Board says gate 14, then it flickered to "see agent," now it's just blank. Third time it's done that in twenty minutes.
And yeah — there was a wasp in a car once, my sister's, she drove into a ditch swatting at it with a sandal. That's what this feels like. Everybody in here pretending to read a book while actually watching that little screen like it owes them money.
You checked in already or are you still floating around baggage drop?
Trapped in seat 4C. Screen’s been black for ten minutes. I gave up on that news anchor’s voice an hour ago. My shoulder hurts from the armrest. You look like you’ve been standing since noon. Move over. Let me see the blank space. Maybe it’ll blink something useful.
It hasn't moved, believe me, I've been staring at it like it's gonna confess something. Sit — there's room, that guy with the golf bag finally gave up and went to find a bar.
Seat 4C, huh, so you're already assigned somewhere, that's more than I've got. I'm on standby for whatever this thing turns into, which apparently means nothing since the gate agent vanished forty minutes ago too. There was a line, then there wasn't a line, then there was a rope with nobody behind it.
Shoulder's from the armrest or from carrying that bag? Looks heavy. What's in it, bricks?
Shoulder’s from fighting for the armrest. Bag’s light. Just clothes. And a headache. You want it? I’m done with it. Take the whole seat. I’ll stand. Or lie on the floor. Whatever. Just stop asking about the bag. It’s empty. Mostly.
Mostly empty, huh. Alright, keep your bag, I don't need your headache too.
I'll take the seat though, my feet are done. Been on them since the 11:20 got cancelled — that's when this whole thing started, some mechanical issue they wouldn't name, then it turned into a "delay," then the delay ate the next three flights like a snake swallowing eggs.
You headed somewhere with a connection, or is this the whole trip? Because if you've got a connection you can kiss it goodbye, there's a guy by the coffee cart who missed his in Denver and he's been recalculating for two hours with a napkin and a pen like that's gonna fix Delta's problem.
I’m done with connections. The whole trip ends here. I’m not going anywhere. That guy in Denver is wrong. Napkins don’t fix airline logistics. They just draw sad little planes. My bag is heavy with regret. Real regret. Not clothes. Give me the seat. My feet hurt.
Regret doesn't weigh anything, that's the thing about regret, it's the one carry-on they never charge you for. What's actually in there — I'm not being nosy, I just don't buy "mostly empty."
And what do you mean the trip ends here, you're at a gate, gates go somewhere, that's the whole design of the building. Unless you booked one-way to the terminal, which, fine, some people do that, my uncle did that once after a divorce, just lived in Concourse B for two days eating pretzels until security walked him out.
Sit. Feet first, mystery bag later.
Fine. My feet are swollen. Stop talking about my uncle. He probably deserved it. The bag has a letter. In it. Unsent. I can’t open it here. The noise is too loud. Or maybe I’m just tired. Sit down. You’re annoying. But your seat is warm.
He wasn't my uncle, he was my ex-wife's uncle, there's a difference, I just got stuck with the story at Thanksgiving for six years.
Warm seat's the best I can offer, sorry, no minibar in this row. An unsent letter — okay, fine, don't open it, I don't need the contents. But you carry a whole letter around and call the bag light? That's not how weight works. Paper's heavier than people think, especially the kind you're scared of.
Anyway forget the letter for a second — did you eat? Because there's a pretzel stand two gates down still open, unlike everything else in this building, and I'm buying if you've got cash for the tip jar.
No cash. Card machine’s dead. Like the gate. Like my patience. Pretzels don’t help. They just stick to your teeth. I haven’t eaten since Tuesday. Or yesterday. Time is a flat circle here. You eat. I’ll watch the blank screen. It’s more honest than the menu.
Tuesday. That's not "time's a flat circle," that's just not eating, those are different problems and only one of them fixes with a pretzel.
I'm not leaving you here to commune with a blank screen while I go stuff my face solo, that's a bad look for both of us. Card machine's dead, fine, I've got eleven bucks cash and a coupon for a free hot dog I got at some ballpark in April that I never used — pretzels are like four so we're covered.
Come with me. Screen'll still be blank in ten minutes, it's not going anywhere, unlike apparently everything else in this airport.
Eleven bucks and a hot dog coupon from April. You’re a national treasure. Fine. I’ll come. But if the pretzel stand charges me for breathing, I’m blaming you. And leave the letter. It’s heavy enough. Lead the way. Try not to step on anyone’s toes. Or sandals.
National treasure, sure, that's what my last performance review said too, right before they moved me to the basement with the printer nobody uses.
Deal — you don't touch the letter, I don't ask about it again till you bring it up. Pretzel stand's this way, past the guy still recalculating on his napkin, God bless him, he's on his third sad little plane drawing now.
Leave the bag under the seat, nobody's stealing regret, there's no resale market for it.
Bag stays. You’re impossible. Fine. Let’s go. Watch out for that napkin guy. He looks like he’s drawing the end of the world. If we don’t get pretzels, I’m suing the airport. For emotional distress. And hunger. Mostly hunger. Let’s move. Before they charge us for standing here.
Emotional distress and hunger, that's a hell of a joint filing, you'd need two lawyers and I don't think either of them takes airport cases.
Alright, up — mind the guy's coffee, he's balancing it on his knee like it's a science experiment. If the pretzel stand's closed too I'm rioting, I mean it, I'll flip a kiosk.
Coffee’s spilling. Watch it. The guy’s muttering about fuel mixtures. He looks mad. Good. We need mad. Mad gets you pretzels. My legs feel like jelly. You’re dragging me. Fine. Drag me. But if I drop, you’re carrying the letter. And me.