Ode to the Guy Sitting Across from Me at Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport

Ode to the Guy Sitting Across from Me at Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport


That’s a very nice Blackberry you’ve got there, Mister. You must be having a really important conversation to be talking so loudly. Might I suggest next time not smashing that giant turkey tortilla wrap in your face while talking on the phone? You might not need to speak as loudly if your voice isn’t trying to escape from the food-filled cavernous hellscape that is your giant maw.

What’s in that daily planner you got there? Whatcha got planned? When you get to Chicago are you going to meet your platinum blonde mistress at the security check point, stick your tongue down her throat, and treat her to a nice dinner overlooking Trump Tower? Maybe you don’t have a mistress. Maybe you have a gay lover and you’re a state senator that I wouldn’t recognize because I haven’t lived here long enough. Not that I’d be able to recognize a state senator even if I’d lived here my whole life, but that’s not the point. Are you going to meet your gay lover Alejandro that you met at a fundraiser/timeshare sales pitch/tiki bar on your honeymoon in Mexico at O’Hare international and make beautiful gay sexy times with him at the Hilton just off Michigan Avenue?  I bet you have that daily planner open so conspicuously like that just to give the impression you’re an important businessman with important businessman-like things to accomplish in the Windy City, when in actuality you’re going to be having sweaty depraved sex and eating Vienna hot dogs the whole time. Lord knows I’d probably rather be doing that than spending a full day in a Library. No, that’s a lie. I love libraries and I hate sweating.

Your be-tasseled loafers say I had lunch with my wife at Bennigan’s before she dropped me off at Lindbergh terminal. But your slicked back hair and button-up with two buttons undone at the top and IBM laptop say I’m probably going to pee on someone today. That’s cool, airport guy. I don’t judge. You playing Minesweeper over there, Dingle McBlackberry? You got that little dot thinger in the middle of your keyboard that was the shittiest cursor controller ever? How much does that thing weigh, ten? Twelve pounds? Are you feeling jealous watching me type on this beautiful thin red laptop across from you? Well stop looking at me, then. That’s creepy.

“There’s no way you can get it in the 200s?” You say into your magical speaking device. You’re reserving a hotel room (see?! I knew my predictions weren’t far off!) and insist that $400 is too much for a room per night. $400 per night? Seriously? What kind of fucking room is that? Are the complimentary shampoo bottles gilded with gold? Does a small person hop out of your closet every time you open the door and hand you the very tie you wanted to wear because s/he’s also a mind reader? Does the bellhop offer happy endings? Well at least you’ve got standards. Gotta keep that shit in the 200s – you’re not made of money, after all. Although Alejandro might be.

Fare thee well, Airport guy. I don’t know who you are or what you do, but I’m going to judge you as a person anyway.

Katie Sisneros is feeling judgmental.

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