Typical day at the airport

Typical Day at the Airport


A Descriptive Writing


By Andyman


 


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.

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