You know it’s a good month in the airport when you don’t see the ass of an elderly man upon entering the bathroom. Unfortunately this was not one of the months. Twice in the past three or so weeks I’ve been blindsided by senior citizens with their pants at their ankles and their tiny bodies crammed into the urinal releasing their demons. I walk in, turn the corner and BAM- my day is completely disrupted and I can’t remember my name. Their backs melt into their asses and their asses melt into their frail stick legs and I die a little inside.
While it was a bad month for old man ass, it was good for spotting a couple bigwig celebrities. On my way out of work around gate C6 I breezed by Kiefer Sutherland and one of his cronies. I was 90% it was The Kiefer. It was all but verified when I Googled him only to find out that he just put out a country album and started his tour the very next day. It was indeed the Lost Boy in the flesh. I listened to one of his songs and let’s just say acting is his strong suit. Surprise surprise. Later that week on my way into work I crossed paths with Heisman winner and Titans franchise savior hopeful Marcus Mariota. He’s a real goofy bastard, but I’ll be damned if he couldn’t kick my ass.
Recently I found myself envying and admiring a few airport workers with lower end jobs. Particularly this one fellow who I can’t tell if he’s Latin American or Asian, or perhaps a mix of both. He always rocks the dual eyeglasses/sunglasses combo and appears to have a mental condition of sorts. This guy is always hauling ass and hauling shit around the airport either talking to himself, laughing, or both. He seems like the happiest/craziest guy in the world sometimes. Every time I see him he’s booking it through the concourse tugging two carts full of soft drinks or food or just whatever. If I had to guess his job title I’d say “General Goods Hauler.”
He’s not the only one who seems to be in good spirits given his lowly profession. I admire the fact that they’ve accepted their fates near the bottom of the social totem pole and appear to be fine with it. People acknowledge your position, and while they may judge and scoff, they tend to leave you be and not expect much from you. There’s no pressure to succeed or experience heavy failures, and more or less there’s few places to go besides up. There seems to be a certain freedom in these kinds of jobs. While their level of intelligence may be on the lower end, I would think ignorance is bliss to them. And maybe all janitors and general good haulers go to heaven. Nobody can disprove that.
Then it’s back to reality and I find myself dealing with this sixty-something shrew of a woman who looks like she has Macy’s on speed dial. She’d been at the bar the previous week being rude, waving empty wine glasses and checkbooks at me and being generally unpleasant. Things went alright in the beginning and who knows if she remembered me. Then the Gipsy Kings came on the radio and she couldn’t contain herself.
“I’ve never heard THIS kind of music before in Music City,” she said like a devoted supporter of the Ku Klux Klan.
“Well miss we like to be cultured here and mix it up,” I said. Our radio station has a vast variety of music it plays (not always great by any means) from Jack Johnson to Bob Dylan to Buena Vista Social Club and so on.
“Oh really? It sounds like something I’d hear in El Paso.” Such a strange thing to say, I thought.
“What’s wrong with El Paso?”
“It’s not a place you want to be.” The guy next to her chimed in. He was in the US Armed Forces and his name was Brian Landtroop- a most appropriate military name. Regardless of how dreadful a place El Paso may or may not be, this lady was just bitching because it was Latin-influenced music. Definitely a Trump supporter.
And then there’s the matzah curse. Unfortunately I don’t have a grandiose story for such an intriguing title. I feel like this could be a really awesome or really horrible horror movie title. Maybe I’ll work on a screenplay for it. Anyways, I had an older Jewish couple in from Philly who insisted no crackers or bread come on the cheese plate they ordered. They had matzah to eat with the cheese. They then went on to teach me a brief lesson on Passover, and how it’s never in sync with Easter, especially on leap year. Their son was some sort of tour guide of Jerusalem and was especially busy around this time of year. They talked my ear off and asked 21 questions before I was able to make my escape.
After they finished their sparkling Oregon wine and all but licked their cheese plate clean, the lady came up to the bar.
“I’m so sorry but we got matzah crumbs all over your floor. It’s the matzah curse. No matter how careful you are with it it’s almost guaranteed you’re going to need the dust pan after you eat it. There’s no escaping the matzah curse!” She laughed and her sluggish husband just kind of shrugged and picked up his things to get ready to leave. Between making it a point never to visit El Paso and the matzah curse, I learn something new here every day.