I have always wondered what people thought about while they sat staring across the TGIfridays counter as passengers stream by rushed, frazzled, and exhausted. They don't let me in anyone's head but my own so this was I thought as I enjoyed my sizzling chicken and cheese skillet.
I can't believe that is him. I read his obituary. I signed the guest registry at his funeral. I hugged his sister. I sent a spray of his favorite peach gladiolas. I cried for him. I gave to the scholarship set up in his name. I took a pound cake and a bucket of fried chicken to his church for the post funeral luncheon.
Confused by the rainbow of raw emotions I first smiled. I smiled bigger as I nearly choked on my bubbling hot cheese and sautéed onions. Then I noticed he was smiling too. He seemed to be happily humming as he strolled through the terminal. Why would he be happy? He's dead! And for a dead guy he blends in nicely. He's wearing a festive tropical shirt and boat shoes. He has a nice gold watch on his right arm. I had forgotten that he was left handed. He has a leather book bag hanging over his shoulder and he is pulling a dark brown leather roller board.
Confused; I left happy– to –see–you and faded directly into confusion. Why? That is all I can think besides I have got to find my waitress so I can pay my check and chase him through this airport.
He's maneuvering gracefully through terminal C. I am rushing like a mad woman, O.J. Simpson style, thirty yards in the rear stumbling over my own computer bag and grimacing at travelers standing too casually in the walkways.
He's going to stop at C10. I have to see the destination. Where is he going?
Hoping he doesn't see me I drag my bag over to the bathroom entry way and fumble in my purse for my phone. My phone! A picture, I have to take a picture. A selfie with a dead man, (sadly enough that is probably not a first) but a selfie with a dead man in a pale blue flowery shirt without telling him. Then what do I do? I don't think I should post it on Facebook but I surely cannot keep it to myself. Who do I tell? His sister? Oh, the agony she has gone through already. She would be devastated to know that he faked a drowning at the beach to escape away to wherever he's going. Where is he going? Cincinnati? Really? Who stages their own death on a beach in Cancun, Mexico on a holiday weekend to go to Cincinnati alone? Alone? Maybe he's not alone. Is he with someone? A woman? Was he here with a woman? The gate area is beginning to churn as the incoming passengers deplane. They struggle to get around me and my computer bag and into the ladies room.
What should I do? No one will believe this. I have to say something. Something like…"Hi, Joe. How are you? Imagine running into you" or "wow, you look good for a dead man" or “did you love the peach gladiolas?” or "Cincinnati is beautiful this time of year, isn't it?"
Wait, this is criminal. It's against the law to fake your death isn't it? It is on television and movies. What if he is in the witness protection program and running from the mafia? Or maybe he is running drugs for the Mexican cartel. Or perhaps he's running away with a teenage girl he meet at a swim up bar on the white sand beach of Cancun. Maybe he's just trying to outrun a bookie from the track that he owes thousands of dollars.
Oh my, he's looking around. Does he see me? Maybe he feels like someone is watching him. That's how he lives now, always looking over one shoulder, sleeping with one eye opened, suspecting everyone. Maybe he caught a negative vibe from my presence and my camera video recording his every move, documenting the way he's sitting with his legs crossed and his computer bag lying on his lap. He's sipping an orange crush and digging in his shirt pocket. Gum; He has a stick of gum; wintergreen or spearmint but not cinnamon.
It's the shirt that distorts this scenario. It's too dramatic for Cincinnati. It's made for a tropic escape to South America not middle America.
The chicken wasn't that good but I hope you enjoyed the story.
