It was getting late, and time was running out for me to get some sleep before a long flight in the morning. The outfit that I wished to wear was dirty and needed cleaning. Not wanting to wait on a washing machine, I partially filled the bathroom sink with water and hand-washed my comfy shorts and soft v-neck t-shirt. The amount of dirt that was collected in just one day felt embarrassing. It was a mild and arid high desert night that allowed me the efficient use my time.
I set my clothes on the sill of an open window and turned on the ceiling fan to dry my clothes with the night air while I slept. I slept for a few short hours before the early alarm dragged me out of deep sleep and into my fresh, dry, slightly stiff clothes. I could not help to inhale more deeply through my nose as the clean night air aroma slid over my face. Suddenly I was wide awake.
It was before 5:00 AM as I walked to the terminal, heading to my gate. My body is still bathing in fresh air-dried clothes. The light blue t-shirt was adorned with a beautiful screen print of a free-standing classic road bike. Stacked atop the tattered leather saddle were three books, a guitar, a clock, binoculars, an hourglass, an upside-down skateboard, flowers in a pot of soil, and a balancing cat reaching a paw toward the handlebars. My shorts were nature hiking utility-looking, topping mid-thigh. My arm served as a lease to a cabin-sized roller bag. On my back was a trusty day pack containing my traveling essentials.
Arriving at the gate, my gamble to voluntarily check my bag paid off. The desk clerk tagged and took off with my bag, free of charge, usually collected back at the check-in desk. With the leashed arm hanging free, I headed for the nearby coffee shop. The plane was boarding, but with no line at the counter, I could quickly grab a fresh morning brew to get me started. Returning to the boarding process, I was called to the cattle chute line of my zone. Like corraling cows, we moved our way to the door with a bit of prodding by the staff. I minded little as I added to my morning joy a warm fresh coffee.
Glancing up, I found myself looking at a man in the herd so tough in appearance that I just wanted to hand him a cup of nails smothered in ketchup and a sheet of sandpaper for a napkin. Queer scenes such as these trigger my imagination into a frenzy of perception. The power of perception stood as the experiment of the day. To make matters more bizarre, multiple delays in the airport provided ample opportunity to walk the terminals filled with scenes. I employed terminal-wandering hours to find my internal versions of unique imaginative stories. It could be a passing time defense mechanism. Indeed, a challenging endeavor as long the story in my mind stays in my mind, then no one gets a conflated ego or finds a need to defend their honor.
