Barely out of pajamas, eyes
still puffy from lack of sleep, second day hair, cosmetics hurriedly applied. Long
lines at check in counters. Longer lines at security. Like cattle prodded through chutes, we advance
forward, but in silence, smiles buried under stress of hurry up in a long line
of wait. Finally, my turn with the security agent. Produce ID again, shoes off, jacket off, 3
oz liquids exposed in quart-size zip lock, laptop rides alone outside its
protective sleeve. Did I remember everything?
The beeper sounds. No! Cell phone in my pocket. Blast! Back to the
conveyor belt. Deposit phone into tub—not the one with the laptop. Laptop rides
alone, remember. Choose another tub. I
have four. I pick the tub with the
shoes. Back to security booth. Place feet to match painted prints on floor,
arms over my head, hold my breath, not unlike being at the doctor’s office for
my annual pap and mammogram. (Does the x-ray show my red face)? Step through
the booth. No beep. Repack; computer in its sleeve, phone in pocket, reload
shoulder bag, slip on shoes, grab jacket, grab pillow, stack tubs. It’s a race.
While not actually run over by the fellow who follows, he who hesitates hazards
deep sighs and furrowed brows for holding up the dance. Find my gate. Relax. Look
at the schedule. Two hours to departure.
Hurry up and wait.
The departure gate changes twice, but I’m not informed.
The first time, I over hear the attendant telling another passenger. The second time, a half hour before
departure, I sit alone at the gate B93. Something is wrong. I check the Departure board. The gate has been
changed to B52. Heart pounding in my temples, I sprint, twenty five pounds on
one shoulder, ten pounds on the other, a death grip on my pillow. With ten minutes to spare, I’m second to the
last passenger to board. I find my seat.
We don’t leave for another fifteen minutes.
Hurry up and wait.
