Rochestarians

“Excuse Me.” The man walking past looks up from his thoughts in his desert fatigues passing at a decent clip through the airport. “Thank you.” She’s an attractive blonde and has the look of a mother in her late twenties. He nods and walks on. I heard, lounged next to the monitor repeating CNN headlines, and look up to assess the scene. There’s a lot of soldiers here I noticed upon deplaning. Now being a Northerner, a New Yorker, liberal and against the war, I’m tempted to pass judgment, maybe huff to myself, send a text or two with veiled comments about my freedom and theirs. Rather, for the moment, I choke back the desire to weep. Some liberal. I was glad she said something. I watched the soldiers pass for a while. So this is Texas. They’re right, everything’s huge and the flight here was longer than expected as we flew far west and back toward Dallas to avoid the storm heads. The flooding was visible. The land bloated. I managed a few conversations, mostly on the sheer size of the airport and the distance between gates lugging bags. I had three hours between flights and really didn’t mind. I was glad for the conversation.

The three hours turned to six after boarding the final flight and prompt deplaning when some kids clogged the toilet irreparably before we even left the tarmac. We moved to another gate and I sat with the Rochesterians waiting to go home. They are plump and snacking with pleated pants and faded Polo’s. The women gew out with faded winter flesh. We are, by all accounts, a most diverse lot, Asian, Caucasian, African, black, brown, white, mixed. They feel distant. They wear frowns. There’s at least three children in view. They too wear frowns but also bounce and frolic. I smile at the children especially at the chubby one who prodigiously walk and hops on his toes and heals between giggles and crawls over the faux leather seating.

When finally we board the plane I’m ready to be home. We’re ready to be home. The airport pizza gave me gas and I squirmed uncomfortably the entire ride. When we touched down it was midnight and I was strangely awake despite the nearly twenty hour travel day so Sara and I head directly for the bar. The city looks dirty and the bar dangerous. These aren’t mountain yuppies and by the looks of the crowd they are glad it’s Friday night. We smoke a few cigs and kiss before heading to the North end bars. The dog in the car continues yapping at all the passers-by and at the bouncer who started yapping back when we pulled up. I warned him he wouldn’t quite if provoked and he didn’t.

It wasn’t but a drink in at that North end bar before some dudes get into it. “I’m talking about 30 million WHITE babies being murdered every year.” I look around. We’re all white so he felt the privilege. The dude he’s arguing with is noticeably larger and both are drunk. “If god wanted you to suck dick he’d have written it in his word but it’s not there. That gay shit is depravity against god.” The man protests and they are toe to toe now. I wish I could say this one was fiction, that it doesn’t actually go down like this but it does. This is us, I keep thinking. Just a tiny splattering. I look over at Sara who raises her eyebrows back. She’s a player, I think. She’s survived this shit and dumb ass brothers and all sorts of judgments flailing about. If I were to step up and throw down I know two things would happen. One, it would accomplish nothing and two, Sara would play the situation. She always plays the situation. For this I am both grateful and wary. 2PM rolled by, the bar closed, the men quit their bickering and we drove back to the apartment and made love. It’s home by I keep thinking, I’m not sure for how long.