“JFK”
Oct 01, 2019Chicken tenders and fries and a Budweiser. The Bud is in one of those aluminum bottles. It’s sleek and appealing. “Grab me, Robbie. Touch me. You know you want to.” And I do. It’s cold and frosty. It tastes good despite being a Budweiser. It’ll go well with the chicken and fries. I’m hungry as fuck. I always am before getting on a plane.
It’s late and JFK is empty. Not completely empty but peacefully empty. Only a few places are open, like Central Diner, so there aren’t many options for entertainment. The two young black waitresses argue in the back, while the old black cook smiles and shakes his head. He deals with their shenanigans every night. Late-night shift is boring so there’s a lot of gossip floating around in the air.
Some cleaning crew slowly sweep up trash and mop the floors. They’re in no hurry. No one’s in any hurry.
Random red-eyers sit spread out. No need to cram each other’s space like on the train. They’re here to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. The sirens. The tourists. People, cars, dogs, bicycles, pandemonium 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It can drive a person mad. And it drives me mad, which is why I go on flights late at night. The trains are less crowded. The airport is less crowded. The plane is less crowded. That’s the important part. I leave that motherfucker of a voice back in the city. He can scream and shout all he wants when I’m not around. It’s good for us to have some time alone. We’re at each other’s throats nonstop. And he doesn’t need sleep so he just goes and goes all night long. Sometimes I manage to actually get sleep. I’ve been training. NYC is good for training to tune out unnecessary noises. You either tune it out or you go crazy.
Takes a while but I finally get the chicken and fries. Standard airport fare. Mediocre look and taste but twice the price. They gave me barbeque sauce so I think about the voice not being here and I take the opportunity to dip my food in it. He would have a fit. Who the fuck do I think I am trying to add some flavor to my food? I’m supposed to be this bland, vanilla guy, and that’s more than enough. I’m not allowed to like anything, what he calls, “crazy.” And this is why I like leaving him at home. He has no idea. If he knew, he’d shit a brick. But it’s my secret. And it’s delicious.