I sit in an airport on a layover in Newark, New Jersey. The flight here only had seven passengers. The flight to Maine is bound to be as small. I walk around terminal A. It’s nine in the morning and I notice two things: the only restaurant in the terminal is Chicago Pizza and nothing says New Jersey. I take a picture of a wall of magnets that all say “I Heart NYC” just to prove this fact. I am in Jersey, right?
I claim a seat near my gate to wait for three hours. I notice a ten year old boy eating a bagel and a chocolate ice cream cone for breakfast. I look around and realize his mother isn’t there. His father will regret this when he’s bouncing off the walls on the plane.
I pull out a brand new book from a brand new bag: Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet. I subconsciously curse the author for stealing the idea of my half-written novel: Japanese internment camps. I read the first couple pages distractively. The main character talks about losing his young wife to cancer. I think of Tuesday—it’s been a month since the sweet two year old lost her battle with the like disease. I think of a coworker’s daughter—only three years older than me, three kids, given no more than two weeks to live by her doctor yesterday. Can I get off work for the funeral? Why is this the question I ask?
I circle the terminal a few times and settle on a cheese danish from Starbucks. I wait in line while the Indian woman behind the counter prepares drinks with names from European countries and calls out to their owners, “Lady?!” What does she yell to men? A airport helper is suddenly beside me with a woman in a wheelchair. Does she want to cut? I’d let her if either one would say something to me or even remotely appear as if they’d like to make a purchase. They don’t, and while I’m still in line I’m screamed at to voice my order for the pastry.
The danish is dry, rich and expensive. I immediately regret it. I watch a Guatemalan family across the way. Culture is fascinating. I silently harp on my dead relations for coming to America too many generations before I could be immersed in their cultures. It’s only been three generations, yet no one even knows any language other than English anymore.
A flight leaves for Quebec. Should I learn French? Would the French Canadians be friendly towards me then, if I spoke their language? Would I be regarded as a native? What if I wear a shirt with a Canadian flag on it?
I think I hear a woman say my name but I turn to see she’s on the phone. No one is talking. There are at least twenty people sitting within speaking distance of me. No one says a word. Even people who know each other are silent. It’s so impersonal. It’s cold. It’s foggy. There’s an advertisement for Barceló, but nothing that says where we are. No one knows; no one cares. Where we are is not where we’re staying. Does the stuff in the middle not matter? What happened to “it’s not where you end up, it’s the journey you took getting there?”
There is no journey here. There aren’t even smiles. There is some napping and some working and a guy who looks like Kirk from Gilmore Girls, but no smiling.
I notice a baby to my right, sleeping. I think that I should have offered to bring Abby with me—dropped her off with John for the weekend. She needs to get used to them. How could I not think about that?
I think of applications, jobs, interviews, papers, money, bills, futures, schedules, presentations, banks, birthday cards, birthday calls, grocery trips, laundry, packing—that’s how I didn’t think of it. I loath that these unimportant things are overpowering my life. But in an airport I’m surrounded by those just like me. And I hate it.
I say hello to the woman next to me. She shoots me a death glare, then unkindly asks where I’m from. I tell her the Midwest. She says, “Welcome to New York” and turns the other direction.
