Back at LAX
LAX smells like aviation fuel.
Sitting double parked in front of terminal eight with the window down gives me a high I am not allowed to have. Distinct from the genetically tailored air conditioning inside, the arrivals loop is compressed atmosphere of a thousand landed flights, of billions of dollars in fuel surcharge and Bush taxes.
Watch the beginning of the movie "Love Actually" and you'll see the Disney version of the concept of people coming together. I puke at the rose scented unreality of the airport in that movie. LAX really is like my uncle's verbal illustrations of Da Nang 1968, except mostly the biggest incoming barrage is Air China flight 666 from Taipei loaded with avian flu and illicit alternatives for cold medication.
I am waiting in the illegal zone.
Was it terminal eight or terminal six?
Was it arrivals or departures?
Was it Seattle's best or Starbucks?
Did she take her birth control pill or did she "forget"?
My questions make no sense, and neither does the illegal zone. I would be reminded of a sheer madness that is Hoboken with all this double parking which I am happily contributing to.
I drift back to my cell phone conversation with Alana of the previous night.
"Michelle gave me your number, she said you're good for it".
There's something about Alana's accent that makes her exotic reference of the unnamed "it" as specific and pointed and decidedly erotic. My genetic programming to pro-create is cross-referencing ancestry of mixed Anglo-Celtic dogshit and I can just affirm that her accent is real unlike my Americanism. The rolling lyric that she's been able to project since she was screaming for a cookie or whatever the Irish feed their young as infants, it's evolved not affected like us all here.
I'm reduced to a one worder, "Ok". Then I firm up again and think of the next down.
My selections arrive at the question of do I really care what goes on in her little red mop covered skull? Her thin lips and perky tits and the ability to wear green. My memories were pickled, but flirting with her in San Francisco was a mixture of me talking and her breath pumping it's Gaelic flavor of pheromones all over me.
We exchanged a simple set of smalltalk for ten minutes then moved onto the obvious topic.
"My layover would be pretty dull if I didn't get out of LAX, dontya know?"
I met her once, but the memory map is already set as if it's in my head laid out and under some canvas tarp that I'd rip off just as sure as I'd not hesitate to rip her panties off her given the chance. She's basically offering herself to me for the day and we've not said a hundred words, however the price has to be paid first.
"You know something?" She purposely paused for a second, the way her voice trailed up at the end. She had a hidden agenda, I was the target here and she didn't want me to get off the hook.
I responded, "I know a lot", but she cut me off.
"You need to pick me up from the airport" and with that we were back in the bar on that night a couple of weeks previous, bending our arms and looking at each other a little too much.
"and you need to show me some places"
And her velvet murmured resonance entered my ears and circled around my brain triggering the flight or fuck impulse. It was a synaptic junction that I have been trained since a teenager to select the latter.
My pause was a little too noticeable. I was not sure I was in control of this conversation any longer. I needed to get back in the seat, needed to wrest it from her again and put her on her back.
"ok, I'll save you from the airport lounge experience"
It was what she wanted to hear.
She interrupted, "Grand". It was an unnatural response to my comment but her sound made it fit anyway.
The attack plan formed in my head in an instant, even though unlike most exchanges with strange women it didn't really involve the question of if, but how and when.
I did my best to not imitate her accent, "I'm sure after the airport seats you probably need muscular therapy."
"Aye, I'm still suffering from the flight here, how did you guess?" She was onto me, there was an unsaid attached, the battle was on and she knew the game too well. Before I could respond she continued.
"You could definitely help me with that so come get me and I expect you to feed me before I have to leave, you got that? Now I have to go so listen up".
She gave me the flight information and hung up.
Each year that goes by, each transient that I pickup from the airport, the smell stays the same. Whether I'm there for business or for the pleasure of picking up Irish models on a world tour, if just for the afternoon, airports give me a healthy benzene ring high and good dose of anticipation.
As she stepped through the automatic doors into the sea of used kerosene for the first time with her little duffel bag under her shoulder I saw a superb woman. She walked purposely and with flip of her head tossed her hair off her face. She stepped over the curb as she saw me get out of my jeep and crossed the taxi lane like a woman who knew where she was in the world and had a pretty good idea where she was going.
These people impress me.
Sitting double parked in front of terminal eight with the window down gives me a high I am not allowed to have. Distinct from the genetically tailored air conditioning inside, the arrivals loop is compressed atmosphere of a thousand landed flights, of billions of dollars in fuel surcharge and Bush taxes.
Watch the beginning of the movie "Love Actually" and you'll see the Disney version of the concept of people coming together. I puke at the rose scented unreality of the airport in that movie. LAX really is like my uncle's verbal illustrations of Da Nang 1968, except mostly the biggest incoming barrage is Air China flight 666 from Taipei loaded with avian flu and illicit alternatives for cold medication.
I am waiting in the illegal zone.
Was it terminal eight or terminal six?
Was it arrivals or departures?
Was it Seattle's best or Starbucks?
Did she take her birth control pill or did she "forget"?
My questions make no sense, and neither does the illegal zone. I would be reminded of a sheer madness that is Hoboken with all this double parking which I am happily contributing to.
I drift back to my cell phone conversation with Alana of the previous night.
"Michelle gave me your number, she said you're good for it".
There's something about Alana's accent that makes her exotic reference of the unnamed "it" as specific and pointed and decidedly erotic. My genetic programming to pro-create is cross-referencing ancestry of mixed Anglo-Celtic dogshit and I can just affirm that her accent is real unlike my Americanism. The rolling lyric that she's been able to project since she was screaming for a cookie or whatever the Irish feed their young as infants, it's evolved not affected like us all here.
I'm reduced to a one worder, "Ok". Then I firm up again and think of the next down.
My selections arrive at the question of do I really care what goes on in her little red mop covered skull? Her thin lips and perky tits and the ability to wear green. My memories were pickled, but flirting with her in San Francisco was a mixture of me talking and her breath pumping it's Gaelic flavor of pheromones all over me.
We exchanged a simple set of smalltalk for ten minutes then moved onto the obvious topic.
"My layover would be pretty dull if I didn't get out of LAX, dontya know?"
I met her once, but the memory map is already set as if it's in my head laid out and under some canvas tarp that I'd rip off just as sure as I'd not hesitate to rip her panties off her given the chance. She's basically offering herself to me for the day and we've not said a hundred words, however the price has to be paid first.
"You know something?" She purposely paused for a second, the way her voice trailed up at the end. She had a hidden agenda, I was the target here and she didn't want me to get off the hook.
I responded, "I know a lot", but she cut me off.
"You need to pick me up from the airport" and with that we were back in the bar on that night a couple of weeks previous, bending our arms and looking at each other a little too much.
"and you need to show me some places"
And her velvet murmured resonance entered my ears and circled around my brain triggering the flight or fuck impulse. It was a synaptic junction that I have been trained since a teenager to select the latter.
My pause was a little too noticeable. I was not sure I was in control of this conversation any longer. I needed to get back in the seat, needed to wrest it from her again and put her on her back.
"ok, I'll save you from the airport lounge experience"
It was what she wanted to hear.
She interrupted, "Grand". It was an unnatural response to my comment but her sound made it fit anyway.
The attack plan formed in my head in an instant, even though unlike most exchanges with strange women it didn't really involve the question of if, but how and when.
I did my best to not imitate her accent, "I'm sure after the airport seats you probably need muscular therapy."
"Aye, I'm still suffering from the flight here, how did you guess?" She was onto me, there was an unsaid attached, the battle was on and she knew the game too well. Before I could respond she continued.
"You could definitely help me with that so come get me and I expect you to feed me before I have to leave, you got that? Now I have to go so listen up".
She gave me the flight information and hung up.
Each year that goes by, each transient that I pickup from the airport, the smell stays the same. Whether I'm there for business or for the pleasure of picking up Irish models on a world tour, if just for the afternoon, airports give me a healthy benzene ring high and good dose of anticipation.
As she stepped through the automatic doors into the sea of used kerosene for the first time with her little duffel bag under her shoulder I saw a superb woman. She walked purposely and with flip of her head tossed her hair off her face. She stepped over the curb as she saw me get out of my jeep and crossed the taxi lane like a woman who knew where she was in the world and had a pretty good idea where she was going.
These people impress me.
posted by J at 12:45 PM
2 Comments:
You're such an alpha male. I love your writing more and more. Nothing as intoxicating as an irish accent, it's all consuming.
You want to know how to impress her. Make her some soda bread and tell her she's grand, "oh you're grand, you're grand".
What impresses me, is how people who are clueless when it comes to Game assume that James Bond-like flirts such as this don’t really happen. But they do!
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