Fooled

Yeah, and so I had to go to the airport to pick up this friend of mine yesterday.

I went down to the airport, and I was walking to the baggage claim, but in a sort of wandering way, because I had a long wait and I had a book, but felt like walking instead of reading.

And so, while I was wondering along, a guy—young guy, blond—went running by me with a bouquet of flowers.

And I thought, "Okay, so he's running down to the baggage claim—because you can't run to the gate anymore, right?—because he's going to meet a girl, and he's in love with the girl, and he's meeting the girl, and he's, possibly, surprising the girl, too. Sure, that's what's happening with the guy. It happens all the time, in movies and on TV. That guy is sort of a stereotype.

"Airports are full of stereotypes," I thought.

I had to wait a long, long time to pick up my friend. I mean a long, long time. So long that if you were reading this instead of were listening to me talk, like you are now, I'd write long with extra o's. That long.

I saw that guy, again. I saw him run up to a girl, and they kissed, and they walked off together. It was nice, and I thought that sometimes a familiar narrative is okay. Sometimes a familiar story like that doesn't make me cynically say, "Man, what a cliché! Those two people in love are a total cliché!" Sometimes, I'm okay.

I was there, I said earlier, a long, long time. I mean, like, six o's long.

I saw the guy again. I saw the guy run up and hug the same girl. They hugged and they walked off together.

Thing is, they'd changed clothes. But it was the same couple. Again. They had different colored hair. The girl now had glasses. The guy was wearing a ball cap. He had a darker complexion.

But they were the same couple.

Want to know how I know? Same flowers.

He had the same flowers. I was dead certain of it.

I saw that couple more times. Each time, they were in new clothes, new hair, changed skin tone. After the second time I saw them, he even had different flowers. And once, she had them, and seemed to be the one waiting for him to get off the plane.

But, they were the same.

I was confused. I really was. For quite some time—and I waited a long, long time—I wasn't sure what was going on.

I went outside. It was raining at the airport, but it was just a light rain. You could just barely feel it. It didn't so much drop as it settled everywhere. I went outside to let the rain settle on me. I didn't feel like reading, or watching for the couple. I just wanted to be out, letting the rain settle on me—on my hat, on my sweatshirt, on my glasses. I walked to a sort of lonely place.

They were out there, too. The couple were there, sharing a cigarette. She was on a cell phone. He was keeping the cigarette dry, using his hand as an umbrella.

She was talking to a boyfriend. That's what I gathered, anyway.

I walked over to them, and he looked at me.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "You've seen us a bunch of times, haven't you?"

I nodded.

"I can't tell you, you know."

I nodded.

"But, watch the people," he said. They finished the cigarette. She told the person on the phone she loved him. They went inside. On the way in, she flashed an employee badge at me and smiled.

I went back to the row of black, leatherette bench seats in front of the baggage claim my friend would be using when he got off his plane.

I watched.

People got off the planes, and they went to get bags. They all looked tired and mad. Some of them had lost luggage. Some of them had had layovers. Some of them sat next to rude, elbowy people. They all looked frustrated.

And then, he came running up to her. He gave her the flowers. They hugged, and it was awkward. They kissed. They held hands, grabbed her duffle bag, and left.

And the people watched them.

And they looked a little better.

My friend arrived and his bag was the last one off the plane. As we waited, I told he to look straight ahead, and only straight ahead, and only at the baggage carousel, and never at anything else.

I bet this is happening everywhere. I won't blog until I know.