Airported to Knowhere by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

So, there I was, standing in the check-in line at CLT (Charlotte-Douglas International Airport) on a warm, bright, sunny September morning in 2010. I was going to see my fiancée at the time, Monique (Agent 32), in the Philippines. The airport mood seemed to be one of a yawn time ago. Have I used that expression recently?

There was an older gentleman behind me. He was a white guy with white, large-frame, oval glasses, maybe 70 years old, sporting a white tank top with some Florida beach logo on it. He was wearing white tennis shorts with white socks and white tennis shoes. I guess his favorite attire color is white.

I had a large piece of no-longer-rolling (the wheels had become immoveable feet) luggage behind me. Both of my hands were carrying items: a laptop, duffel bag, airline tickets, et and cetera. Et and cetera. I wonder if anyone will find that mildly amusing.

As the line would move up a few feet, I would have to turn and drag the red canvas-covered, three-foot luggage cube, while trying not to lose control of the other items. The older Floridian behind me – who had no luggage – noticed me struggling with this at times.

“Hey, why don’t you just let me inch your luggage forward?” he very politely suggested.

“Sure,” I consented. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“No problem. Glad to assist.”

He then began to slide the monstrous piece of luggage for me as the line advanced by pushing it with his bony knees and shoe toes. This continued for about twelve minutes in silence until we were next to be called at the ticket counter.

A white, blonde-haired, mid-30s-appearing, female airline employee looked at the front of the line. “Next,” she firmly announced.

I walked up to the counter with my ticket and passport in my right hand. She grabbed the items and scanned them. Next, a boarding pass was perfunctorily printed.

“Any luggage to check, sir?”

“Yes, two pieces.”

I then turned to get my colossal baggage from the older guy. But, I didn’t see him … anywhere. And, I didn’t see my extra-large piece of cube luggage, either. A wave of panic rushed through me. Oh, krap! [sic] The old fokker [sic] flew off with it! He scammed me. How naïve am I? I broke rule no. 1 of airports: Never lose sight of your luggage. Now I’ll have to buy Monique a new gift and set of clothes. Darn! This effing [sic] sucks rotting moose eggs. Moose eggs?

I ran towards the nearest concourse gate. I made a left turn to see what appeared to be the front door of an old American east-coast railway station. I opened the door, and it was like it was the 1890s inside. What the fock! [sic] Am I in the Twilight Zone? Am I dreaming all of this? If so, wake up!

There were about a dozen people inside going about their business in dress of that time period, but no one paid me any attention. It was like they couldn’t see me – like I was a ghost. I feel like I’ve fallen into one of my surreal short stories … and I can’t get out.

I retreated back towards the airport’s main concourse in a state of shock. I rounded the corner and I was suddenly back in the 21st century once again. It was the same September day in 2010, just two and a half minutes later. What the hell was that back there? Is a portion of that corner a wormhole? Or, have I lost my mind? Did someone put something in my coffee at Starbucks this morning? Or, did I? No, I’m out of those ‘granules de grandeur’ now. Maybe a flashback? If so, I hope there are no more. Well, not for a while. I don’t want to flip out on that long trans-Pacific flight.

I kept searching the airport, concourse by concourse (and stayed in the present time). Then I saw him, Mr. Florida, in an eating area in Concourse E. My red piece of Titanic-size luggage appeared to be beside him. That lousy scoundrel. What a worthless thief! He must be a pro at this. A veteran airport pilferer.

I rushed up to him. “Why did you leave with my luggage?! Are you some kind of professional airport thief?”

“Gosh, no, sir. Most certainly not. I am going to get it checked for you, so that you don’t have to pay the overage fees.” Overage fees?

“What do you mean that you are going to get it checked for me? You can’t get my luggage checked for me. You don’t even know my name. And besides, you can’t get luggage checked in this area of the airport. How in the world did you get this through the security checkpoint?”

He didn’t immediately reply. Mr. Florida just smiled demurely and softly chuckled for about ten seconds. Then he tilted his head and spoke. “Relax. You are in a lucid dream phase, mi amigo. [‘my friend’ in Spanish] Just go with it. Ride it out.”

And with that remark he seemed to vanish into the simulated wood grain on the table top. Even though I now knew that I was dreaming, I felt the need to try to make the flight. I’m going to play this dream out. Going to get my money’s worth. Let’s see where this dream leads … or crashes.

I wandered out of the food court, looking for a flight departure screen. Then I found one. However, as I tried to focus on my flight number, the digits would change before I could read the gate number. It was maddening. I remember thinking in the dream: Should I just wake up and terminate this now-very-annoying dream? 

Ah, but I decided to play along with this Kafka-esque scenario. I finally found my way to the proper gate. I had all of my luggage and belongings with me. I was going to make this dream-flight after all. I was going to see my asawa [wife in Cebuano] -to-be. But, first I had to use the bathroom.

After a short walk down a concourse, I entered a door-less men’s restroom. I came up to what appeared to be an unoccupied toilet stall. I pulled gingerly on the old brass door handle. I then realized that I had used a line from another short story, from the one that was lying on top of the commode’s tank. This dream is getting too weird, even for me. It is inside-outing my mind – crenulating [sic] my cerebrum and crumpling my cortices.  

I re-emerged from the restroom. An older Filipina with piercing beady eyes immediately waggled her finger at me and began to scold me.

“I saw you in the bathroom with the pinay!” [a female from the Philippines]  She was emphatic. Emphatically coo-coo. The poor old bird has lost her marbles.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

She didn’t reply. She turned her head down. Then, after about five seconds, she quietly walked away, like she had been shamed. She must have gone mad somewhere back there. She must have fallen out of the nest and bumped her noggin pretty bad.

Suddenly, there was an announcement blasting down from the overhead public-address speakers: “Your attention, please. Northwest flight 71 has been cancelled. Please consider taking a train.” Taking a train? What the hell? A train from North America to Asia? This dream is hopeless. I might as well wake up now. It’s probably about time to get ready for work anyway.

Then Monique bumped my left leg and I awoke. Still startled by the bizarre dream, I checked my surroundings. Ok, I’m in my bed next to my wife in our east Charlotte bedroom. All is ok. What a crazy dream that was. I’ll have to tell Monique about it when she wakes up.

I sluggishly pushed myself out of bed and got dressed for work. I went to the bathroom to shave. Then I returned to the bedroom and gently woke up Monique.

“Well, I’m off to work, honey.”

“Will you be taking the car or riding the bike?” she asked, still rubbing her eyes.

“The bike. It’s 61 degrees [Fahrenheit; 16º Celsius] and dry outside. It should be a decent ride into work.”

“Are you sure that you don’t want to take the car?”

“No, I’ll leave it here with you. I need the calorie burn. And, riding the bike clears my head. Driving to work is no joy – just motorized vehicle mayhem.”

“Ok, do as you like, Mr. Tour de Pants.” What?

“Tour de Pants? That’s a good pun for this early in the morning, mahal. [love in Tagalog] Very impressive. My Agent 32 is already in her creative mode.”

“Are you sure that you don’t want to take the train?” Train?

“What train?”

“Oh, that’s right; there is no train yet to where we live. It must have been a dream.”

“Did your dream feature an old white guy in white shorts, wearing a white tank-top shirt?”

“No, but it did feature an old pinoy [a man from the Philippines] behind me on that flight from Manila to San Francisco. It was that guy that we talked about before.”

“Oh, the guy that had notes and signatures from previous adjacent airline passengers from the past three decades.”

“Yes, him. I wrote a little note in his scrapbook and signed it. He had like three volumes in the dream.”

“The old pinoy has got enough for a novel now.”

“Yeah, probably so.”

“So, how did your dream end, Monique?”

“With some guy kicking my right leg.”

We both laughed. She sat up in the bed.

“No, it ended with that crazy old bird. You know, remember that old Filipina from the church?”

“How could I ever forget her finger waggling?”

“I know. I wish that I could forget it, but it’s etched into my brain now. Well, anyway, the old pinoy with the scrapbook asks her to leave a note and sign and date it.”

“Ok. Does she oblige?”

“No. She just screams: ‘I saw you on the other plane!’ She was hysterical.”

“Did she pull out the right index finger?”

“Oh, yes; it was in full-waggle mode.”

“What did the older pinoy do?”

He just smiled at her. Then she stepped down and walked back up the aisle. She didn’t appear in the dream again.”

“Not even in the bathroom?” He sure asks the oddest questions.

“No, not even in the bathroom, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] I know that you’re recording this.”

“Yep.”