Three Fingers, Three Olives and Three Hours To Kill

Some things are certain in life. These things are different for each person, dependant on numerous variables. Travel however; seems to have its own certainties, especially if one must fly with any frequency. Those whose lives revolve around this increasingly unpleasant form of travel know that among other things, delays are inevitable. There are a myriad of reasons for these group detentions with weather usually being the culprit. Most seasoned travelers have resigned themselves to this inconvenient truth albeit there are the minorities that feel obliged to unleash a torrent of expletives when confronted with these situations. These unpredictable intervals serve to remind us why the ubiquitous airport lounge exists.

There is something about these darkened spaces which helps to assuage our infinite anxieties about all of the endless permutations revolving around our being helplessly held captive miles away from our desired destination. In these watering holes along the miles of concourses countless travelers intermingle with the scent of stale liquor, popcorn, colognes, and perfumes and, tobacco infused overcoats. Amidst the bourgeois collection of humanity, are the celebrants and, the rueful; the neurotic and, the sanguine. These are “professionals”. Each of them deemed worthy of becoming road warriors. They are needed, considered the necessary evils of businesses far and wide. Packed away with laptops, freshly pressed shirts, slacks, panties and hosiery are their secret identities held close, occasionally felt with the side of their foot or leg; to make sure they are safely within reach.

In the dim light, they play their various mind games to pass the time. There are the endless “what if” contests played behind the countless sets of darting eyes. The pretentious few try to impress as they sit in the glow emanating from their legion of electronic gadgets. In the corner a siren sits, tempting glances with her Blackberry eyes. It is a fraternity, sorority and, secret society rolled up into one. Bourbons are sipped, scotches are poured and, the sound of ice clinking against glasses can be heard as olives on plastic swords swirl the vodka. On occasion, another traveler will make their advance into the darkness and, will quickly retreat sensing that this may not be his or, her tribe. Of course there will always be a place for the real warriors, the one’s whose uniforms speak clearly of their purpose. Within their duffel's are their lives, their orders; their mission. They are not caught up in the pretense of the civilian herd. Like the mythical knights of old, they merely seek the quiet interlude between their assigned posts.

From time to time, one or two of these souls will gather themselves, finish their drink and, take leave from the establishment, pulling their carry on behind them. The penalty has been served; they are free to go on. On their lengthy trek down the concourse toward the departure gate they pass by other darkened spaces and feel the eyes looking at them, envious of their apparent freedom. They quickly scurry to the small podium behind which stands a disinterested, rumpled being. Thrusting their pass into the hands of the gate keeper, they brush by and head down the incline filled with the aroma of jet exhaust and the chill of the outside. Once inside of the doorway there is a familiar and comforting cacophony of sound and smell which trigger a rush of endorphins signaling that everything is back to what it should be. After reaching overhead and, stuffing their belongings away, they settle back into their seat still feeling the warm buzz of alcohol coursing through their veins. Meanwhile, back in the darkened décor of the lounge, others quietly await their turn for freedom.