Pacing Inside the Milwaukee Airport

Pacing - it's all I can do right now. Luckily, I had a filling lunch, so I won't need to eat here.

A baby crawls in the opposite direction of my pacing, past a cute girl seated at my gate. The baby laughs as her father tries to keep up. It must make him sick that his not-yet-walking daughter's little hands are mopping up the heavily trodden, matted airport carpet, but he's laughing too. Maybe he's just happy because his baby's happy.

I used to enjoy pacing by people on payphones, wondering about the content of their conversations. Now everyone's on cell phones and I could care less what any of them are saying. On payphones, people always seemed to speak in muffled tones, not wanting others to overhear. But on cell phones everyone talks too loud.

I'm getting hungry in spite of myself. Since I had that big lunch, I should seek out something light, something healthy, like fruit salad or one of those little yogurts with the crunchy stuff in a plastic container on top - is it granola?

I order a polish sausage on a pretzel roll from Usinger's. With potato chips. No sooner than I finish the last delicious bite do I see the cute girl from my gate buy a fruit salad cup from the coffee shop. That's what I should've done.

The tv at the gate shows President Obama complaining that Congress voted down his bill without anyone making any coherent arguments against it. I suppose nobody told him that people don't have to make coherent arguments anymore to get what they want.

Aha! The cute girl didn't get just a fruit salad after all - I see her eating a wrap at the gate. No idea what kind of wrap it is, but watching her eat it makes me feel better about myself. Besides, I think I worked off at least a couple bites of that polish sausage doing all of this pacing. Flight's about to board, but I think I have time for one more lap.

Johnson

The hotel barroom sang a muffled song of jilts and laughs and confident exertions. A bandbox of a space with a lone billiards table and an L shaped bar, a few worn leather chairs and sofas rounding it out, businessmen and a country club crowd filled its seats and standing room.

"Come on now, Johnson, you can't possibly have bet against the Phillies last night. And who bets on baseball, anyway?" asked Robeson.

"I only bet it when I get the urge," replied Johnson, "and last night I had precisely that."

A third man sat and listened to this exchange, unamused. A business associate of Johnson's, visiting unexpectedly from China, Johnson felt his disapproval and knew its root.

"Oh, Wang, don't be such a curmudgeon. You've traveled all this way, may as well relax and let yourself go a little."

Wang boiled. "Mr. Johnson, you are correct. I've come a long way indeed. And all day today you avoid discuss with me the reason I am here. We go to ballgame, get massage, have long dinner with your friend-" Robeson nodded "-but not once we discuss business. You know why I am here."

Johnson, slightly drunk, laughed. "Sure, of course, you're here to bust my balls."

Now Robeson laughed too. "Mr. Johnson you owe my company hundreds of thousands of dollars! We are reaching the high credit limit we can extend to you. If this balance not cleared up soon, we will stop the relationship."

Robeson cringed as he listened to Wang threaten his friend. "Excuse me," he said, and walked to the other side of the bar, where he seamlessly fell into conversation with a well coiffed acquaintance.

"You can't cut us off, Wang! Don't be ridiculous, we own the market here, your customer base. We'll work something out tomorrow. Have another drink, wouldja?" Johnson slurred a little bit. He finished his Scotch and signaled for the bartender. "Wang, whaddaya wanna drink?"

"Nothing, Mr. Johnson. I'll retire now to my room. We talk first thing in the morning. 8:00. See you then in the lobby." He bowed to Johnson and left in a brisk strut.

"Darn Chinese," muttered Johnson to himself. He hid his stress level with a forced smile – a frequent, false expression of self-satisfaction. He thought of everyone to whom he owed money: Wang's company, various other enterprises in China and some in Europe, and multiple individuals, some more demanding than others. Lacking for a solution, he ordered another Scotch and resigned that he'd find a way to appease Wang the next day. He'd come up with something, he thought, he'd always come up with something.

The Traveler

It's usually all so easy. There's unlimited money, so there's no money. Time allows for him and prevents others.

He sleeps the minimum required hours and awakes precisely when he should, no alarm clock necessary. Dressing as comfortably as possible, still looking the part, provides a fluidity he seeks for all situations, all possibilities. He drives to the airport when he knows the roads are clear, and his status with the airlines lets him breeze past everyone else in the security line. The plane lands and his rental car awaits with the key in the ignition.

Nobody notices anything different about him unless they look very closely, and over a prolonged period. It's important that he blend in with everyone else, even as he receives special treatment everywhere he goes.

The difficulty arrives when something unexpected happens. It could be simple as a comment from the wrong man or woman at the right moment, or monumental as a sinkhole swallowing the street beneath his feet. When unprepared, he disappears. Don't look for him, but you may recognize him somewhere, someday, if you can see his face.