I'm Bringing THE RESISTANCE to the Airport by Making It Where I Live Now.
“De-planing” is not a word and someone should eat and sleep at Terminal B until everyone is made aware of this tyranny.
It’s 2018, and because most of the best people will be fulfilling their suicide pacts this year, I will have no one left with whom to resist.
While I burn to join my comrades in the sweetness of the nether-nothing, I unfortunately suffer from a congenital medical condition that precludes my participation in a death pact. Tragically, I am too sick to die. As such, I must contribute to The Resistance in an equally (if not more) drastic manner as my soon-passed partners in protest. I will do this by living full-time in the airport.
Yes, you heard me right. The airport. And Midway, not O’Hare. No half measures.
Why the airport? Why not the airport. The airport is neither here nor there, who owns the sky?, and where even is ‘home?’ It is the art installation of the firmament. It is also the front lines of the war on borderism and the geopolitical slicing of Mother Earth. We’re all from Africa.
Also, what the fuck is “de-planing?” Huh? What does that mean? That’s an ignorant ass word. Oh, and Chili’s To Go? Is that supposed to be funny? I’m not taking a Big Mouth Burger anywhere but to the aircraft lavatory as soon as the seatbelt light dings off. And hey, parents — you’re not allowed to sleep if your kids are on the plane. That’s rule number fucking one. And by the way, I’m watching HBO’s Oz on the tablet so you might want to take the middle seat and give the little one the aisle unless you want your kindergartner to get a crash course on penitentiary politics. I’m not gonna feel guilty about premium cable on a five-hour non-stop to Dulles International. I’m just not.
So, yeah. I mean, those are definitely factors. But, mostly it’s because of who owns the sky?
While we’re on the subject, did you hear Frontier’s got $39 one-ways to Orlando? Not that I’m gonna book one or nothing, but, I mean, sweet deal. Just saying. Epcot.
For the next 365 days, I will protest the nucleus of human impermanence by making it my residence. For one year, I will play the patsy, dragging a luggage fit to burst, muttering “Gate E6?” and catching neck-pillowed sleep in 45-minute increments, a terminal hopper, a fugitive, a ghost of the concourse. Once per week, I will dine, disguised, at Wolfgang Puck Express.
It will be hard, but, as I’ve been practicing Zen Judaism since the day I made it up, I think that I am uniquely qualified to handle the haze of worldly suffering and reliance on Einstein Bros Bagels inherent in a life lived at Departures. In the end, I will almost probably have risen to the rank of Manager at Hudson News & Gifts, from which vantage I will finish — once and for all — the Stephanie Plum series of detective novels, and begin to dismantle the aero-travel industrial complex from within.
(Maybe while I’m there, I can convince people that when you form a queue for a sit-down stall, you don’t select an individual unit. It’s one fucking line and the next person up goes to whichever stall opens first. Look, we’ve all gotta squeeze one and we all got up at four fucking thirty to fly to our niece’s quince, BUT THERE ARE STILL RULES!)
Business class will burn. Resist!