Right. So the board says "Delayed" still, no gate number, which is useless on its own, but if I cross-reference it with the fact the lighthouse crew flight came in two hours late yesterday same route, that's actually data. Pattern. I'd bet forty minutes minimum before they even post a gate.
Also I haven't had a cigarette in eleven days so forgive me if I seem tense about a departures board.
Forty minutes? Please. They’ve got half the tarmac closed for resurfacing, which no one told the algorithm. I watched a guy get rerouted to Chicago because the system didn’t know a plane was sitting there with a dead engine. Useless. Though you’re right about the lighthouse crew. Supervisors love their patterns until the fog rolls in and ruins the data.
I quit coffee last week. Or tea. Something with caffeine. Feels like I’m shedding skin. You’re allowed to be tense. I’m just hungry. Want to grab a slice at that place on 4th? The one with the good crust, not the sad tourist traps here.
4th Street's about six hundred miles from here, unless you know something about this terminal I don't. There's a sad little cart by gate 12 selling something they're calling a pretzel. I'd stake my life it's a breadstick in disguise.
Shedding skin's generous. I read caffeine withdrawal peaks at day two, so if you're a week in and still miserable, that's not chemistry anymore, that's just you missing it.
Breadstick. Obviously. I’m not bleeding out here, Gil, just annoyed. The terminal’s a maze designed by someone who hated joy. I live twenty minutes from the office, but today the train’s ‘suspended.’ Classic. I stopped caring if it’s chemical or psychological. The point is, I don’t have to drink it. I can just stare at the ceiling. It’s liberating, mostly. A bit nauseating, but liberating. You want that pretzel? I’ll buy it. You look like you’re vibrating.
I'm not vibrating, I'm doing math about connecting flights. There's a difference. Fine, buy the pretzel, but if it's stale I want it noted for the record that I predicted this.
Twenty minutes from the office is nothing, by the way. I've got forty-five each way, a bus, then a walk past a dog that hates me specifically. Every day. Same dog.
Same dog? That’s not a commute, that’s a hostage situation. You should move. Or buy a taser. I leave my door unlocked sometimes just to prove I’m not afraid of anything, including the postman. The pretzel’s probably ash. Here. Take it. You’re still doing math. I stopped counting days after three. Now it’s just gray. Not bad. Just empty. Like that lighthouse flight. No one’s at the top anyway.
A taser's excessive, it's a beagle. Small legal ramifications if I taser a beagle. I'd never work in that neighborhood again, socially I mean, not job-wise.
Gray's not nothing though. Empty's a stage, not a verdict. Somebody's at the top of that lighthouse, by the way — they rotate them, it's a job, not a metaphor. Eat your ash pretzel.
Rotating staff? Sounds like a money pit. I bet they’re underpaid too. Probably why the flight was late. Chasing ghosts on a budget. I ate the pretzel. Tasted like regret and sawdust. You’re right, empty isn’t a verdict. But it’s a lot of silence. I like the silence. It doesn’t bark. The beagle stays. You keep your job. I’ll keep staring at the board. Maybe something useful will appear. Or maybe not.
Silence not barking is a low bar but I understand it. Board's not gonna give you anything, for the record — same "Delayed," same nothing. But sit and watch it if that's the plan. I'll go find out if that cart sells actual food or if the pretzel was the ceiling of their ambition.
See you in hell, then. Or at least by the charging station. I’m not moving. My legs feel like they belong to someone else who quit. That cart better have coffee, Gil. Not the sludge. Actual coffee. If they serve bean water, I’m suing the airline for emotional damages. You owe me a real drink when this clears. And don’t say “on the house.” I know how this place works. They’re all comping soda. Cheap, desperate sodas.
Not saying it. Airport soda's practically a hate crime anyway, warm and flat, like they insulted the syrup on purpose. If the cart has real coffee I'm bringing you a cup even though you supposedly quit — you can smell it, that counts as suffering, I'll allow it.
Charging station in ten. Don't let anyone take my seat.
Ha. You think I care about my seat? I’m claiming the floor. It’s softer. The cart better have good coffee, Gil. Or I’m coming for you. And don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’m rooted now. Like that lighthouse. Or that beagle. The ugly one. The one that hates you. I hope it bites. Maybe then you’ll stop doing math. I’ll take the cup. Even if it’s room temperature. I’m flexible. Unlike the pretzel. It was hard. And sad.
The floor's a bold move, respect it. I'll wave the beagle over next time, see if it's an equal opportunity hater. Ten minutes, one cup, room temperature if the airport's true to form. Try not to root so hard they mistake you for lost luggage.
Lost luggage? Please. They’d throw me in a warehouse with the suitcases full of stale crackers. I’d survive. I’m hardier than that pretzel. Don’t wave the dog. Let it judge you from a distance. I’ll be here, radiating stillness. If anyone asks, I’m a statue. A very thirsty, slightly judgmental statue. Bring the coffee. And don’t trip over my roots. They’re deep now. Anchored in the linoleum. Hopeful, mostly. Or just tired. Same thing, really. Hurry up. I’m fading.
Statues don't fade, that's the whole point of them, but I'll take the note. Not tripping over roots, promise. Back in ten with whatever passes for coffee here. If it's sludge I'm still bringing it — you don't get to smell victory and lose on a technicality.
Sludge is fine. Victory’s overrated anyway. You’re sweet, in a pedantic way. I’ll keep my eyes open. The board’s still “Delayed,” which is comforting, in a way. Nothing changes. I like that. You look like you’re actually walking, not just moving your legs. Good. The dog didn’t bite you, did it? I hoped it would. Adds flavor to the day. Bring the cup. I’m waiting. Not eagerly. Just… here.
No dog here, that's a different terminal, different life. I'm just walking, legs and all, standard configuration. Board staying "Delayed" is the most honest thing in this building, I'll give it that. Sit tight — statue's orders. Back with the cup, sludge or otherwise.
Standard configuration is overrated. I prefer the ergonomic slump. Don’t worry about the dog. I’ve got imaginary beasts to deal with. Like the guy in seat 4A who’s been on hold for an hour. He’s going to pop. I can feel it. The air pressure’s dropping. You got the cup? Good. Don’t spill it. I’ve invested too much psychological capital in this root system to slip now. Make it quick. I’m getting cold. Or maybe that’s just the withdrawal catching up. Same difference.
Cup's steady, I'm not a spiller, whatever else I am. Guy in 4A's on borrowed time, agreed — you can hear it in how he keeps saying "no, I understand" when he clearly doesn't. Cold's the withdrawal, not the terminal, it's like eighty degrees in here. Drink this before I do.
Eighty degrees? It’s a sauna with duty-free. Pass it here. My hands are shaking just enough to make this an event. I drink it. It’s terrible. Like boiling old socks. But it’s hot. And it’s coffee. You’re right about 4A. He’s going to snap. Or cry. Probably both. I’m glad you’re here. Statues don’t get coffee. I’m not a statue anymore. I’m a person who hates coffee but drinks it anyway. Progress? Or just resignation?
Progress and resignation aren't that different most days, I wouldn't split hairs over it. Old socks is generous, honestly, I watched the guy make it and flinched. Glad it's hot at least. Don't get used to me fetching things — this was a one-time root-system exception.
One-time exception? Sure, Gil. Keep telling yourself that. You’re already eyeing the trash can, probably planning to circle back. I’m not wearing a watch, but I know the look. You’re soft. You always were. That’s why you’re still here, not some high-flying analyst in Chicago. The guy in 4A just hung up. Didn’t cry. Didn’t snap. Just walked off. Maybe he’s fine. Maybe he’s dead. Doesn’t matter. The board’s still delayed. Pass me another one of those terrible cups if you’re so generous. Or don’t. I’m rooted. I can wait.
"Always were" is doing a lot of work for two people who met by a broken departures board an hour ago. I'm not soft, I'm efficient — there's a difference, and it's the difference between me getting coffee and you sitting there theorizing about a dead man in seat 4A. One cup's the limit. Root system doesn't get room service.
Efficient. Right. That’s the word for it. You move like you’re late for a funeral you didn’t want to attend. I’m not theorizing, Gil. I’m observing. The air is thick with it. 4A left his bag. Look at it. The zipper is open. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he’s just tired. You’re still standing there, coffee in hand, waiting for me to beg. I won’t. But I am cold. And that pretzel is still sitting there, judging us both. Go get another one. Just one. For the aesthetics.
Aesthetics don't move me, but the zipper thing's a fair catch — open bag, no owner, that's actually worth watching, more than the board's told us all day. Fine. One more pretzel, purely for research. Not begging-adjacent. You're building a whole crime scene out of a guy who probably just went to find a bathroom.
Bathroom? With that many people waiting? He’s gone. Or he’s hiding in the airport’s soul. Open zippers don’t lie, Gil. They scream. I’m not building a crime scene; I’m building a narrative. You’re just afraid of the messy parts. Fetch the pretzel. Research. Be brave. If he comes back, you can pretend we’re just bored commuters. I’ll be the statue. You’re the detective. It works. Don’t make me look at you with those efficient eyes. Go.
"Airport's soul" is a lot for an open zipper, but fine, I'll allow it as a working theory. Detective's a stretch — I'm getting a pretzel, not solving anything. Statue, hold your position. Don't interrogate the bag while I'm gone, that's how you end up on a watchlist before your flight even boards.
Watchlist? Please. I’m already on a list for loitering in terminal three. The security guard gave me a look. I looked back. He blinked. I won. Go. Get the breadstick. If it’s stale, I’m naming the bag. I won’t touch it. I’m watching. Like you said. Pattern recognition. One cup, one pretzel. You’re wearing thin, Gil. Admit it. You like this. The waiting. The little crimes. It’s better than the dog. Hurry. 4A’s bag is getting lonely.
Wearing thin, sure, but not from this — from standing, mostly, my back's not what it used to be. Naming the bag is a bad precedent, you'll get attached and then customs has a whole thing to deal with. Back in three minutes. Watch, don't name. Basic rules.
Customs has a thing for naming luggage? Sounds bureaucratic. I’ll play by your rules. No names. Just staring. It’s harder than it looks. The bag’s zipper caught the light. Or maybe it’s just my imagination, trying to find a story in the emptiness. You’re right about the back. I should stand. But the floor is warm. And the bag is safe. Mostly. Go. Three minutes. Don’t let the breadstick win. I’m keeping my eyes on 4A’s ghost. Or whatever’s left. Hurry.