Yield

by Johnson, Bryan K.

  “No, I’ll be working from my car most of the morning,” Tracy says impatiently into her cell phone. She tries to merge over to pass a green and yellow Metro Transit bus shuddering to a stop in front of her. Her orange signal blooms, but the Porsche’s momentum carries it too close.

  Infuriated with the delay, a silver Jaguar X-Type guns it and swings around her. The tail slips out, hitting a large puddle alongside. A dirty wave splashes onto the red sports car’s windshield.

  “Lovely,” Tracy says, turning her wipers on high. “Damn Seattle rain. I can count on one hand the times I’ve actually had the convertible top down.”

  * * *

  “Tragic,” a sarcastic voice responds 170 miles to the south. Isabel’s fiery tone is sharper than usual this morning. “How do you make it through the day?” Wearing a tight, purple and orange-piped Northwest Airlines uniform, Isabel Gonzalez walks reluctantly through the revolving door at the front of Portland International Airport. She rolls a well-used piece of floral-print luggage behind her. The 34-year-old, pregnant Latina adjusts a bulky cellphone against her ear, dragging her Reeboks along the floor towards a check-in mob she wants no part of today.

  The creases of maternity already wear on Isabel’s slender face. Her light-brown Hispanic skin is etched around chocolate eyes and a pouted mouth used to wearing both the smiles and rebukes of parenting.

  “Is everyone in a cynical mood this morning?” Tracy asks.

  “Just pregnant,” Isabel says wearily. Her eyes run down the awkward bulge jutting out from an otherwise slight frame. The word itself crushes down upon her shoulders.

  “Well, stop already, Izz. A couple more kids, and you could start your own religion.”

  “Tell that to my husband,” Isabel laughs. “I think the fat bastard wants to be the next Buddha. Son of a bitch swore we’d stop at three.”

  “Try pushing him off every now and then,” Tracy says. “He’ll amuse himself in other ways.”

  A feisty smile shoots across the flight attendant’s face.

  Isabel pulls the phone quickly away from her ear, hearing loud honking and voices on the other end. “You okay?”

  * * *

  Rows of angry protesters shout from in front of the Jackson Federal Building in downtown Seattle. Screaming through their megaphones, the varied dissidents raise angry fists and hastily scrawled signs at a line of countering viewpoints. Heated words smash against steadfast minds in vain, neither backing down. Their voices shriek at one another across the sidewalk. Hate rises into an unintelligible roar.

  “Just some unemployed illiterates protesting downtown,” Tracy says.

  “Peace activists?”

  “Something like that.” Tracy slows down to read one of the battered signs. THE END IS HERE. BRING OUR TROOPS HOME ALIVE. “Sounds peaceful, right?”

  * * *

  “Yeah,” Isabel laughs. She switches the scuffed phone to her other hand. Her eyes dart around the airport lobby. Hundreds of people fill the extended ticket area, clutching bags and children with the same concern.

  “Hey, I’m at the airport now,” Isabel groans. She can think of at least a million other places she’d rather be. “I have to check in at my counter.” Agitated bodies barely give way to the pregnant woman making her way toward the Northwest line.

  “Give my son a hug for me,” Tracy says. Her harsh voice softens as she passes the mothering plea to her oldest friend.

  “Always,” Isabel smiles. She easily catches sight of the teen, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the travelers in ticketing. “See you tonight.”

  Isabel leans over the extractable line twenty steps in front of the check-in counter and gives Chris Thomas a lopsided hug. The huge basketball star flinches in surprise. He cranes his head down and smiles when he sees his mom’s best friend standing almost two full feet below.

  Next to him, Darius Jones smiles jealously. He runs a tattooed hand along the two tightly-woven corn rows atop his head, straightening them down to the middle of his neck. He scans the attractive flight attendant suggestively, not dissuaded in the least by her extra baggage.

  “That’s from your mom,” Isabel says.

  “Hey, Izz,” Chris’s unnaturally deep voice rumbles. “Wow, you look…pregnant.” A boyish smile spreads across the 17-year-old’s face. They used to see each other almost every weekend. Even more than that growing up. But that was before his parents decided to lethally inject their marriage and pistol whip his life as collateral damage. He hasn’t seen his surrogate aunt in almost five months now.

  “I feel like a bloated rhino,” she says. “I’m supposed to be on leave, but they called me in anyway.” Sensing Darius’s eyes, Isabel shoots him back an icy look. A scowl purses the edges of her mouth. “You boys staying out of trouble?” Isabel glares at Seattle High’s mischievous power forward. Her voice is as subtle as a machete.

  “You notice she’s looking at me,” Darius elbows Chris. The innocent look in his eyes tries to outshine the aggressive tattoos peeking out from under the cuffs and collar of his shirt. “And how come I’m trouble? I could be a fine, upstanding young man.”

  “Right,” Isabel says, meeting his flirtation with her usual fire. “Bye, guys.” She waves briefly before her curves once again swing behind the dreaded counter.

  “Damn. Wish my mom sent pretty women to hug,” Darius says. He watches the tan Latina saunter away. His teenage hormones slowly drift across the lobby to several other attractive ladies, much too old for him but still worthy of the challenge.

  * * *

  Eager adventurers continue to pour into the airport. Glancing up distractedly at a pregnant Northwest employee moving to the check-in desk, Devin Bane looks at his watch for the hundredth time this morning.

  Two exceptionally tall teenagers just in front of him laugh at some decidedly crude joke. Their sharp echoes startle him momentarily.

  Devin pulls today’s edition of The Oregonian newspaper out of his carry-on. The newspaper crackles crisply as he folds it, tucking the tragedies of the world under a nervous arm. The bold headline atop an Around the World section cuts sharply into the off-white paper’s gritty texture. IRAN TESTS FIRST NUCLEAR BOMB.

  * * *

  Fifteen feet behind him, Debbie Yun and her daughter Terra also wait. Terra pushes a strand of her shoulder-length, jet black hair away from a pale, almost pure-white forehead. The modelesque teenager’s exotic Asian features have baffled more than their share of men. Thinking she’s much more mature than her 18 years, Terra has been pursued by men twice her age. She liked the attention at first, but lately it’s become tiresome and boring.

  Standing in her designer clothing, Terra looks like the dramatic pause on a fashion runway. Her glittering sky-blue eyes scan the lobby’s inhabitants, evaluating. Critiquing.

  “Quit,” Debbie says.

  “What?” her daughter asks. There’s a blank sort of glaze over her eyes.

  “We barely made it in time because of your little makeup marathon this morning, now quit.”

  “This takes a lot of work,” Terra defends as she eyes her compact. “You wouldn’t understand.” The teenager’s valley-girl inflection makes her sound even more hurtful than she’d intended.

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  * * *

  Isabel looks up after logging into the archaic Northwest terminal. She deliberately takes longer to navigate to the check-in screen in silent protest for being called in. Streamlining. What a joke, she thinks. Used to just be a flight attendant, now I’m some peon, check-in clerk. And did they give us a raise for all this new responsibility? Oh, hell no. That would hurt the bottom line and our customers… Right.

  Isabel’s hand flips curtly up to wave an Arab man in a bulky, blue Mariners baseball jersey up to her station.

  Abd Al-Aziiz pushes his driver’s license across the counter. He quickly pulls his hands back before the woman’s fingers come close enough to graze his skin. Abd adjusts the thick black pair of glasses ove
r his ears. He tries to smooth down the patchy, close-cropped beard along the sides of his face before forcing his twitching hands to stop. Abd looks silently back at the woman. He makes himself stand still in preparation for the inspection he knows is coming.

  Isabel’s eyes narrow. They drift from the dark, recessed eye sockets back to his forced smile. Skeletal arms and a delicate neck emerge from the man’s baggy clothing. He looks like a body slowly withering under a fabric guise. She looks down at the identification, rubbing at the edges and picture to check for any signs of alteration.

  The Arab man sighs loudly. His crooked smile soon fades as he watches the warning signs of discrimination seen all too often during his travels.

  “8:35 to Seattle?” Isabel asks. Her hardening voice makes it sound almost accusing.

  “Yes,” Abd answers.

  “Checking any baggage?”

  “No.”

  Unintentionally, Isabel’s hands freeze at the answer. She’s entered the same information mindlessly into her keyboard thousands of times before. But this time her fingers pause, frozen over the function keys. A male service representative next to her turns mid-conversation with another passenger to stare back at the Arab man.

  “Look,” Abd starts, talking slower to lessen his thick Arabic accent. His black eyes dart back and forth between the two Northwest agents. “I’m not staying the night. I’m just going to a ballgame.” He lifts the front of his jersey up above the counter to show the Mariners logo. “Please. I’ve seen that look many times before. People like you always seem to flag people like me.”

  Abd’s eyes shoot like machine-gun fire into both of their doubting faces. He can’t find even a glimmer of understanding in them. “I just want to go see a baseball game. That’s it.” Yellowed teeth emerge from inside his matted beard, forced into another uncomfortable grin. “Alright, Miss?”

  The Arab’s smoldering eyes send a shiver down the back of Isabel’s neck. She looks quickly down to the computer screen for answers, her mind racing. He’s going on my plane…

  Accusations of mistreatment and discrimination flash through her mind. Their threats slowly beat back her own intuition and fears. The safety of her plane, her passengers, and even her unborn child finally take a back seat to the chains of political correctness. Roughly, she stuffs the ticket and receipt into one of the purple Northwest paper folders.

  Isabel forces a smile as she hands the packet to him. “C terminal,” she says in her service representative of the year voice. “Gate 4.” Her eyes tell a very different story. Good luck making it to my plane.

  “Thanks,” Abd says. He tips his head grudgingly to her. An uncomfortable moment ticks by as he waits for the customary return tilt of acknowledgment. The lack of respect pulsing from behind her eyes is infuriating. Ignorant witch. In my country, you’d be beaten within an inch of your life for even looking at me. They both stand for an unyielding moment, just staring at one another. A thin veil of civility is the only thing holding back their slashing words.

  “Run along now,” Chris blurts out from behind them. The teenager takes a step protectively out from the line. “I think she’s done with you.”

  Abd spins. Anger fills his shaking hands. “This doesn’t concern you, bro,” he barks contemptuously at the towering man.

  “What’d he call you?!” Darius asks. He pushes out from behind his friend and immediately moves towards the Arab.

  Chris’s long, muscular arm shoots out to slow his impulsive teammate. His deep brown eyes never leave Abd’s face. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Right?”

  Disgusted by the colored stink of diversity in the air, Abd turns and pushes back through the line of people beside him. He moves quickly, his legs bitter with suppressed rage. The Arab storms past surprised travelers and stops at one of the cracked sinks in the restroom. He splashes the water up to his face, squeezing his smoldering eyes shut.

  * * *

  The noise of humanity steadily grows within the busy airport. Conversation and coincidence reverberate all around the cold structure. Lives echo off of brushed metal and tempered glass, their stories bouncing from the edges of shadow into light.

  Devin’s red hair looks like kindled fire under the stark fluorescent lighting. He breezes through security once he emerges from the snaking line’s mouth. The fireman grabs his keys and money clip out of the gray plastic tub and tucks them back into the silk-lined pockets of his dress slacks. His emerald eyes dart to the right as a muffled argument grows.

  An Arab man in a Mariners jersey is roughly pulled out of line by an armed TSA officer. The Mid-Easterner’s thin upper arm is held tight by a uniformed man wearing light blue plastic gloves. The security officer’s shaved head and thick white arms blend into his button-up shirt, making the large black TSA letters swim on a sea of ice.

  “Get your filthy hands off me!” Abd yells. His accent chokes on the words. He tries to yank his arm out of the agent’s authoritative grip. But the stocky TSA officer just squeezes harder, digging his fingers through the jersey and into the Arab man’s flesh. Another security guard quietly exits an unmarked door beside a large mirror to join them. He ushers the struggling men off to a slightly darker side of the security area.

  “Just step over here, sir,” the bald TSA officer says firmly. His grip tightens to persuade compliance.

  Abd winces in pain as he’s forced forward. His dirty Converse sneakers stumble along the slick tile floor. He glances back, his face reddening in humiliation at the ridicule and criticism staring back from thousands of strange eyes. Their unspoken insults silently scream words of contempt. Suspicion.

  The TSA agents drag Abd to a secondary security station 25 feet to the right of the main line. They stop next to a row of empty chairs lining a powder blue wall. The bald officer walks carefully behind the Arab man while his partner stays just in front. His right hand firmly grips the taser handle at his waist. The bald man forces Abd’s arms up and begins to pat him down.

  “Oh, come on!” Abd whines. An American flag hangs overhead. The faint bristle of activity sends its patriotism pulsing in the still air.

  As Chris Thomas finishes stuffing a black leather wallet and phone back into his baggy Diesel pockets, his brown eyes join the others in security. “Should have just danced for them,” Chris says, shaking his shaved head.

  “Discrimination sucks, huh?” Darius adds. He looks on with a silly grin stretching from pierced ear to pierced ear.

  Chris laughs, unable to stop from watching the manhandled Muslim. A sudden happiness for the day ahead flashes into his eyes. Mostly he’s just grateful it’s not him getting felt up by white men with too much time and pent-up frustration on their hands.

  “Move it, D,” Chris says. He pushes Darius out of the security area even though his friend is still trying to put on his left shoe.

  “Shit!” Darius blurts as he hops. He jumps forward with his foot cocked awkwardly up in one hand, cursing while he tries to keep his balance.

  Stacked television sets fronting the gift shop beside them show images of the President inside a small classroom. Diverse kindergarteners recite the Pledge of Allegiance with him. Their words bounce around the airport, echoing past the deaf ears of hectic travelers.

  “…One nation, under God…”

  “This is ridiculous!” Abd barks. He purposefully shouts loud enough for everyone in the security area to hear. “Do we have to do this every time?”

  “Every single time,” the bald TSA officer whispers intensely into Abd’s ear. He leans back, staring into the Arab’s eyes. The officer’s hands tremble, trying to quiet the violent impulses begging to teach this belligerent towelhead some manners. “Now, take off your shoes and hold your arms out to the side!”

  “…indivisible…”

  Devin looks on as a third officer closes in to join the fray. The security officers grab and pull at the Arab man’s clothes, patting him down loudly. Devin winces from the thumping sounds of each blow. Th
e fireman tips his head to a forty-something woman standing just on the other side of the x-ray machine’s belt. “Is all that really necessary?”

  “Policy, sir,” she says without emotion. The woman barely even glances at him. “Just a random check. Please collect your belongings.”

  Enduring a steady stream of insults, the bald officer starts to wand down the Muslim. The device screeches out no warnings, yet he continues to go over the Arab again and again. The officers almost sigh in disappointment when he powers the wand off.

  “What’s your name? I want to file a complaint,” Abd yells. “This is ridiculous. You hear me? You and all your redneck, racist friends can burn in hell.”

  “With liberty and justice for all…”

  Chapter 7

  8:15 a.m.

  A monotonous loop of misfortune flashes on the TV screen. Averting his eyes, Devin sits down at one of the round wooden tables toward the rear of the PDX cafe. He carefully takes the plastic lid off his steaming cup of coffee, pouring in two Irish creamers. If only they were the real thing…

  His hands twitch.

  Devin glances at the two lanky teenagers from the check-in area eating breakfast several tables away. Dressed in light blue, white, and red letterman jackets, the two young men don’t seem to mind that their conversation is loud enough for everyone in the cafe to enjoy.

  Darius throws a playful jab into Chris’s shoulder as his teammate tries to type on his laptop. The 15-inch computer keyboard looks like a toy in Chris’s massive hands.

  “Come on, D,” Chris says, shooting Darius a frosty glare. “I gotta get this done!”

  “Not my fault you left it ‘til now,” Darius counters. “Got mine done yesterday before the game.” He watches his lifelong friend’s agitation with growing amusement. The more Chris tries to concentrate, the deeper the scowl cutting across his face becomes. Veins rise along his temples. The tick-tick-tick of his writing seems to come in fevered bursts, like trying to chase an inspired mirage.