A Short Story

Thirty Five Minutes
The terminal's wall of monitors continues to update regularly, informing John of weather patterns and
labor issues across the country. American 1337 Chicago O'Hare to Albany is listed as on-time for a 9:32
pm arrival. It is 9:16 and John has been at the airport for an hour already. Nothing is more important
for him.
The coffee in his hand has gone cold, yet he sips at it, trying to derive something from it, as if it could
nurture something he felt that he has lost. He wants another cigarette, but he fears if he stops looking at
that monitor, the plane will never arrive. That is it so very important is also the reason it will never
happen. John is used to crushing defeat. A cynic by nature, closed off to the outside world, he expects
nothing but disappointment. He revels in it actually, because it allows him never to be happy. He
wondered once, a long time ago, what it was like to be happy…to be one of those people who lived their
lives free of fear and doubt…to be one of those people who didn't struggle with the crushing self doubt
of not knowing who they were or what they were doing.
So, John sits on an uncomfortable orange polycarbonate chair, and waits for an arrival that he does not
believe to be coming.
9:18 pm.
John debates the cigarette. If he can hold out another five minutes, and slowly smoke the cigarette, the
rest of the time will fly by. He could even strike up a conversation with a fellow smoker.
"Heh."
He won't talk with anyone. Normal people would ask other travelers (or the waiters, like him) banal
questions about airports, destinations, and loved ones. These normals would make casual conversation,
laughing at each others' bad jokes, awful puns, and ridiculous witticisms. John isn't wired that way, or at
least he no longer is.
John was once the life of the party, covering up his misanthropy with confidence and always being up
for anything novel, scandalous or unique. It took an effort of will for him to do this, fueled by coffee,
cigarettes, huge burritos and Sierra Pale Ale. Sometimes, John did not have to pretend he was happy.
He actually was. Though the moments were rare, and difficult to remember, he had moments of
fleeting joy…never to be repeated in quite the same way because they were truly organic.
In trying to synthesize these moments, John forgot how to be happy about anything.
9:20 pm.
Standing up to throw away his half empty coffee cup takes an eternity for John. The motivation to walk
the three yards to the receptacle is lacking and when the motivation is lacking, there is nothing that can
get John to do anything. John skipped work earlier in the week because he could not get off the couch
in the morning. He sat there, all day long, watching "Soap" on DVD, chain smoking, and drinking tepid
Diet Coke (because he couldn't be bothered to go back and forth to the refrigerator). In his journal,
John noted that the day was "productive".
With an effort of will that John compares to an oxygen-less climb of Everest, or Shackleton's trip to
South Georgia Island, he stands, walks two steps to the garbage can and tosses the cup towards the
opening.
Had he walked that final step, we wouldn't have missed the gimme shot, and wouldn't have watched
with horror as the coffee cup exploded, sending a mist of coffee over an oldish woman in a bad track
suit.
The torrent of rage and abuse was inevitable; however, John did not (and does not) care.
Sheepishly, he apologizes and reaches into his pocket, pulling out six twenty dollar bills. He wordlessly
hands the folded wad to the woman, and walks down the stairs to smoke a cigarette.
American 1337 – On-Time.
9:24 pm.
John smokes and paces. There is no one out here with to kibitz with, which relives him. The cigarette
burns down quickly, singes his fingers, and gives John a real feeling for the first time today.
9:27 pm.
Another cigarette. More pacing. John laments that he has nothing better to do than wait. He, of
course, makes this cry to himself, as there is no one out there and it has been established that he cannot
speak to anyone for fear of showing them (or anyone) that he is unable to carry on even the normal
functions of life in a polite society. He waits, glancing at his phone.
9:29 pm.
The flight is still listed as on time. Resigned that he will be disappointed, John climbs the stairs to the
arrival area outside of the TSA cordon. His chair is empty and thankfully, the coffee stained woman is
gone. He sits and looks expectantly through the security screeners, waiting for someone to recognize
him.
"Arriving, American 1337, from Chicago O'Hare, Gate B-3"
He feels a bit of excitement sneak into his chest. He can feel a grin sneaking on to his face. "Maybe this
time, life will not fuck me over. Maybe…just this once…I will get what I want." He allows himself hope
for thirty good seconds.
People start walking through the gate, being met by friends, loved ones, and people who are happy to
see each other. John thinks that no one is ever happy to see him, however, maybe this once, it will be
different. Hope.
He is as close as he gets to giddy as more people walk through. He is scanning the crowd for a face, the
face that makes him happy and allows him to feel needed, wanted and validated.
He sees it!
He stands up, smiling happily, and makes eye contact. They hold the stare for the fifteen yards in
between them. She continues to hold the stare as she walks past him, and down the stairs.
He doesn't follow. He doesn't move.
While his face does not change expression, a patient observer could see his chest slowly shudder. They
would not assume based on his facial expression that he was sobbing.
9:51 pm.