There is a certain frantic edge to the airport.
Everyone is coming or going or just killing time in between.
Waiting at the gate for someone to arrive is kind of relaxing.
Its an odd mix of humanity that are waiting all around me.
I imagine this is how a tropical fish feels in a new tank.
There are your pretty fish, the professional drivers in their suits and ties, waiting for their clients.
And then the pretty civilians, the hot wives and worked out guys, waiting for their loved ones.
And there is the bottom feeders, the clown loaches of the crowd, probably awaiting for the arrival of their drug mule. (A miscreant with a full butt load of meth in little balloons.)
A sprinkling of all those in between.
There is an old man who is a dead ringer for Tony Bennett.
He is either here to pick up Frank Sinatra or an aging Vegas Hooker he was once married to.
There is an even older man in the corner that is so old that he has that permanently shocked and terrified look on his face.
Something for us all to look forward to.
A young mother a stones throw down my row of seats is desperately trying to wrangle 3 completely out of control rug rats.
It only reinforces my belief that everyone elses children besides mine are more than little slow.
Judging by the tension level of this woman, she may castrate the traveling husband the second he makes it out of the corridor from the plane.
And he would deserve it.
Raising two was enough for me and the missus, raising 3 is a yet to be seen episode of Fear Factor.
Personally, I would rather eat 12 reindeer testicles than babysit this ladies kids for a half hour.
Just the thought of it has caused a mild case of nervous swamp ass to break out, and these vinyl airport seats are not helping.
The airport is a surprisingly easy place to sit with a laptop and write rotten shit about those around you.
It uses the same protocol as the men’s room, everyone carefully minds their own and avoids eye contact.
Fine by me.
And if you have never seen a 6 foot 5, 400 pound Samoan limo driver in a “Men in Black suit”, you are seriously missing out.
His sign says Bartelli.
I imagine he is here to pick up some visiting mob boss, in town no doubt to set up the new West Coast mob.
Its like the Godfather 4, staring an unknown, Robert De Pacino. (Work with me.)
Its a tawdry little tale of family and corruption and betrayal.
And then Mrs. Bartelli came thru the doors.
An 80 year old woman who appears to have been pried out of her apartment in the Bronx against her will.
As she walks away with her mountainous driver, crushing my Godfather storyline, I realize something very basic and true.
You can’t have it all, where would you keep it?