Tuesday, October 22, 2002
I spend $3.60 for a coke and a pack of gum at the gift stand in the Minneapolis airport. The coke for the caffeine, the gum to clear the coffee paste from my tongue. I’ve been up since 4 am, hovering uncomfortably on the edge of sleep ever since. The cashier doesn’t acknowledge me. She’s at least 60, blonde and pale like almost everyone here. I wait with my wallet in my hand while she fishes a pack of kleenex from her purse. Her fingers pluck at the corners of one tissue, tugging it away from the pack. She wipes her nose, sniffs, balls the tissue and tosses it out. Then she rings me up. “Thanks”, she says, in that false nasal pleasantness I’ve come to associate with my hometown. I turn away, watch a studly little daddy marshall his wife and kids away from the candy counter. I watch him almost wistfully, force myself to look elsewhere. Exhaustion intensifies my sex drive.
At Gate C4 I’m surrounded by more families. A plain-faced woman with breasts that lay like a broad pillow across her chest examines the food her husband’s brought to her. “The Cinnabun looks good but it’s awfully messy,” she tells him.
“That’s why I brought a fork, dear,” he replies. Their son reaches for the vanilla shake. He’s dressed up in a black button-down shirt and slacks, shiny loafers and a maroon tie. He wears a bright red baseball cap. His father, in a three-piece suit, stands as their rows are called. He pulls on a cowboy hat as his wife struggles to her feet, wiping frosting from the corners of her mouth. I follow from a distance, pull out my driver’s license, hours from my own family.
