She wears a dark denim blazer with purple haze 'tatted stitches of vines along the collar, expensive black leather boots, and jeans that look like it survived a heavy night of puking, car dragging, and sexual assault.
She sits across from me, having a lonely mutt of a blue carry-on piece of luggage at her side. On top of the luggage is a silver pillow, a soft cooler or a polyethylene foam lunch box issued from Fed-ex. There’s a big orange sticker on the front that states: Human Bone Marrow.
Just like me she’s delayed, stuck to sit in the plastic bucket seats of airline comfort while CNN plays the role of Big Brother over everyone’s heads. There’s not much to do when you’re in limbo, but eat, look at picture books of magazine ads, download porn in the bathroom, or call someone you haven’t spoken to in years.
I do none of the above and just stare, quietly rhyme with the Madvillian album that filters into my ears through my iPod. She on the other hand digs inside her khaki canvas knapsack searching for her cell phone. When she finds it, she cracks it open and begins text messaging. Obviously, I can’t see what she’s typing so I come to my own conclusion. This is what it says:
Dad don’t RIP
help on the way :)
flight delay stupid storm :(
See you soon XOXO.
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I’m constantly waiting, in-line, standing among the elite business class who are old before their time, fused with life support devices that they don’t really need to survive. Blue tooth hearing aids, heart monitored PDA Smartphones connected to belt loops, and sealed briefcases filled with donated organs of time sensitive paperwork for a slow depleting corporation that needs a new Board of Director heart transplant. This is my new project called Delayed Flight.
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