Posted by: normanlgreen | August 5, 2012

Dream, August 5, 2012 Airport Rigamarole


Dream, home, 8:20 am

Waiting to be processed at an airport complex. Sherwin and I have been visiting a city. Other friends of ours have gathered there as well, but everyone has gone separate ways through the airport bureaucracy.

An unseen attendant has taken my passport, my ticket voucher and my luggage. I wander alone around a large waiting room. Layers of glass walls separate me from the outside world. At last Sherwin is allowed into the room. Her papers and belongings have been returned to her. A woman’s hands push my papers through a small opening in an otherwise isolated booth. Everything comes back to me in zip lock bags. Sherwin and I move quickly to the doors so we can make our flight. We do not want to be seen running as this might trigger a security alert.

Outside, the sky is gray. I feel we are in Houston in March or April. We climb into our rented car and start driving. At this point I realize that I have no idea to which terminal we should be headed. Now that I can see down the broad boulevard, I understand that there are more than a dozen possible goals. I fish through the zip lock bags for a flight itinerary that will tell us where we should head.

Sherwin wants to lend a hand, reaching across my lap to the open baggage and rummaging through it as she drives. A security guard waves us away from a red curb that indicates that it is reserved for emergency vehicles. We roll away at 5 miles per hour, driving through a section where the road crosses beneath a building. The dim light makes it harder to read the faint tags with their bar codes. With both of our hands fishing through the materials, any order is lost. I am frustrated with Sherwin and ask her to concentrate on driving. There are many bottles of medicine. I comment, “we have enough meds here to deal with an outbreak of plague.” I run across a package of business cards for various car dealerships and recall that my friend Mark made a special effort to get to the reunion, that I saw him only for an instant, and that he filled his time shopping for cars. I feel regret.

We pull to a stop under the building. To our left, a stewardess in a blue coupe pulls into a driveway leading to underground parking. She waves us away – there is to be no stopping here.

At last I find a luggage tag that references “TERM D – NNE”. This information is as good as no information, as the buildings we pass are unmarked.

As we head back in the opposite direction, following the loop road, the radio begins to blare an insipid pop tune by a French baritone singing in English. The tune is bouncy and positive – in contrast to my own dark mood. I try to turn off the radio built into the dashboard, but it will not stop. I pound on the switches. Sherwin smiles. I realize that the more agitated I have become, the more she has grown quietly amused by my rising rage. This irritates me further.

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