Neighbor's Playroom Intimacy

I queue up with people I knew in middle school.  Everyone I ever knew in middle school, here with me at Liberty International Airport.  That big guy, with the bent over Brooklyn accent, stretched black shirt, he’s the father of the kid who moved in across the street when I was nine.  “Welcome back.” Says the immigration officer.  I’m surprised to feel welcome.  I did nothing but come home.  Down at the baggage claim, I come upon a young lady in pyjamas.  Casual, presumptuous, neighbor’s playroom intimacy that is repulsive as I don’t even know this person. 

Late in Boston.  Logan seems deserted.  Uber doesn’t come.  The app just beamed out search rings for an eternity of two minutes.  I began to eye the good-old-fashioned cab queue, assuming the cost would be significantly higher.  I cancelled the ride I’d first requested and tried again and this time secured a ride within seconds.  Boston has a place wait safely for your ride-share vehicles to arrive. 

Driver laughs at the thought that I can speak Chinese.  Later a colleague calls and he listens to me doing so.  He laughs again says it’s funny to hear me speak the language.  He talks about what it’s like in “my country.”  “And where is that?”, I ask.  He is from Istanbul.  But he doesn’t think learning English is as big a deal as learning Chinese.  He seemed to like Massachusetts.  He seemed to like driving for Uber.  I remembered how to say "Tesekkur Ederim."

Inside the woman behind the counter at the Marriott looks Irish.  She looks like she belongs at the far end of a family reunion.  She is cold and officious and happy to do the minimum that is required and point me on my way.  “The elevator is down on the left.”  I consider the snack bar and imagine beef jerky and a bag of peanuts but continue down to the elevator to get some rest.

Monday, 10/29/18