I’m at the airport in Boston. It’s totally re-done. It’s wicked fancy. Sort of like, “Sorry none of us screened those 9-11 hijackers, but check out our new skyway!”
I’m waiting to board my flight to L.A., which is late arriving. I’m hanging onto the last klonopin that I can take before I overdose, wondering how much panic my body can hold.
I see a guy. He’s standing up and flailing his arms. He’s trying to convince a group of guys around him that he’s calm. He’s screaming, “I’m totally fucking Zen! Check it out!”
He holds out his arms and this throws him off balance. He falls forward like he’s doing some mental-case version of the Wheelbarrow (sex or dance move, take your pick.) He shakes it off. “SERIOUSLY. I’M FUCKING ZEN, YOU GUYS!”
It was almost like a bad acting class example of someone being told to act “not Zen.” It was like watching a college football player who is sexually repressed and with a sort of drunk girl in the room yelling, “I’M TOTALLY GONNA RESPECT THIS WOMAN’S RIGHTS! I WILL NOT INVADE HER AND THEN CALL HER A SLUT!”
Then this guy once again yelled, “TOTALLY CALM, DUDES.” But dudes, turned into Duu-hiccup-uuudd-hiccup-uuudesss….splash, blech, blah, puke. Puke on the carpet. Puke in the waiting area. A dozen cops surrounding a drunk and puking guy.
He was supposed to be on my flight. He was too rowdy to board. Good job, Logan airport. I couldn’t help but notice when I sat down that the seat next to me was empty. Great. Beefed up security has cost me the opportunity to sit next, meet and clean up the vomit of a potential soul-mate.
I’ve seen romantic comedies. I know how it works. Young girl, has a boyfriend, doesn’t question her relationship, gets on a plane, just wanting to get from Point A to Point B and then….the least likely guy, the guy with chunks from his intestines on his bile-stained shirt, says one witticism, or mentions that he adores the one book that she loves that her boyfriend dismisses and……it’s true love.