My mother lives in Ohio, which both starts and ends with an O. The twenty third of December, I
was in the airport. The airport is always both a source of drama and humor. Sometimes it’s the source of
humor columns. My father and I started our journey at 5:00 in the morning. We drove to Washington
Reagan National Airport, which is in Washington. I could see the Washington Monument protruding through
the blue, milky sky. That’s because we were in Washington, which, as you may guess, is the home of the
Washington Monument. The parking lot was jam packed, but we got lucky and found a spot close to the
entrance. Score! However, our seeming victory was short-lived. Apparently, only five rows of the
parking garage were packed. The other thirty-two were empty. We walked past the thirty-two mockingly
empty parking places. Half a mile later, we were inside the airport. I was informed that the moving
walkway was ending. However, it seemed to me as I had not stepped on the moving walkway yet.
“Caution. The moving walkway is ending.” said the clearly enunciated female voice from the
ceiling. I looked at my feet, and saw an immobile brick walkway that did not seem to be ending.
“Caution. The moving walkway is ending.” the voice added, helpfully. I stepped on the moving
walkway. As you may or may not know, a moving walkway is a sliver of a conveyor belt provided for those
who like to move, but not walk. As the name implies, it walks and moves for you.
“Come on!” my dad said, faux impatiently. I could see the smile on his face without looking back.
“Come on what?” I said, looking at my feet that, though not walking, were still moving.
“Come on, lets go!” he said. It was then that the moving walkway ended.
“Caution….”said the voice in the ceiling. I know, I know.
We walked. Specifically we walked to the check-in counter of an airline that will remain nameless. We
waited in the line for the first class passengers. As I was both first class, and a passenger, I found it
imperative to stand in this line. The line was not moving. In and of itself, that was not an important
development. It was December 23rd. A man stood, talking to the portly, white haired man behind the
counter and the cheap wire-frame glasses. He had a dejected posture; somewhere between indignant and
severely depressed. The man behind us in line made what he considered a smart comment. This man was
probably in his twenties, wore a bright blue shirt and had headphones over his ears that looked like they
were stolen from the back of an airline seat. His luggage consisted of a cardboard tube and nondescript
dark-blue duffel bag. He seemed just the kind of person to own a cardboard tube and a nondescript
dark-blue duffel bag. He asked several questions to my father, and when he talked one was reminded of a
mix of Forrest Gump or John Madden on painkillers. He asked if he could check in via a computer kiosk in
front of the stagnant line. He could. And he did. He was gone, and I felt a strange feeling of relief.
The man in front of us related that the poor guy at the counter had been there for at least a half an
hour. He shook his head when he looked toward the counter. He was a black man, probably in his later
twenties, though he may have been younger. He seemed to be a very upstanding and well-spoken man, who
dressed in a light tan argyle sweater and visited his mother in Florida. Thinking back on it, both of
these men were terrorists. However, it didn’t matter, because every airline cancelled every flight to
everywhere. Some call this inefficient, but terrorists can’t cause terror if their flights are cancelled.
I flew on Christmas morning, because my flight was cancelled, as was every one for two days. It’s just as
well. I was probably a terrorist, anyway.
This work written by Zach Claywell. Reproduction requests or general questions should be directed to Zach Claywell care of Zach Claywell at yahoo dot com