The board just says "delayed" still. No gate number, no time, nothing. They haven't even had the decency to invent a fake time to string us along with.
That lawnmower's been going for like twenty minutes. Who's mowing grass at an airport. There's gotta be a maintenance strip out past the fence or something.
Let them mow. At least that guy has a job. I'm stuck here staring at a screen that's basically a digital punchline. My boss is probably already typing me a passive-aggressive email about the missed deadline, completely unaware I'm marooned in a terminal. You know what's funny? The lawnmower sounds exactly like the one my neighbor uses, only he's probably already home drinking a beer. We're literally waiting for a flight that might not even exist yet. I'd trade the mowing noise for silence, but honestly, the hum is better than the screaming toddler in row 12.
The toddler's screaming again? I stopped registering it, honestly, you tune it out after a while like tinnitus. What deadline was it — you mentioned it earlier, I forgot the detail.
Also don't assume the flight exists. That's the actual problem here. Nobody's confirmed a plane, a crew, anything. Just a word on a screen. We could be waiting on a rumor.
It was the Henderson account. Totally mundane stuff, but my manager treats a missed slide deck like a nuclear launch. I'm not even sure if I was supposed to present it or just send the files, which makes this whole "delay" feel like cosmic irony. If the flight never comes, I guess I'll just sit here until they evict us. Or until the lawnmower guy finishes his imaginary strip of grass. You're right, we're waiting on a rumor. Might as well stop checking the board; it's just torturing us with the same three letters.
Nuclear launch over a slide deck, that's rich. My manager's the same — everything's a five-alarm fire until you actually push back once, then suddenly it can wait till Monday. People just want the panic, not the fix.
I'm not stopping checking the board. Somebody's gotta watch it. You go find us coffee, I'll stand sentry over the word "delayed" like it's gonna change if I stare hard enough.
Fine, I'll go. But don't expect the coffee to taste like anything more than burnt water and disappointment. It's probably the same stuff they serve on the plane if we ever get on one. And if the board changes while I'm gone, don't you dare drink it. Actually, go ahead, drink it. Maybe the caffeine will finally make this make sense. I'll be back in twenty minutes, or when I decide the line at the kiosk isn't worth my time.
Twenty minutes for coffee is optimistic, there's a line snaking past that phone charging station last I looked. If the board changes I'll come find you, don't worry. I'm not drinking your burnt water though, get your own disappointment.
Go. Report back on whether the lawnmower guy is visible from over there, I've got a theory he doesn't exist either.
Don't hold your breath. I'm not coming back if that line is still moving. And yeah, I'll keep an eye out for the ghost gardener. If he's not there, then we're definitely hallucinating the whole terminal. Maybe we're just waiting in a void and the "delayed" sign is the only thing keeping us tethered to reality. Don't get too attached to that board, Lena. If it changes to "Cancelled," I'm just going to sit down and laugh.
Don't do the void thing, Frank, it's a terminal not a metaphor. Go get the coffee.
If it says cancelled I'm not laughing, I'm finding the nearest desk and making somebody's day worse than mine. That's the actual plan if this goes south. Twenty minutes. Go.
Fine, fine. Drama queen. I'm moving. And if I see the lawnmower guy, I'll ask him why he's mowing an empty sky. Don't start a riot before I get back with the sludge. If you're still here when I return, that means the universe hasn't dissolved yet. Keep an eye on the toddler, he might be the only real thing in this place.
Go, Frank. I'll be exactly here, next to a board that says the same three letters, guarding nothing. Bring extra sugar packets, that stuff's undrinkable straight.
Five packets. Happy? I'll try to grab a cinnamon roll too, just in case the lawnmower guy turns out to be a hallucination and we need to face the void with pastry. Don't let the toddler eat my sugar. I'm gone.
Get two rolls, I'm not watching you eat pastry alone at me. And enough with the void — go before the line eats your whole twenty minutes.
Fine, two rolls. Stop nagging. I'm already walking, and if you keep yelling at me through the air, I might just drop the whole bag. If the line moves, I'm gone before the second roll hits the tray. Don't make me regret bringing you sugar.
I'm not yelling, I'm sitting here talking to a board. Go. I'll be watching the toddler's mother lose her mind in real time, that'll keep me occupied till you're back.
Whatever. Just don't let the toddler's mom pin the blame on me when she snaps. I'm grabbing the cinnamon rolls and running. If the line is still ten people deep, I'm switching to the vending machine behind us. Try not to start a revolution before I get back.
No revolutions, scout's honor. Go, Frank. Vending machine works, honestly, at least you know what you're getting — regret in a wrapper, but consistent regret.
Scout's honor? Who are you, a cub scout now? Just sit tight and let the mother have her meltdown; it's the only entertainment we've got. I'm hitting the vending machine. Consistent regret it is. Don't go anywhere, Lena. The toddler might escape and join the lawnmower crew if you leave your post.
Was in Girl Scouts for like a year, sold approximately zero cookies, quit before the badge ceremony. Go, Frank. I've got the toddler watch covered, he's not going anywhere near a lawnmower on my clock.
One year? That explains the zero cookies. I should have known you couldn't follow orders. Anyway, don't get too cozy with the kid. I'm at the machine now, and the bag of chips is stuck behind the glass. Classic airport physics. I'll kick it if I have to. Just keep your eyes on the toddler and the mother; I'm not coming back with empty hands unless this terminal turns into a black hole.
Kick it low, not high, that's where the spring mechanism usually catches. Learned that the hard way at a bus station once, long story I'm not getting into. Toddler's still contained. Mother looks two seconds from feral. Report on the chip situation when you're done, this is genuinely the most interesting thing happening here.
Noted, kick low. Got it. The mother is definitely about to snap; she's glaring at a flight attendant like she's the only reason the plane isn't leaving. And yeah, the chip bag is stuck. I'm going to give it a solid nudge with my foot. If that fails, I'm just buying the expensive nuts and leaving the chips for the rats. This is the most action I've seen all year.
Rats don't need our help, they've got the whole terminal to themselves after midnight probably. Go with the nuts, chips have failed you. And don't kick too hard, last thing we need is you banned from the vending machine on top of everything else.
Rats are the real winners here, cleanest animals in the place. Fine, nuts it is. I'm not risking a ban on my only source of sugar today. If the machine eats the last dollar, I'm done. I'll be back in two minutes with a bag of whatever nutty disappointment they call currency. Don't let the toddler start a riot before I get back.