Thunder & Temptation: Layover Hell at DFW

No, so like, what the fuck?, Sol asks rhetorically. One of the television screens behind the bar has close-captioned weather programming. A great & untidy wind has risen out of the west and is sweeping across Texas with tornado, flash-flood and lightning warnings. Amarillo is reporting bocce ball sized hail. Is this some El Niño shit?, Sol asks. Montezuma’s revenge, but Tex-Mex style, like, fucking diarrhea of the clouds?, shitting all over Dallas? Sol is cagey. A trapped rat unsure of his cheese. I know as much as you do, I say to Sol. El Paso is reporting a plague of locusts, Sol jokes. Locusts the size of armadillos. No, so everything is bigger in Texas, Sol says, including, I guess, like, the end of the world. 

A bartender name-tagged “Connie” approaches, asking if we’d like another round. The mirror behind bar reflects the chaos at our backs. Every airport gate is host to multiple delayed flights. All of the flights arriving ahead of the storm have deposited passengers who’ve nowhere to go. All connections are delayed. And it is the beginning of a holiday weekend. Summer-crazed families are en route from somewhere to elsewhere, only to become marooned here, at DFW, at the mercy of the non FAA-approved thunder gods. Day has become dark with storm. Children are huddled, frightened; parents are openly weeping. Kenneled pets are howling. The end of days is upon us, just as I am served a plate of potato skins. Yeah Connie, we’ll take another round.

Solomon Goshawks is a wretch. He’s miserable, convinced this meteorological shit-storm is his own personal dark cloud he brought with him to Texas. He doesn’t even want to go home. Home is an apartment shared with a recently ex’d girlfriend who refuses to leave. Sol can’t afford to break the lease. There is nothing better ahead of him than there is here, in this apocalyptic freak-show of an airport. I’ve never seen him this way. He was well kempt a week ago. No more. He looks as though he’s been trapped in the arctic. His fingernails could cut-open a tin can and his overnight neckbeard is entangled with his chest hair like a Red Line rat-king in the Chicago subway. Sol is ordering whiskey beer-backs, but his whiskies are disappearing quicker than the beers backing them. No, so yeah, dude, Sol says. They say night is darkest before dawn, right? Sure, I say, Churchill. Sol is nodding at his whiskey. I think this is it. The darkest shit. Right? My own private Revelations, up is down, day is night, it gets no darker. But, like, dude, with sunrise, everything turns around. Oh?, I say. No, so yeah, man, Sol says, I am going to win her back. I am going to win back my girlfriend. You’ve forgiven her for her trespasses then?, I ask. Yeah, no, man, I mean… we just need a clean slate, right?, Sol says. Tabula Rasa, I say and we clink beer glasses. No, it’s just…, Sol says. I mean, I love her. Fuck her, y’know, but I love her. Amanda’s my fanged tulip. I love her fucking mixed-up jigsaw puzzle bucket of a head, man. I love her Bon Jovi tattoo. I love her busted knees from all of her hot-tub rodeos. I do love her, he says. You, me & half of Chicago, I say as a joke and immediately regret it. Fortunately, Sol is in the thick of his dire diatribe and never heard my jape. Sol continues, I even love her pig-butcher father and her Trump-loving step-mom who tried to fuck my drunk dad at Amanda’s brother’s engagement party. And yeah, so, maybe I am just now figuring-out why her girlfriends call her “Mandy-Any-Place”, but I also now know, y’know, not to leave her alone with her massage therapist if he looks like Gen-Z’d goateed Jesus. I mean, right?

Ah, yep, I say optimistically. Why should I deny Sol his hope if chances are we aren’t getting out of Texas alive, anyway? Sure, dude, I say. To love and, y’know…, I say holding up my shot glass. You can’t control relationships anymore than you can the weather, I say. And sometimes you get fucked at DFW. To DFW!, Sol shouts with a raised glass. We drink. 

My phone is concussed. The airline website is not updating. I leave my barstool and dance around the masses of stranded travelers, elbowing, clawing my way towards the flight status monitors. Shit. Another delay. I need to get a message home, but I am pinned-in like a carrot in a jello-mold. I stretch my elbows enough to grant me enough wrist space to type on my phone. Another delay, I text. Ducking storms, I text. I may need to eat here. Not sure when I will get home. I pocket my phone and fight through throngs of drunken desperation outside the T.G.I. Friday’s of Terminal D, only to find my barstool taken by a woman deep into conversation with Sol. 

Hey, I say, grabbing at the full beer standing in what had previously been my bar space. Sol spins his head to acknowledge my presence. No, yeah dude, so women and children first, right?, Sol says in explanation of his new friend taking my seat. Uh-huh, I say and hover over his shoulder, sipping my beer. Sol’s lady friend is busy with her phone and he uses this time to whisper at me, saying, she bumped into me before she took the stool. I didn’t know what was happening until it happened. She just sat down. Vic!, he says, louder now to get her attention, this is Cindy from Raleigh. Cindy, this is Vic. He’s great. He’s got the best jokes no one laughs at. Cindy barely casts eyes my way. She doesn’t know me, but I recognize her. She’s a shark. She smells blood in the water. She sees this wounded duck, Sol, flapping around like an asshole. She’s quite a few years his senior, not enough to be a noticeable contrast, but enough to suggest she has the upper hand. Cindy from Raleigh is attractive; not cute, but sexy. Strong. Willful. She imposes her will on Sol. I’m not sure he notices she has a crop of diamonds on her ring finger. I decide I need to bring this up to my pal, but I am distracted elsewhere…

My phone has vibrated with a message. I check it to read, There’s nothing for you here. What? The fuck? Nothing for me there? Nothing? For me? I nervously text back, LOL. And then, Bit extreme. I try to be playful and text, At least leave the light on for me? Damn. Fuck. Why did I send the message with a question mark? I should have been assertive instead of passive curious. Leave the light on for me!, would’ve been better. Fuck. Damn. I quaff half a beer in a single gulp. I’m overreacting. Right? Yeah. Maybe. I wave at Connie for another.

I wedge a hip into the bar between Sol and a frat-bro golf-pro from Palm Springs who is asking a bartender name-tagged “Karl” where he works out. My back to the golfer, I lord-over seated Sol and Cindy from Raleigh, who are sharing a dish of quesadillas. Sol is explaining to her, Oswald had to act alone for their storyboard. A lone gunman is a local crime, but if there are multiple snipers, it becomes a conspiracy to commit murder, which means it is a federal crime. And so where do federal crimes go? To, like, the Attorney General. Who is who the fuck? RF-fucking-K, that’s who. The conspirators did not want to empower Robert Kennedy so they ensured Oswald was a lone gunman patsy. Cindy from Raleigh rolls her eyes at Sol. Everyone knows it was the Secret Service who accidentally shot Jack and then covered it up, she says, don’t be shy with the salsa, babe. Sol’s eyes focus on the salsa between him and her. No, yeah, I mean, Sol says to her, it’s just that, I don’t want to double-dip, like, I mean, I watched Seinfeld. Cindy from Raleigh slowly blinks once at Sol. You’re worried about double-dipping, she asks? No, so, yeah, Sol says. Post-pan world, what? Cindy from Raleigh grabs Sol by the back of his neck and brings him near enough to kiss his whiskey numb lips. Watching from behind his head, I assume he is kissing back. Karl the bartender is shaking a martini, nodding with a grin at the action between Sol and Cindy from Raleigh. I wonder what happened to my potato skins. They were here just a minute ago…

I check my phone. No new messages. Hmm. I drill down. Message sent. Message delivered. Nothing new.

Eavesdropping, I hear Cindy from Raleigh say to Sol, I’m meeting my husband and kids in California for the weekend. Okay, I think, red flags… Meanwhile, I am staring at my dark phone, trying to make the kettle boil faster. All I want is any kind of validation. What does she mean, there is nothing there for me? Has she been hanging out with Amanda? I laugh nervously, getting a raised eyebrow from Karl. I’m not freaking out. I am listening to Cindy from Raleigh tell Sol, I have already reserved a room at the Hyatt, assuming my flight will be canceled. Would you like to split the room with me? Sol says to her, yeah, I mean, yes, of course. So, yeah, f I am cancelled too, but, I mean, shit, even if I am not canceled. Cindy from Raleigh likes his response and kisses him. Based on the force of his head being pushed backwards into my chest, I can only assume the torque of her tongue.

I check my phone. No new messages. I text her, Seriously, tho, what do you mean? 

Looking at the mirror behind the bar, I am able to appreciate the full make-out session between Sol and Cindy from Raleigh. Their hands are performing circus acts. He’s juggling her and she’s got her own magic trick. I’m happy for him, I guess. And for her. If she hadn’t found Sol, she’d surely find someone else. Someone less worthy than Sol. She’d find a fucking pretzel merchant, maybe. A TSA wand-wizard, perhaps. But she settled on Sol. And he’s a decent guy. Mostly. 

I don’t see this ending well. For anyone. Certainly not Amanda. 

Check please!

Returning to the flight status monitors, I text, Hello. Are you okay? My text is likely the most over-used inefficient combination of letters to ever be sent. Ever. Going all the way back to carrier pigeons. Juliet receiving a winged message from Romeo, are you okay? Juliet writes, I’m fine, ties the message onto the pigeon and punts it off her balcony. 

I receive no reply. 

I find a seat between a bickering family with generational constipation and a cheerleading team of hysterical teenagers with their alcohol-starved chaperones. I watch my phone. An alert. It’s a message from Sol, DTF in DFW! Really?, I mutter. Fucking ass-clown, Sol. Fuck him and his games. Am I even getting home? I scan the internet, but cell service is sketchy given the tornados ripping through Texas. I get up and return to the flight status monitors. My flight is still delayed, but half of the flights are cancelled. If my flight eventually gets cancelled, could I get a cot to sleep on in the Hyatt room reserved by Sol’s sudden paramour, his layover lady, Cindy from Raleigh? Hey Cindy, could we get double queens? You can have your Terminal D love affair, carry-on with your side-piece, just let me get a little shut-eye along the way? I would ask her directly. I wouldn’t bother bringing it up to Sol. Dude’s of a single mind and his compass is decidedly pricked north by northeast. 

Minutes grind by slowly. I’m happily distracted with a distended bladder. The airport latrines are a cattle-line. After eventual resolution, I return from the underworld, shoe soles slightly sticky. I return to the gates of Terminal D. Little has changed. Except… 

The anxious masses are now nauseous… Porque? I scan the surroundings and find the source of the disturbance. At first, I fear it is an animal mauling. It isn’t. I wish it was. A loose puma with rabies pinning bodies against the wall would be better. Instead, I bear witness to the driest fornication of persons possible. Sol has Cindy from Raleigh pressed against an out-of-commission pay phone. Her right leg is raised and hooked around his hip. He is pelvic-thrusting his blue jeans into her blue jeans as their mouths play sloppy chess. Rook on bishop, bishop on knight, pawns!, pawns!, pawns! A left-alone child stares wild-eyed at the frenzied mauling. A parent swoops-in to take the child away from the scene. Is she eating him?, the wee child asks of its parent. The mother is uncertain. Maybe, the mother tells the child. Maybe. 

Watching a child’s universe expand with the first spark of cannibalism awareness is an awesome thing to witness.

Viewing the catastrophic conditions incinerating the world outside the broad glass windows of this fishbowl, it becomes clear I may never leave DFW. I may be here forever, my bones buried with fellow strangers under the collapsed structure that once was this airport. The Age of Dinosaurs has passed. The Day of the Dodo is over. And now, over the next couple of minutes, we are going to see the Close of the Anthropocene. And yet Sol and Cindy from Raleigh are already busy re-propagating the species. Layered denim is not a proven prophylactic. What monstrosity might be born of this union? I do not know what age comes next. Rise of the Machines, maybe. As zoological contagions are loosed between the tonsils of Sol and Cindy of Raleigh, surely only the robots & cockroaches will survive. 

A text arrives! I am sitting on the ground, surrounded by stranded passengers, most singing Christian hymns in hope of retribution against these ill fates. The text arriving is not the deliverance I hoped for. The text is quite local. Hey man. Can you come to gate 13? It is from Solomon Goshawks. 

Gate 13. Outbound to LAX. Scheduled departure 15:41. Expected departure 23:32. I see Sol Goshawks at the front of the customer service queue with the wild North Carolinian, Cindy from Raleigh. I skirt around the long line of disenchanted travelers to the front to join my brother-at-arms, Sol. Behind the counter is a very large African-American linebacker of an airline attendant named Ralf. He’s typing. Ralf’s eyes are scanning images. I am sorry, ma’am, Ralf calmly says to Cindy from Raleigh. If you do not take tonight’s flight, the next available seat on a flight to LAX is in four days. Tuesday. No, that will not do, Cindy from Raleigh says. You must understand, she says to Ralf, if I do not fly out tonight, it must be tomorrow morning. The airline rep shrugs his lack of options. Look!, Cindy from Raleigh says, I have a chance to spend a night with this wonderful man! She’s referencing Sol. She asks, could you put me on any flight that will get me to L.A. tomorrow? Ralf smiles a wide grin and says, I am sure you will have other opportunities to see this gentleman in the future. No!, Cindy from Raleigh responds. After tonight, she says, I will never seem him again. Ralf is no longer smiling. Ralf isn’t sure what is happening, but he damn sure doesn’t like it. I am sorry, ma’am, Ralf says to Cindy from Raleigh. All flights are booked through Monday. 

Why the fuck am I here?, I ask. No, so, yeah, sorry, bro, Sol says to me. I was thinking I would skip my flight home and spend the night with Cindy from Raleigh at the Hyatt. I asked you here to see if you could pickup my luggage at the airport and hold onto it until I return from Texas. Sorry for the cluster-fuckiness of this. But no, I guess, we’ll fly home together after all, whenever that is… His eyes spot Cindy from Raleigh making her way to the onboarding line and he quickly chases after her. 

The flight from DFW to LAX is boarding. Cindy from Raleigh is whispering sweet nothings to Sol, who is whispering some shit back. He later said to me, I told her I would pleasure myself on my flight thinking of her pleasuring herself on her flight as she thinks of me pleasuring myself; she was very receptive to the idea.   

Sure, I say, but why must I be aware of the idea?, especially with you sitting beside me on our flight?

Storm clouds clear and planes begin leaving in a hurry. Our flight has been rescheduled for an hour from now. T.G.I. Fridays has open bar space. Solomon Goshawks and I reassume our place. His face has a scratch over his cheekbone. It’s bubbling up dollops of blood. A mark left by Cindy from Raleigh. It’s okay, he says. Sol’s speech is hindered from tongue cramping. His happiness level slowly ebbs. Cindy from Raleigh was a bright streak across the dark sky. And now she’s forever gone. Satisfaction is diluted with cheap beer. Sol becomes despondent within seven minutes. 

My phone alerts me to a new text. Jesus psycho. She’s finally replied and “Jesus psycho” is it. I’m not sure how to interpret her message. The last I read from her, she wrote there was nothing for you here. Fine. Perhaps deserved. My guts churn. I want to shit. Suddenly, there’s a new text. There’s nothing for you here to eat dummy, she texts. You might as well eat while you can. 

Ah. Okay. Good scare. Nice. Okay. Another round of potato skins!, I order. Happy. Relieved. 

Solomon Goshawks is next to me at the bar. He orders a whiskey beer-back. From the ashes an idea is reborn. He hiccup-belches into his fist. And then stares at it: his fist. He opens his fingers as if releasing a bug. Hope spreads across his face as he gazes into the spittle of his open palm. Darkest before the dawn, dude, Sol says, so yeah, I’ve decided I am going to win back my girlfriend. He looks towards me, his childlike eyes bright with life. Storm’s over, dude. That’s all there is to it. I am going to win her back.