Bloody airport lounge. Hate the sight of them. Hate the smell too, especially this time of year. With the snow came the inevitable delays so everyone’s jammed in her like an open tin of sardines that’s three months off its sell-by date. Stale sweat, barfing coughs, that repressed fart smell, and the same bloody question I overhear every day: what time will we get home?
“How the hell should I know?” I bark making the little old lady step back in surprise. I shoo her away and slide further into my seat. I suppose I’m lucky not to be on the floor with the other losers. Families have made forts out of their hand luggage to claim their territory while the wind blows a bloody gale outside.
Christmas Eve. I shouldn’t be here. Promised Samantha I’d definitely be home this year. Said if I wasn’t I’d sign those blood papers she’s been threatening me with. The kids are at that age that they’ve stopped asking where Dad is. Travelling across the globe never did sit well with fatherhood but it’s part of the job. Actually one of them was conceived during a bout of lust thirty-thousand feet up. Samantha was plastered at the time. I walked to the loo and nodded to her to meet me. The lights were low, red-eye flight. I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my shirt at the top, but you couldn’t see if you weren’t looking. Even in a drunken haze Samantha only had eyes for me. Stumbled towards me with those high heels and click went the lock. Wham, bam, thank you Sam. I was already a member of the Mile High club but this was her first ticket. Found out she was up the duff a month later and all hell broke loose. Finally convinced her she was the only one for me. She stayed at home popping out the kids while I remained on board to pay the bills.
The man beside me shifts on his seat to face the other way. I snort and in doing so catch a sniff of my breath. God, no wonder people are staring. I rummage in my jacket for a mint but my finger slides against a bottle. One of the mini-bar offerings from whatever town I was in yesterday. I’ve probably had too much to drink hence the toxic cloud hovering by my face but dammit I want to wet my tongue. Alcohol’s forbidden in the main lounge. Normally I’d be holed up at the bar pretending to down mineral water while the Smirnoff slides down my gullet but that didn’t end well. It wasn’t my fault the waitress wasn’t wearing a bra. If you don’t want people to comment then dress appropriately, is what I say. I grabbed my cap and briefcase before security came and bolted for the benches. So here I am, gum stuck to my navy trousers, bottle pressed to my lips, trying to avoid the stares while the bloody snow batters the window.
I strain to see the monitor. Delayed, delayed, delayed. I slump back and push my cap down to cover my face. May as well get some shut-eye before the next leg of the journey. As I nestle down and my mind starts to drift the tannoy cranks to full volume:
“Captain Runnels to the desk, please. This is a call for Captain Runnels.”
I swear out loud at being woken up making a married couple sitting opposite to tut in disgust. I gave them a lopsided grin until they look away. Bloody tourists. Think they own the place when they come here. They haven’t the miles behind them as I have. I used to keep track of all that stuff. Had a little book too. But when you’ve been at this game for as long as I have you soon learn not to take it all so seriously. I close my eyes again and try to settle. As my body droops, I feel a tug at my leg and my lids snap open.
“What time will we get home?”
She looks about six or seven. A bogey hangs from her nostrils. She wipes it away with her sleeve. I look around but don’t see who’s supposed to be in charge of the little brat. I squeeze my eyes shut again hoping she’ll take the hint but no, there’s a bloody tug on my jacket sleeve.
“Does Santa fly a plane?”
I deliberately squeeze my eyes tighter blocking out the brat and all the other muppets as they chatter on and on and on about the bloody weather and if they’ll make it home in time. A tug on my tie. I open one eye. She’s snorting a snot bubble six inches from my face. It pops to cover her lip.
“Kid, what’s your name?”
“Vicky.”
“Don’t you know it’s rude to bother strangers, Vicky?”
She sniffs the snot back up her nose leaving a snail trail. I sigh.
“Don’t worry about Santa, kid. He’s used to all this snow. You’ll make it home to your nice warm bed and wake up tomorrow to open all your presents.”
“Promise?”
I cross my heart. She smiles and skips away. The tannoy rings again. This time it’s a worried parent looking for their lost child. It could be her but it’s none of my business. I sneer at the couple opposite again making them look to the ceiling and take a swig from my bottle. Ahh. Much better. All I need now is a hot body to neck. I laugh, thinking back to that sexy little number from last week. Tore the hotel room up all night long, hmm mm. She liked a man in uniform, what can I say?
From up ahead, I see two security guards approach. I quickly screw the cap back on and stuff it into my pocket. Leading them is Joey, one of the attendants. I recognize him from one of the flights but these days it’s hard to keep track. He tries to keep his back straight as his hips sway down the hall. Don’t get me wrong, to each his own, but why try and hide it? He steps over protruding legs, and screaming kids until he reaches my row. I turn to face the window. The snow seems to have stopped.
His high-pitched voice calls to me but I ignore him, pretending to be asleep again. Bodies move aside as the three make their way towards me.
“Captain Runnels,” Joey says. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Didn’t you hear the call? The runway’s clear and we’re ready to board.”
I straighten my tie, tip up my cap, and reach to grab my briefcase. Joey has to help me stand. I give a little wave to my neighbours opposite and as I’m led away say:
“See you on Flight 101.”
