Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
The Layover
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Algebraically calculated—hours waiting in airports divided by lost luggage multiplied by misread maps equals X where X is a clichéd tourist, I’m an inveterate and veteran traveler. My one survival skill is surviving long layovers.
Held in limbo at an airport, I take a mental holiday before my holiday even begins. Time to think is a travel bonus for which the airline doesn’t charge. Unlike checked baggage, seat selection and itinerary changes, the overhead space above my cerebellum is free.
Today is different. In the United lounge at JFK airport, a cellphone chatterbox is disrupting my musings.
My attention is on a man in his late fifties. His voice is penetrating my airspace—a human UFO. My stomach is clenched.
His hair is tussled but coifed. Expensive, well-shined black loafers belie his otherwise casual travel outfit. At the breakfast buffet, with a cellphone tucked into the crook of his neck, his tong-like hands robotically scoop up scrambled eggs, a watery fruit puree and sugary muffins.
I’m guessing he’s a corporate accountant or business lawyer. Professions tasked with controlling the uncontrollable. I’d pay him to control himself.
I’d also wager he’s a nostalgia buff who pines for pagers on his belt and rotary phones on his desk. His tell is confusing an airport lounge with a telephone booth.
“Yes, I know. I’ve told him a hundred times,” he kowtows in a voice an octave too high. “Bread and booze in a pressurized cabin is not the bloat any of us wants,” he is explaining. I want to avoid eye contact, but my irritation activates a glare.
“How long before he’s back at work? I’m on it. I’ll make some calls.” Whoever controls him is demanding confirmation that everything is under control.
Multi-tasking, he shoves a biscuit into his mouth. While he shares his bleating conversation with every random traveler sipping coffee and reading the morning paper, crumbs tumble down his shirt front.
I glance across the room. A woman in a beige dress with matching purse and shoes briefly rolls her pleading eyes as if to say, “do something.” I shrug my shoulders.
The unwritten rules of travel etiquette prohibit bullying other passengers with full-bodied phone conversations or blaring boom boxes, but like so many good manners, compliance is voluntary. Like using common sense.
My instinct, what I really want to do, is fight fire with fire. I feel an urge to stand close to the unstoppable offender to place my own phone call. After all, even though I left my house only two hours ago, I have urgent things to discuss with my wife. I wonder what she thinks about repainting the basement.
When the call to board is announced, the talker is still on his phone. “Yes, yes, I know it’s urgent. As soon as I land, I’ll call you,” he promises as he pulls his Tumi carryon luggage down the airplane gangway. Fifteen feet behind him, I hear every word.
Seven hours of silence later, my flight glides out of the clouds. Pastoral villages held in place with church spires come into view.
Heathrow rushes toward me. So too does a Wi-Fi connection.
Once on British soil and though customs, at the airport gift shop I make my first souvenir purchase. Earplugs.
