Slipping wild down around DeWitt Road. Right where the airport roads all blink and bend together. Down past the inconvenient end of 28 Left jutting out into Clinton County. That rippling runway scar along which a familiar tin tail number used to shimmy and brake in bombastic MD-11 style. Back in those happy times. Before that catastrophic crash, that cost me more of my friends.
I was left shifting gears mechanically in time with the rhythm of sifted memories. Slapping the stick just to better absorb a soundtrack that only I could hear. Because something had to push me through all the suck.
And sometimes, you just have to ride out all the fucking hurt.
It was just another unsupervised dose, of yet another manic Michigan peak season Monday. One of those inconveniently obstructive nights that seems to linger beyond what could ever be considered reasonable. Or responsible.
But then, those have never really been my favorite parameters. And I had already done enough adulting that night. Because all the tin had been successfully kicked; all of my crew went home safe to their better homes and families.
The ramp was finally clear. And shockingly quiet after having borne witness to the earlier symphony of our nightly 757 downsized chaos. That dangerous battle between bundled meatbags and frosty metal monsters; that diligently danced disparity between the coldness of melting time and the neediness of uncooperative tracking numbers demanding onward momentum.
My only reward? Another $100 bar tab. And another round of barroom friends left worrying for my safety.
But at least someone fucking noticed me for once.
It was an admittedly refreshing change of pace from the usual anonymity I have come to embrace. Because I learned early that foxes thrive best unseen on the dirty periphery. And I invested myself hard in the illusion of that identity.
Even though it is lonely as hell.
And sometimes, hurts like a motherfucker.
Maybe that is why I was left walking away with a pocketful of $2 bills. And no explanations. That strange currency exchanged for a stranger man left to spend.
But fuck it. Let’s just load up that fancy digital jukebox. And torture a room full of intimate strangers with an unexpected barrage of Taylor Swift. That same song, queued up on a 30 track repeat loop of bubble gum insanity, helping to set the tone of my disillusionment.
I am honestly surprised I wasn’t immediately banned. That would have been an undeniably reasonable reaction to such an acoustical war crime. And I honestly expected no quarter after having fired off those 30 shots.
In my defense, it somehow seemed to fit the moment. Even though it’s objectively a terrible song. And while I was in no condition to accept the offer a second guess, I could sure as fuck order another round.
Admittedly, probably not one of my better moments. But I have never been one to shy away from embracing the ridiculous. Or writing about the inevitable fallout. Probably because it often makes for a better story.
The majority of her little champagne problems were self-inflicted anyway. Leaving me to somehow inherit the burden of these terminal whiskey troubles.
But then, a pretty new face unexpectedly asked me about my music from across the bar.
And nothing else seemed to really matter.
I tried my inebriated best to give her an honest answer. Because I generally tend to listen to some pretty weird shit.
In spite of my eclectic musical tastes, I laboured to twist my usual resting barface sneer into some semblance of a smile.
I liked her ink; I think she liked my grey.
Maybe that’s all it will ever be. But there, in that moment, at least it was something.
And I found myself wanting to hold her.
So I forced myself into some semblance of a fucking human being for once. Instead of the inherently pickled barstool cliché I have somehow come to exemplify.
Admittedly, though, I am horribly out of practice.
But I still downed gave it a shot.
There are a lot of long days, and even longer nights, between now and that next Monday maybe when I might get to see her again. And a lot more unpredictable airplanes left to load up, when not busy chasing down more dirty drinks.
In between the annoyance of that static, I will attempt to find her a better song.
Because I want to hear more of her music, too.
