrapped his arm around Sam.
“Who was that” He looks familiar…? He turns his attention back to Sam. “Sam, who was that Sam? Two men are not enough, now there?s another. What have I become to you?” The rain continued to bullet down. Resenting clouds shifted across the sky. The storm mourned over the crowd?s abstract whispers. Lightning struck and the heavy sound of traffic shrieked as lights turned from green to red, halting cars and evoking traffic. It came down with everything it had. The sky is angry.
“Heyyyy SAM!! What’s up??” The same face sticks out of formation of clammy heads, waving in and out of position anxiously. Finally realizing who it was, Sam yells back in excitement waving frantically, “Heyyy Andyyyy!!” She gestured him to join them up front in the line. The man she was with looked at Andy and smiled. Andy launched right out of place with his arms over his head, resisting the rain, slowly running up front and avoiding the damped sidewalk as he evades from slipping.
“Hey what’s going on you guys?”
“Just trying to hurry up and get inside! The rain is killing us! Who are you here with?”
“No one I’m here by myself.”
“Hey let me introduce you to my dad. Dad this is Andy, he’s a good friend of my husband’s.”
“Nice meeting you son.” He smiles as the wrinkles on his cheeks arch and folds.
“Wow sir you look young!”
Looking up towards the roof top scratching his head, Andy senses an omen. Something is about to happen he feels.
“What’s wrong Andy?” Sam asked in an inquiring, but concerned voice as she looks up towards the building.
“Oh nothing, I thought there was something up there.”
The line starts moving. Everyone walked in. The rain slowly stopped. The clouds disappeared and the sun started to show its face. The traffic light turned green and cars kept moving. He leans forward. A loud sound thundered the street like a giant pumpkin smashing on asphalt. Emergency vehicles sounded the street as civilians panicked tumultuously around the street.
Inside the theatre, everyone took little notice to the sirens as they continued cashing in at the cash register, paying for their buttered pop corns and cherry icee.
“Hey, here’s the first siren for the day Sam.” Andy unenthusiastically says.
“What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know, there are millions of sirens here everyday.”
“Ah, the sound of San Francisco.”
I see it a dozen times every day.
There is this guy. And this girl. There is attraction, or at least lust. And they are going to see some trashy adventure flick together because it’s the cleanest excuse to be beside one another in the dark.
They pick a bad movie that’s on the way out because it’s much more likely they’ll get an empty theater.
This is probably their first date, probably the first time he has been able to elude his wife.
I know this, I see the signs. I see them every day.
And I have to sell them a ticket.
Say, “Hi! How are you this evening?” Put on a smile. Say, “That’s Twenty-two fifty, please!” Keep cheerful. Make eye contact. Yes, with both of them, even though I know thier chemical soup is not long for Equalibrium. Hand them a recipt and the tickets. Say –
A man comes up. This new guy interrupts the litany.
“Jack? It IS you Jack!”
“Yeah. Hi John.” He is not happy.
“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your wife’s name…” He looks at her, expectant.
“Oh, uh…This is Beth.” He presents his date. She is wearing a necklace that says “H”. Her name is not Beth.
They say the usual – weather, job, “long time no see”. The woman who is not Beth nudges the man called Jack. Does John see? Does he know? The questions are in her eyes.
John wraps it up – finally, I get to say, “It’s the fourth theater to your right, I hope you enjoy the show. Next please.”
It’s the same every shift. All the time. A ticket window is a window into lives.
I see, I hear, I can figure it out.
At last my shift is over – my life begins.
I have to go, my date is here.
We never go to the movies.
Never felt so lonely
Foreign culture familiar blues
Shady “I love you”s
Heart so unruly
Never felt so lost
Night full of brews
Land so distant no hues
Searching at a cost
Never felt so heartbroken
Honey one morning bastard next
Daily chokes and relentless hex
Every night and morn I beckon
silence hids the blood unspilled
the clothes of time thoughts tend to frey
the sunlight shines
the moonlight wines
as midnight melts into day
and all the while the pain is there
it spilled on me scralet red
its in my head
its cold and dead
i run and plea, flea and swear
and all the while
that crooked smile
is eating out the core in me
A Painted Portrait
I sit upon a mound of grass,
Relax, kick off my shoes
And look up in the open sky
To get a perfect view
I stare upon the mountain side
That bundles up and then collides
The hills in front turned powdered white
Are lost under the snow
The monsterous woods are miles away
Together standing tall
Compared to the rock they stand upon
The millions seem so small
And I still stand in awe
As seasons change
And colors fade
The greens of leaves
Turn orange and grey
From summer nights
To winter days
One thing still remains
A portrait painted in the sky
For every day that has arrived
The wind does its worst,
The cherry trees bend and break.
They are still with me.
Never, but always,
Give, take, black, white, good and bad,
Why are they confused?
Rest this fellow’s sword
Wipe it clean of red and rust
Honor him his bed
Let this soldier lay
He has earned his breath a break
Set him free for good
Black and Blue
Moon, you sadistic story teller.
You come each night, shower it upon my frown, your only color.
Why come each night with such displeasure?
Let me sheath in dark and death, leave me be you midnight dweller.
The gloves on my wall, you look so dethroned, so out of breath, so unprofound,
You’ve been given legs, given wrathful soul, lead a body to its concluding hour
Loathe the drying blood and bullet sweats, the lapse of every round,
Tired, weak, very visible, I see it from high above, see it from this very tower.
Forget the blinding lights, the hurt and bruise, tonight and every night I’ll be your binding light, I’ll be the black and blue.
Ambient eyes these are, I’ll light, appease and see you drown.
Be shamed and hopeless, be consumed in black and blue.
Ignoble and be conquered, like royalty with a broken crown.
You’ve been humbled, destroyed and nearly floored.
Color of defeat, you’re the color of black and blue.
Stay there quietly suit your grave, you’re forever shunned and peaced.
To let a stumble, trip or fall,
Slow you down, not at all,
But still, for a moment Cry,
And let the moment pass you by.
To ask for Help, in doing plays,
In making fun, and filling Days,
With Imagination, clear
Of clouded dreams, and worthless fear.
To know that Laughter is a need,
As strong as all who do not Heed,
Its call to free the Darkened mind,
And have only Power to deride.
To hold a Hand, and shuffle Feet,
Shyly, to each one you meet,
And tell in every single face,
Which one is touched by Happy Grace.
To Comfort, without knowing so,
The one whose life has come so low,
And with them, in simple rhyme
Say, twas only Right to pass the Time.
To see that akward sober side,
That Truth from which you cannot Hide,
Innocence, tis true, is not,
The Fate of the faithless lot.
To Lean on a window sill,
Having always Time to kill,
And Think, in rosy prose,
All the facts that no one Knows,
To Watch the corn, and other Green,
and wonder, Why does it seem
to get bigger every day,
When I am always Small this way?
To be Content to reach above,
Your head, for those you love,
Yet always Hoping, however slow,
Whom you Love, will help you grow.
Gloves on Corner Closet Door
Here’s the story of a fallen foe
And about the endurance he forever stole
Gone it brings to back, fighting lull
I was the villain, he was the hero.
He feeds a family on checks and fed up lung(s).
Nines and Tens and never zero
On score board cards I feed off punches swung
Knocked to black, coursed and painted broken blue
Shaken violent quickly diminish
Stand there quiet all too new
Convulsion be his finish,
Head to toe standing stead
Dressed in bruise and raining red
Won the fight but lost the game
Shattered fist and shattered souls
Subdue my heart, perennial blame
And this is how the feeling goes?.
He bleed the floor, I bleed the mind
Disheartened and destroyed
For rage I pay the fine
Courage destroyed in toto polaroid
My eyes no fight I feel the heart in darkened two toned color
Rest my glove, it cries on corner closet door