I’m going to miss my flight to San Francisco. I’m going to miss your graduation. I’m going to miss our time together in some small bed forever borrowed.
I accidentally left my suitcase at one of those corporate-y forced middle-class chic airport restaurants in the Delta terminal at JFK. They always have names like Delilah’s or SoHo Grill. There is never a Delilah. And this is definitely not SoHo. It’s an Applebee’s with double the prices. I give the waiter a nice tip. Funny, he tells me he just moved from San Francisco. There is something really beautiful about two random people passing through each other’s space like that. He has arrived here before me and I extend a greeting just long enough to leave, as though I can’t bear to watch him try to exist here. I imagine him for a moment, maybe living out by the airport desperate and inert or maybe he’s in Tribeca faking every moment inside cabs and lofts, living off others for as long as he can. He gives off a warm attention that would play well at the posh eateries you always used to go to on those days when I would stay in our room, miraculous and untouched. So why is he working in the airport anyway? I forgot to ask him.
I’m sorry I’ll miss dinner with your family. I’m sorry I’ll miss walking with you down by Grace Cathedral like teenagers in the morning and floating through Valencia like ghosts at night.
So, yeah I left my suitcase in the restaurant. I was just waiting at the gate to board. Suddenly, right before I get in line as group 3 is announced I realize what I’m missing. I run back to the restaurant and am greeted by NYPD. They take one look at me and call off the canine unit. It’s the opposite of terrorist profiling, which actually makes me feel worse somehow. We have a brief laugh, I explain I’m tired and trying to get to San Francisco where I’ll probably still be tired but at least it will feel like the tiredness had a sense of direction. And you’ll be waiting there. And our secrets won’t matter for a few moments. And I will realize very quickly that I’d rather be back in New York on my roof asleep and dreaming.
I grab my suitcase and look around the restaurant. The waiter is gone. Back in the terminal I watch the plane pull out of the gate and disappear slowly into the sky.
(The Sandwitches second full-length “Mrs. Jones’ Cookies” is out on Empty Cellar tomorrow)
