Dallas/Fort Worth international Airport (DFW)

June 2005, Flying While Black

I'm returning to Tucson from PA, happy to be halfway home and sipping wine. To my left are three characters who engage me some mild chit chat.  At the far end of our cluster is a large woman with a south Philly accent.  She has a loud laugh which feels generous. She's going to Tucson too and we recognized each other from the bar in PHL. Beside her is a classic Dallas blonde bombshell who is already tipsy and wiggles her manicured fingers over her red zinfandel when she talks. Between Dallas-gal and me is a black man named Derreck with an African-sounding last name. Without Derreck the rest of us would never have become a grouping.

Derreck, who fascinates us all, tells exciting stories about his success that combined with the generous laugh of Philly-lady and the wiggling red nails of Dallas-gal makes me feel incredibly optimistic. 

I order my merlot and Derreck asks the waitress for a napkin.  I get my drink, but no napkin appears for Derreck.

Derreck tells us about how he worked for a small internet company that was bought by Yahoo!! He tells is it so enthusiastically that Dallas-gal actually says "Yaaa-hoo!" and would have waved her cowboy hat, had she been wearing one.  Instead, the fingers wiggle a little faster than normal and don't fold into her palms when she's finished.

"Now I get to travel ALL OVER," Derreck actually beams as he says this. I'm grinning too.  There is something beautiful and refreshing about the way he makes us all feel successful.

He tries to flag the waitress again, and is ignored again.  I notice the frustration on his face. The waitress asks Philly-lady how she's doing.  Derreck leans across Dallas-gal to get the waitress' attention.  I am shocked as the waitress appears to actively ignore him, yet slaps the napkin he was requesting onto the bar without looking his way.  Derreck takes a deep breath while studying the napkin. Then, he seems pleased to have the napkin and shows no indications of anger.

Derreck proceeds to tell us the ins and outs of traveling all the time for work.  Dallas-gal is especially interested in learning about valet parking at the Dallas airport.

"Such a time saver!" Derreck proclaims. Then excused himself from conversation to make a rental car call to Los Angeles. When he hangs up, he drains his beer.  The waitress is refilling Dallas-gal's zin and Derreck asks for a refill, "Please?".  The waitress walks away without acknowledging that she hears him. "Hey!" He calls after her. "Excuse me!" He's standing on the rung of his stool leaning over the bar.  Amazingly, his tone is not angry.

She returns and pours him a beer, saying nothing.

"Thanks!" Derreck chirps. 

I am impressed with his control, and wish I had some of Derreck's characteristics.

Dallas/Fort Worth international Airport (DFW)

September 2004, Who Were Those Masked Ministers?

I squeeze myself in at the end of the bar at the TGIFriday's in terminal C.  I'm standing on my toes, leaning and stretching to shout my drink order to the bartender. Beside me is an older man and a younger man.  The younger man looks too young to drink, but he's holding a beer. Our luggage is piled together in such a stack that I briefly ponder crafting my own bar stool out of it.  I decide it might be dangerous.  I hover over the pile instead.  

The men are talking about "the service." I'm only half listening because I'm distracted by their demeanor with each other. I wonder if they are father and son.  Doesn't seem like it. They have too much familiar ease (Was that an ironic statement?). Maybe they are uncle and nephew. Maybe lovers. I settle on lovers. Older man keeps leaning in to make another point. Younger man nods, looks over, makes a brief response and reverts to gazing at the TV behind the bar.  They are very comfortable together.  Enough to hold a friendly conversation while barely paying attention to each other.

"We're getting ready to leave." Older man says to me, "Do you want this seat?"

"Sure." I say.

"We're headed back to Vermont." Older man continues.

I nod.

"We were here for my mother's funeral." Older man says.

"I'm sorry," I respond.

"Been coming for a long time," he says and finishes his beer. "We're ministers," he tells me.

I nod again, this time adding a "Hmm." to note my mild interest. I note that I was right to suspect they were not related.

"He came down to do the service." Older man indicates Younger man.

I'm dying to ask why, but they are suddenly occupied with slinging luggage on to their shoulders and bustling out.  I watch them go, still filled with questions, and order a quesadilla.

Dallas/Fort Worth international Airport (DFW)

March 2004, Cowtown Bar, I Hope Michael Moore Reads This

"It's not as good as you think." She tells me, taking a big swig of her Molson.

"Really?"

"No. A lot of Canadians come to the U.S. for surgeries."

"Why?"

"Because they don't have to wait," she raises her eyebrows.

"But do they pay for American surgeries?" I ask, picturing the bills for thousands and thousands of dollars.

"Yes."

I gasp. "The cost beats the wait?" This is very hard to believe!  I thought Canadians loved their healthcare!  

"Yes."

"Wow. That's pretty bad."

She is a short haired women in khaki pants and a plain white t-shirt.  She appears to be neat and orderly and wears burgundy tinged rectangular glasses.  She is sitting alone at the corner of the bar when I join her. She starts the conversation by asking, "Where ya headed?"  I respond and ask her the same question.

"Montreal."

"Are you Canadian?" I ask.

"I live there, but I grew up in San Antonio.  I was there for my mother's funeral."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"She was old," She says, shrugging and gulping her beer.

We talk about old age, retirement and nursing homes, which leads us to the topic of socialized healthcare.

I take away two morals: 1.) The grass is always greener, and 2.) If you've got the money you can get the services, but you might not want to get them in Canada unless you've got a lot of time on your hands and you'd prefer to spend the money on jewels or trips to expensive places like Moscow.

Dallas/Fort Worth international Airport (DFW)

June 2004: The Cowboy Couples go to Vegas

One seat left in the crowded TGIFridays in terminal C between two ten-gallon hats. I take it, but feel small and cramped.  I order a merlot. To my right is a beaming cowboy and his big-haired blonde Tammy Faye traveling companion. They're headed to Vegas to get married Smiley Cowboy tells me.

"Ever been to Vegas?" he asks me.

"Not really," I say.

"You can't believe the deals in Vegas," he says into his beer, shaking his head (which is dramatic because of the hat!)

To my left, a more somber cowboy and HIS big-haired blonde Tammy Faye. He stretches his back in order to sit taller and talk over my head. "Chew say y'all 'er goin' to Vegas?"

"Yup. Y'all too?"

"Yeah. Same flight?"  They compare times, gates and finally flight numbers getting increasingly excited by this discovery.

Smiley Cowboy say, "We're gettin' married!"

"Well, hell! Us too!" Somber Cowboy is really loosening up.

Soon the two couples and laughing and hooting over me, slapping me on the back and buying drinks (even for me!). 

"Y'all want to be our wedding witnesses?"

"Hell yes!"

I'm caught up in the excitement too.  I'm even mildly disappointed that I won't get to see the big event(s).

"Where y'all stayin?"

"Stardust."

"Hot damn, us too!"  There was a literal "yee-haw" at this moment. I swear to God I'm not making this up. I'm slapped on the back again and nearly spill my merlot on the way to my mouth.  I grip the sloshing juice glass in both hands and offer a controlled toast.  More toasts come.  Soon I'm given another round so I continue to be involved in the toasting.

I not really a part of the conversation this time, and yet I am. I feel like the catalyst.  The link in this joyful meeting. Had Smiley Cowboy and I not started talking, Somber Cowboy would never have known to ask about Vegas and destinies would have been completely changed.  I sip my merlot and think, wouldn't it be cool if these couples become life-long friends?

It's time for their flight and they exit whooping, their snakeskin books clicking on the tile, the ladies huddled as they walked, finally able to girl-talk.  I take a deep breath and stretch my arms into the wide open spaces left by their absence.

Dallas/Fort Worth international Airport (DFW)

September 2004: Florida Hurricane Bitch

I mean that with the greatest respect, love and kind wishes. She has been my favorite bar-pardner thus far!

Sitting in the TGIFridays when this thin blonde lady already holding a martini walks up to the end of the bar, beside me.  She is talking loudly on her cell phone.

"Do you think I'm attractive?" she barks at me.  I'm momentarily confused about whether she's talking to me or to her cell phone.  She stares me down, says, "Hold on" to the phone and commands me to respond,"Do you think I'm attractive?" My merlot actually ripples and I hold the glass with both hands.

"Of course" I respond.

"HE thinks I'm attractive," she says, proving her point into her phone.

The lady, the phone and I continue to hold a three-way conversation.  I'm never quite sure whether she's talking to me or the phone, but I find enthusiastic or sympathetic head nods and an occasionally "of course" satisfy her and we proceed.  I order another merlot.

She tells me that the west wing of her house--her son's wing--has been destroyed and double destroyed by the two hurricanes that hit Stuart, Florida this summer, Francis and Jeanne. They are fleeing to LA to recover. 

"The servants are in a tither," she tells me with a wide arm flourish (actually using the word servants), "but they'll handle the clean-up, contractors and reconstruction." She nods at me knowingly.  I nod back.  She orders a 3rd martini (3rd since I've been with her, at least.)

She is a tennis pro. "Maybe you've heard of me," she says pulling the new martini's olive off with her teeth. 

I had not. 

"I'm also an underwear and swimsuit model," She says, "among other things.  You've seen me" She pokes the empty toothpick toward me, "Really, when people ask what I do, I say, GOD! What DON'T I do?"

I nod.  She's well over 50 and looks it. She has an I-picked-oranges-in-the-sun-when-I-was-young-but-hide-it-with-surgery look. Her facelifts have not held.  Yet she repeats after brushing some of her spilled martini down onto my luggage, "I'm a swimsuit model." in present tense, "you've seen me."  She winks.

I suppose that possible. I'm falling in love with her energy.  She is so bold and brash!  In normal circumstances I'm sure she's be awful to deal with, but in the DFW TGIFridays, she's fabulous!

Her son, an overweight, slovenly young man with greasy black hair slouches in.  He is dressed entirely in black.  He had wires sticking out out of his ears and his hips. He is holding a GameBoy. He orders a beer. She pays. He slouches back out.  I wonder if it's legal to take your beer into the terminal, and I ponder how some folks are amazing confidant breaking rules.

"He's so torn up about the loss of the west wing," she tells me, talking a bit more quietly than before and shaking her head side to side. We watch him lumber back to the gate area with his beer and GameBoy. Suddenly her phone is ringing and we're off on a three-way again.  "It's my agent in LA," she tells me. Soon she is pacing and yelling.  He apparently did not arrange for their limo at LAX.  "Incompetent bastard!" she screams into the phone and dumps the remains her 4th martini onto the bar.

Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport (DFW)

April 2005: Three Characters

The Harley dealership manager from Austin who has "250 choices of rides, (dramatic pause, sips from beer, turns back to me, eyebrows lifting) Everyday." is returning from Kansas City where he'd toured the Harley factory. I think he'd be good in his own local TV commercials.

The Army dude is divorced and "can't see the kids." He's coming home from Iraq where, "Unlike in LA," he notes, raising his glass to the brunette beside him, a car chase ends with a tank running over the car.  He says, "Trying not to shoot people so much anymore.  So now we just stop the car by running over it with the tank, drag the driver out and beat the shit out of him." He leaves his beer only half full because he "can't be stumbling to the gate," but he eats a hot dog in three bites.  Three seconds flat.  Seriously, it was impressive.

Beside him is he LA Chick. The LA chick's Dad produced Bob Hope's USO specials.  Her Mom is Mexican, but she doesn't think that's very unusual.  "So many people say 'wow', but I don't even notice the accent." She's headed to Baltimore to do stage management for the Miss USA pageant where she must insure that the girls are in the right place at the right time.  Cause if they're not the names displayed on the screen won't match.  "It's happened!" She declares. "It's a challenge to manager an event that's judged live."

She nods to the Army guy, "Yes, there was a shooting-out-the-window car chase in LA today." They nod at each other in mutual understanding and she touches his shoulder, "But not in my neighborhood. And no tanks.  Tank drivers would definitely get sued."