Airport

by Wingo Perseus

  WINGO PERSEUS

  Airport

  Wingo Perseus has traveled extensively in the footsteps of his father, a WWII flyer. His favorite airport is City in London, most dreaded is Frankfurt, and he misses the charm of the old Delta Marine Terminal at LaGuardia. Not the best flyer himself, Wingo now lives and works as a writer outside Boston. Airport is Wingo Perseus' second book.

  First published by GemmaMedia in 2011.

  GemmaMedia

  230 Commercial Street

  Boston, MA 02109 USA

  www.gemmamedia.com

  © 2011 by Wingo Perseus

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles of reviews.

  Printed in the United States of America

  15 14 13 12 11 1 2 3 4 5

  978-1-934848-52-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cover by Night & Day Design

  Inspired by the Irish series of books designed for adult literacy, Gemma Open Door Foundation provides fresh stories, new ideas and essential resources for young people and adults as they embrace the power of reading and the written word.

  Brian Bouldrey

  North American Series Editor

  for Patrick

  CONTENTS

  One Check In

  Two Security

  Three Security Breach

  Four The Bad News

  Five Relocation Blues

  Six The Waiting Game

  Seven Secure the Area

  Eight Time Passes

  Nine Time, and Time Again

  Ten Uniforms

  Eleven Time Stops

  Twelve Ready to Go

  Thirteen Landing

  ONE

  Check In

  The camera was perched on a down jacket. The jacket sat on a backpack. The backpack rested on a battered suitcase. He felt the rush of air as a five-year-old boy whizzed by just inches away, and in its wake, the shaky pile toppled to the floor in a heap. Luis shrugged as he continued to rearrange the money pack on his belt while fishing for his ID.

  Checking in at a machine was easy, but it added a few steps to the task of getting your stuff to the plane's hold.

  still, there was something good about doing it yourself, doing anything yourself, really. When traveling, doing it yourself kept you thinking you might actually be in charge of something. so much of air travel was out of your control: the lines, the constantly changing schedules, and all the people that surround you. You put yourself in the hands of fate, Luis thought, and then you just got through it.

  The little boy's mother rushed to restack the luggage, breathlessly apologizing for the energy of her small charge, but Luis waved her off. “Not a problem.” He turned back to the machine.

  All around him, dozens and dozens of people were starting their adventure. some were seasoned travelers, and some were new to the process.

  “Reservation number? I don't have that. I wrote down the flight number, that's all.”

  “Down at the bottom, see? It asks how many bags you are going to check.”

  “Well of course, the dog counts as luggage.”

  “The nerve. My Annabelle is not luggage.”

  “Lady, it goes under the plane, in with the baggage, doesn't it?”

  “And she is most definitely not an ‘it!' Heavens!”

  “Fifteen bucks? Each? Next thing you know, they'll charge you for sitting on the inside of the dang plane.”

  “This machine is not working. I'm sure I pushed the right buttons. Can I talk to a person?”

  “Checking two bags all the way to Pocatello, then?”

  Luis had been traveling since he didn't know when. As a boy, he flew with his parents to visit family on both coasts a lot. sometimes they went on vacation to foreign cities. They often went with Dad on business to countries as far away as Europe. More often, they accompanied him south of Luis' Texas home: Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, Venezuela, Brazil.

  In those days, he traveled in smarter clothes. He wore creased trousers and a sport jacket, a button down shirt and a tie that his mother fixed around his neck, standing behind him with his head resting against her waist. When the tie was just so, she would bend down to kiss the top of his head and declare the journey “will now commence. Master Luis is ready for flight.”

  Flying was an event in those days, and people dressed up. stewardesses—that's what flight attendants were called—wore little hats, even in the plane, and gloves. If you were very good, or very lucky, or “so handsome, I could eat him,” they pinned junior wings on your lapel. Whoever brought you to the aerodrome—that's what his father called it—waved you off from the ground below the mobile staircase that rolled up to the open door. It was so very different today. You were separated almost immediately by miles of corridors and glass.

  His mother still confessed shock at the way people dressed to travel today, and her biggest complaint was leveled at passengers in shorts and flip-flops with baseball caps that stayed on heads the entire trip. Modern travelers drag all their belongings on to the plane to stuff in the tiny cabinets above their heads. In her day, luggage was whisked away by handlers, and she stepped on to a plane with a tiny purse, a hat pinned to her head, and a small boy's hand in hers. Like a princess, Luis used to think, or at least a movie star.

  “Martha, I am not holding your purse while you take them to the bathroom. Can't she carry it? Makes a guy look like a dork.”

  “Careful of the wheels on that thing, Frances. You're running over your coat.”

  “Better that than his little brother.”

  “Depends.”

  “Now cut that out.”

  “You cut in that line, and security will be on you like ugly on an ape.”

  “April is such a better time. Less hassle. What possessed us to plan this month?”

  “We've been over this a hundred times, Mike.”

  “Well, let's do a hundred and one. Really. Convince me.”

  Another small boy appeared in Luis' peripheral vision. Luis' eye caught the broadly striped shirt, and then he took in the copper hair standing on end. The child could not have been more than four or five years old, and he stared at Luis as though he knew him. Luis wondered, was this little guy lost? He scanned the crowd for a mother or a father, but when he turned back, the boy was gone.

  “Mom, can I have the window? She always gets the window. Can I have the window? Can I, please?”

  “Ask your father.”

  “Look at those clouds. I don't like the look of those clouds.”

  “Would you stop? There is nothing to worry about with those tiny little clouds. It's a gorgeous day!”

  “Well, the clear days are the ones you have to worry about. They are just not safe for flying. Drafts and things. I saw it on TV.”

  “Cart on your right, people. Coming through. Cart on your right.”

  “You'll be just fine, dear.”

  “You're a good husband and a good father, but, Leonard, you do not know the first thing about aeronautics.”

  “Trust me, sweetheart, we will be fine. Statistics show that it is much safer than driving.”

  “Now he's an expert in statistics.”

  “Darling, if it's your time to go, you'll know it.”

  “Just because the pilot's number is up doesn't mean my number is up.”

  “Heavens.”

  TWO

  Security

  A tall, perfumed lady was pleading with the TSA guard.

  “But I took out half of it and poured it down the sink.”

  “I am sorry, ma'am, but the bottle has to be smaller than three ounces.”


  “Do you have any idea how much that cost?”

  “No, the socks can stay on, sir. Just the shoes.”

  “Female check on two. Repeat, female check on two.”

  “Run that bag through again, will you, Minnie? I think there might be a small dog in there. Collar's lighting up the machine.”

  “We've got time for coffee, if we ever get through this line.”

  “Whoa, watch where you're putting those hands, mister.”

  “Standard procedure now, sir. It's a pat down.”

  “You think I got a gun stashed in my pants?”

  “Please remain calm, sir, and we'll have you on your way.”

  “I think my coat is stuck. Can you push it through?”

  “What's with the x-ray? Is it radioactive?”

  “And she said she was going to Zambia. I never heard of Zambia, did you?”

  “Yeah, it's part of Australia. Or New Zealand, I forget which.”

  “No way. That would take forever.”

  A uniformed woman with more padding than patience was sorting a dozen shoes forgotten by a Cub Scout pack in over-full bins. The boys were skating with glee in their stocking feet on the slippery terminal floor.

  “Incoming!”

  “Take that, Dr Evil!”

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh….ouch!”

  The uniformed woman was going to have a hard time rounding them up.

  “Get back here and claim these, fellas!”

  Belt buckles, handfuls of coins, keys-the jangling sounds of people passing through metal detectors filled the air. Wheelchairs and baby carriages were searched separately and sent on. And lines and lines of travelers approached bored security guards like scolded puppies.

  THREE

  Security Breach

  Luis recalled a trip his father made to France. He took Luis when he was just a little boy. Mother was not happy to see them go. Not happy at all. There had been explosions throughout the city of Paris: department stores, a post office, the police station, a bookstore, and then a shocking attempt on the Eiffel Tower. Luis remembered the “bee-baw, bee-baw” of police cars and a puff of smoke outside Tati's. It was so far away and so unreal that the boy thought it another adventure. He did not know about how many people had died until he was much older.

  Standing in line at de Gaulle airport to come home, Luis and his father listened to the intercom. A very calm lady broadcast a message. Everyone was required to leave the terminal quickly but without panic. Guards had found an unattended case in one of the terminals and suspected the worst. Half an hour later, they were back in place, sort of in the same order, although some clever travelers had seized on the chance to move up in the line. It didn't really do them any good. The announcement was repeated, and everybody headed outside again.

  Was it because the threat of attack was a new thing? Or was it because they were in France? There was just no panic. In fact, people were sort of jolly as they milled about the sidewalk outside the terminal. Luis remembered being cold, very cold. Dad chuckled at the smokers leaning against the building. “They aren't too worried, but then, if you consider those French cigarettes, these people have a death wish, don' they? Smell to high heaven. They don' call them ‘galoshes’ for nothing.”

  The drill happened many more times, and they moved in and out of the airport all morning long. After nearly half a dozen trips to the curb, they made their way to the gates and left faster than any boarding planes “in the history of the planet,” Dad declared, “like greased lightning. I swear, if that blasted drill was called once more, the whole place would be shut down for days, baguettes, berets and all.“ Luis’ eyes were big as saucers when the plane finally took off. He was excited by the danger, but didn't believe it had anything to do with him. He knew his father would protect him.

  Then Luis grew up. He got a job, and he began to travel on his own. Photography became his life, and reporting on wars and civil unrest put him in some dicey situations. Dad wasn't around to protect him, but he had learned from this father to look straight at the world rather than glimpse it sideways with fear. So, he supposed Dad was still looking after him, in a way.

  In his work, he had his share of boarding planes with guards, pointing to his bags on the tarmac before being let on board. He had been taken off one plane only to be bused to an identical plane further down the field. The idea was to throw off any chance of trouble. He had often mounted the stairs under the gaze of snipers or accompanied by soldiers with machine guns. Guns and soldiers came with the territory, and he took it in stride. Mostly, he didn't think about it.

  But just now, he remembered being loaded onto his flight after a very drawn-out obstacle course in Turkey. Passengers were asked to take their seats according to their preference: smokers on the left, non-smokers on the right. He laughed that anyone thought that would work.

  Sure, terrible things could happen, but most of the time, they just didn't

  FOUR

  The Bad News

  “For those passengers awaiting this flight, we have been instructed by ground control…”

  A wave of groans filled the waiting area.

  “Not that bad. Just a thirty- minute delay. We can still make our connection.”

  “Storms, do you think? That means it's going to be bumpy?”

  “I'm going to get the kids some juice. You want water?”

  “Sure, get it frozen and throw some booze on it.”

  “Harold, you untie that one more time, and I will make you wear those on your head.”

  “Please, the way to gate to Phoenix, please?”

  “I'm going to try to charge my computer. Do you see any sockets?”

  As the passengers rearranged themselves, Luis spied the boy in the striped shirt ambling toward the window. When the boy got close, he leaned into the glass, opened his little mouth into an “O” and breathed out. A foggy patch appeared on the pane. Very carefully, he began to draw images in the condensation. What were they? Houses? Luis watched as the boy's little finger filled every inch with a neighborhood. Just as carefully, the boy rubbed it away with his sleeve.

  “Oh my God! I'm so sorry!”

  Luis turned to see the result of a collision between the coffee cup of woman in a red suit and the bright white shirt of a man in jeans.

  “Not to worry, little lady. I got another one.”

  “Soda water. Let me fetch you some soda water for that stain.”

  “Just go ahead and settle yourself down, ma'am. It ain't nothing.”

  “But it's hot! Are you burned?”

  “Sugar, it ain't no hotter than a cool breeze. Don't you fret none.”

  And then the clean-up began. Luis turned back to watch the boy again, but found only an empty window, the trail of a little finger still in evidence.

  “You put the tickets in your hat?”

  “Sure, clever, huh? Nobody could steal them, and they are right with the toothbrushes.”

  “Please, to tell me where is Phoenix plane?”

  Rustling caught Luis' attention. A thin, short family struggled with three small children and two older ones, maybe ten or eleven years old, twins. The sorry little group surely had come from far away. With all the cloth bags and plastic bags piled around them like a bunker, they looked exhausted. The baby looked out with sad eyes but didn't cry. Too tired, probably. Luis felt sorry for mom and dad with all those kids. They looked deflated, as if the air were leaked out of a tire. The announcement of further delay was not good news for them.

  Luis looked up to the gate and wondered if they were on his flight. This was his gate. Over to the board, Luis confirmed that there was a delay, and then he checked his watch. Shouldn't be that big a deal. It was still morning, and he had all day to make it. He turned back to the young family, but they had been replaced by a flock of nuns.

  Luis heard somebody say that life, in essence, was all about moving things from one place to another. That was it, the sum total. It used to be that it was stuff that got move
d. Nowadays, it seemed people were the stuff that got moved from one place to another. We are like little pellets, Luis thought, loaded into aircraft, like stones into slingshots, and fired into the sky.

  Nobody went far from the gate during the thirty-minute delay. Since the time was so short, everyone was asked to “stay in the vicinity of the boarding lounge.” An hour and fifteen minutes later, a queue started to form at the desk.

  The podium, of course, was empty.

  FIVE

  Relocation Blues

  “In Kiev, we have no such delay.”

  “I'm hungry, Boris. Do we have time to eat?”

  “Bah, with first class meal on plane?”

  “But the plane's not going anywhere.”

  “Americans have no patience. Come, little bird, to fill your beak.”

  The big-shouldered Russians led their women toward the food court.

  What business brings them here, Luis wondered. How did they get here and how did they hook up with those Midwestern blondes?

  Foreign service, missionary service, immigration, oil, gas, and now cell phones…there are so many reasons people ended up in a country not of their birth. The new global age made boundaries very thin. At least for some. Not everyone had such an easy time of it.

  Some moves are bigger than others. Take that small family. Take any family, including Luis' own, that moved from one part of the world to another. “Relocation” they called it, and Luis had to get used to it early. He remembered with crystal clarity the feeling. Each time his family moved, he had to get used to a new house and find his new school. He was always adjusting to new friends and classmates. With his warm nature and his brave face, he quickly fit in with the other kids. But he never had a best friend, a friend he would keep from one move to another. There was never enough time, and you always had to be ready for the next move.

  With a little smile on his face, Luis recalled his first crush at the ripe age of nine. Mirabelle had coal black hair that fell below her waist. He knew she liked him when she hauled off and punched him in the stomach as he tried to walk her home. It was a pulled punch; she hadn't hurt him much at all. That was the giveaway, and within a week, she relented. Years later, Luis could remember the pillowy softness of her lips when they practiced kissing under her grandmother's rickety stairs. “So we will learn how to get married,” she said, and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was always practical, and she smelled like mango. He missed her terribly when his family moved in the middle of the school year.