Travel has once again sucked the life out of me. Eighteen
hours in the air, another 4 hour delay in departing Buenos Aires, including two
on the runway, and the extremely tense fourteen-hour pressure-cooker I had
endured leading up to departure…now finds me spent.
The company, my client, was going under, and there would
be nothing I could do to save it. The economy was going down the tubes and the
government was once again clamping down. Time to leave, and hastily – they
weren’t taking too kindly to the likes of me.
My head was splitting, and I felt weakened to the point of
accepting defeat, and a pact with the devil herself - whichever virus chose to
take up residence in my gut was fine with me, as long as I could suffer in my
own bed, foul my own toilet, and cleanse in my own tub. I simply needed to get
Home.
It
was almost 3:30 A.M. and the arrival line at Customs was especially long and
slow for this hour, due to a combination of a minimal staff performing the
processing and clearances, and the near-simultaneous landing of two delayed
international jumbos stuffed to the wings.
There
were some in the surly line that grumbled aloud about opening more queues,
government cutbacks, third-world treatment, and so on, but they would learn
soon enough, as I had previously, that the officers behind the counters do not,
in fact, have deaf ears, are not blind, and they mentally register each
complaint and complainer, while maintaining a stoic exterior and focus on their
mission. In my case…in particular my suit-case, the contents of which had been dumped ( ...let me emphasize “dump”) on
a metal table, rummaged through, toiletries, clean clothes, and laundry, scrambled and
scattered, then left for me to pickup.
“Pick
it up.” He snarled.
There
was a brief moment of tension between us, as the ‘official’ and I held cold eye
contact. There was little doubt it was ‘personal’ on his part, yet committed
under the guise of ‘simply performing his duty’ - a cowardly abuse of the
minimal power he held inside his frustrated life. A schoolyard bully, no doubt,
just grown…if not, then a victim of same, seeking revenge. As we stood within
range of each other’s breath, he admonished, “…let’s move this along…or we’ll
pull you…” and I begrudgingly stuffed my gear back into my bags. “Pulling me”
meant going to the ‘interview room’ for questioning and clearance…but only
after a long wait. I had seen others face that fate and had no desire to
participate – just more time in purgatory.
So,
now, while many groused, and the nausea set in, I simply allowed myself to play
brain-dead while standing, lifting, shuffling, standing, lifting shuffling,
standing…if anyone had the poor judgment to challenge me, and suggest I ‘pick
up the pace’, ‘move up’, or allow them to ‘go ahead’ because of some personal
sense of self-importance…well, I wasn’t sure I could still maintain the thin
thread of patience I was trying to maintain. But, I melded in and no one
provoked. I was gratified for small favors. A squabble broke out in the
neighboring line, two men and a woman were escorted away, thereby minimizing
the customs crew further, and making us all pay for the transgressors’ stupifying stupidity.
Finally
I slid into a cab in queue; 4:08 A.M. The sun would be up soon, but even at
this dark hour, the air was thick with humidity. My shirt was soaked and clung
to my back.
“Christ,
feels like Miami…” I said aloud. The cabbie responded, “I know, Mister. Been
very, very, humid. They say rain, but no rain, just the humidity. Three days
now.”
My
bad luck was holding. His AC was out. “Sorry, Mister. Old cab. Tell me about
it…pain in the ass, this car…this, the shit they give me.”
Windows
all down, and at that hour, the crazy s.o.b. cranked it full-speed onto near-empty
freeways, with a welcome blast of air and the familiar whiff of exhaust, we made
it out to the valley in 40 minutes flat. He left me on the curb, quite smartly. He’d
be back to the airport for the morning rush. A nice bonus gig, on an otherwise
dead Sunday morning.
The
eastern sky was turning lavender-pink and melding to a dim peach, the horizon
rimmed with a yellow crest, soon to burst with light. I did not want to witness
dawn, my retinas couldn’t take it – less my head explodes. I craved darkness
and solitude. My solitude, Miranda…enfolded in her arms, tangled between her
legs, cradled within her hips.
This job has worn us both down. My
erratic schedule…months away…the strain.
She’ll
be surprised, and that was my plan. Make-up time…time to reconnect, that’s my
only intention now. Both in need of soothing…
Standing
in the entry, I set down my bags quietly, so as not to startle her.
“Man shot while returning home unexpectedly…”
The headline crossed my mind, as I realized I was invading, what had been her space, this whole while.
Then came the music. Muffled, from the back of the
house…the bedroom. The CD I brought home on my last visit. She thought it
sexy, this Argentine tango beat. It triggered her libido, and the rhythms in her
she never felt before, or even knew she had.
Did she hear me? Was she playing it for my benefit? Was this my welcome home? Did she, too, have a surprise?
In the shape I was in, I might not be capable of rising to the occasion at that particular moment, but it was certainly a track we would be pursuing as soon as I was clean, rested, and able. Yet, the more I consider it, the more capable I start to feel. I smile for the first time in a month. So relieved to be back home. I slipped off my stank-damp shirt and tossed it to the ground – just more laundry. I continued to undress, belt, shoes, zipper… as I made my way down the hall…then came the man’s low chuckle. I knew the nature of that laugh…understanding the lust inherent therein… there in the dark, behind the door. My door. Dirty things were happening to an Argentine tango.
Did she hear me? Was she playing it for my benefit? Was this my welcome home? Did she, too, have a surprise?
In the shape I was in, I might not be capable of rising to the occasion at that particular moment, but it was certainly a track we would be pursuing as soon as I was clean, rested, and able. Yet, the more I consider it, the more capable I start to feel. I smile for the first time in a month. So relieved to be back home. I slipped off my stank-damp shirt and tossed it to the ground – just more laundry. I continued to undress, belt, shoes, zipper… as I made my way down the hall…then came the man’s low chuckle. I knew the nature of that laugh…understanding the lust inherent therein… there in the dark, behind the door. My door. Dirty things were happening to an Argentine tango.
