Gold and orange autumn canopies arched over broken Michigan asphalt. Reflective ocular cautions of migratory deer lined the road curving out past the grip of those unhealthy Clinton County mirages. Glaring glances peeked accusingly from the fields of brown corn recently broken in the harvest. And they constantly threatened unexpected collisions during the entirety of that wandering Tuesday night Airport Drive.
It made me want to collapse into the want of someone.
But that was just another 517 impossibility. And my heart fucking knew it.
So I could only keep driving.
Pushing myself down past the awkward highway interchanges. And up around the curves where the numbered signs stop making sense. Because I was always taught that 69 should mean north and south. Not east and west.
But everything here has to be weird. So those indignant interstate signs just had to tell me differently. And I am not sure that I will ever be comfortable with those muddled misdirections.
It is a strange place to be, driving on the side of more misguided intentions. In that empty time after kicking tin off crumbling Michigan tarmac. Those echoing overnight hours when another shift spent sweating and bleeding, swearing and suffering, ride along in the rearview mirror. After the big tin monster spooled itself out of its block and finally went *swoosh* in the face of physics.
Usually on time.
Because it’s always hell when it isn’t.
But more times than not, it cooperates. And leaves on the better side of early. I can at least take some pride in that. Because there is a unique urgency whenever man dances that intimately with metal. And as with most mittened circumstances, I tend to take the outcome of that almost impossible courtship personally.
That scheduled struggle in which success is measured in fractions of minutes. When the only release is to swear in coloured paragraphs at uncooperative equipment to help keep shit moving. Occasionally shouting shamelessly in a cold rain at the naked October moon. Because that far away from the polluting lights of The City, that imperfect celestial orb is a fellow high-viz co-conspirator. And is too often the only thing that really seems to listen anymore.
I am caught spending my overnights intertwined amongst that peculiarity. The stink of engine exhaust sticking to my clothes; the burn of cheap booze on my breath. Strange scents and stinging sweat combining into the blue collar cologne of just another jet blasted junkie.
Maybe it’s the dangerous mix of fragile skin versus more durable alloys; maybe I am just an adrenaline addict. Because fighting those winged bastards is the closest high to combat that I have found. And I too often find myself itching for that next hit.
Craving the crush of time counting down. That rigid soundtrack ticking punishingly in the background. Heart pounding from too many near misses. Muscles straining against tons of cargo requiring a timely shift. Struggling, sweaty and red, despite the encroaching chill of another 517 winter’s bark.
Then just as suddenly, it’s all over.
And everything is shockingly quiet.
The airplane is gone. And not planning to return to the gate. Machine engines cool; the ramp rats all scatter. The ones not destined to gather again until the next night’s scheduled flight. When we’ll fucking do it all over again.
Badged and bruised, and sometimes bleeding, I ride out the nights alone. Take temporary speed-limited comfort in the asphalt of other Mittened counties. Because I am sick to death of the same fucking boulevard views. And I absolutely abhor the sensation of standing still.
So I sling myself around blue taxiway lights twinkling. In a little green car too often redlining. Racing myself to any number of nocturnal hideaways that pour me burning poisons. Seeking sanctuary there amongst the barstool prophets dispensing their unsolicited wisdom. And eventually melting into the numbing anonymity of an erasing ABVs bittered sting.
The ramp is temporarily clear. Unlike my head. Because I know that more monsters are inbound.
The only way out remains that last long road back to the lonely boulevard. And I’m just not equipped to tolerate that drive
At least, not yet.
Instead, I think I’ll just order another round.
And wait for better wings to lift me finally free…
