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Another plane, another airport…no gay man hitting on Ray. This is definitely progress.
It’s nearly 3 o’clock when Ray steps off the plane and onto the cool tarmac of La Guardia airport. So this is New York. He had never before been so inclined to visit such a city since he’d always thought it to be just another Chicago. Tall buildings, traffic, tough guys and wise guys. It’s the same wherever you go. At least it used to be.
This time, there’s something different. Something Ray had never incorporated into his calculations until now. But that comes later.
***
Duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Ray scans to signs for luggage claim. He only brought one other bag but the check-in woman at ORD, who he’d been unfortunate enough to face, had made him check it. He’d argued of course, but she, stubbornly, in Ray’s opinion, would not be deterred. He’d decided then and there that he hates airports.
So many people. They obviously have the same idea as him; visiting friends and family over Thanksgiving.
Friends.
The contents of Ray’s stomach (he’d finally caved and eaten the sandwich the steward had placed in front of him, after he’d received not one, but two dirty glares from the guy - what is it about flying that makes people so mean?) decide now would be the time to dance the polka. Forget about butterflies, Ray’s got damn buffalos getting down and dirty, right in the middle of his guts they’re using as a dance floor.
He scratches at his temple as he follows the hoards of people heading through the terminal. Suddenly he feels very self-conscious. His mind finally catches up with him and he completes the aforementioned calculations.
Ray + New York = Ray + New York + Ynez.
He’s meeting Ynez. He’s celebrating Thanksgiving with Ynez. He’s staying with Ynez. Jesus Christ. He can feel the buffalos up the tempo and the beating of his heart fits right in with the timing. The crowd ahead starts to disappear as they escape into the arms of loved ones. Ray swallows and hoists the bag higher, feeling like an idiot just standing there. The sleeve of his long coat hides most of his left hand; the fingertips poke out and he unconsciously wiggles them.
Where’s the goddamn luggage claim?
It’s nearly 3 o’clock when Ray steps off the plane and onto the cool tarmac of La Guardia airport. So this is New York. He had never before been so inclined to visit such a city since he’d always thought it to be just another Chicago. Tall buildings, traffic, tough guys and wise guys. It’s the same wherever you go. At least it used to be.
This time, there’s something different. Something Ray had never incorporated into his calculations until now. But that comes later.
***
Duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Ray scans to signs for luggage claim. He only brought one other bag but the check-in woman at ORD, who he’d been unfortunate enough to face, had made him check it. He’d argued of course, but she, stubbornly, in Ray’s opinion, would not be deterred. He’d decided then and there that he hates airports.
So many people. They obviously have the same idea as him; visiting friends and family over Thanksgiving.
Friends.
The contents of Ray’s stomach (he’d finally caved and eaten the sandwich the steward had placed in front of him, after he’d received not one, but two dirty glares from the guy - what is it about flying that makes people so mean?) decide now would be the time to dance the polka. Forget about butterflies, Ray’s got damn buffalos getting down and dirty, right in the middle of his guts they’re using as a dance floor.
He scratches at his temple as he follows the hoards of people heading through the terminal. Suddenly he feels very self-conscious. His mind finally catches up with him and he completes the aforementioned calculations.
Ray + New York = Ray + New York + Ynez.
He’s meeting Ynez. He’s celebrating Thanksgiving with Ynez. He’s staying with Ynez. Jesus Christ. He can feel the buffalos up the tempo and the beating of his heart fits right in with the timing. The crowd ahead starts to disappear as they escape into the arms of loved ones. Ray swallows and hoists the bag higher, feeling like an idiot just standing there. The sleeve of his long coat hides most of his left hand; the fingertips poke out and he unconsciously wiggles them.
Where’s the goddamn luggage claim?
