Time was speeding, snowballing, she noticed. She noticed the thick black eyeliner was getting thicker and blacker, the beehive bigger and taller, the tattoos bolder in their statements, to compensate in some connected but disconnected way that felt like the brink of rehab, too on-a-roll to control. She slid a peachy-beige matte finish onto her lips and tossed the lipstick and liner into the black makeup bag into the black suitcase to be tossed into the bleak world. 9:06am. She was late for the airport, late for life. She pushed her boobs up, grabbed her purse, sunglasses, keys, laptop case, fought the suitcase handle to get it up, to roll the case down the hall with everything else banging against her or threatening to fall, out the door, down the staircase to the breezeway to the back of her car. Gravity sucked down the lot of it, rolled a pen out of her tipped purse. She snatched up the pen, the keys, opened the trunk, irritated. The atmosphere was loaded with the meaty chop of a military helicopter lumbering somewhere above, as if the air were thicker like water. The thought of invading its space for another round of airlines roulette, for another trade show, begged another Jack and Coke. She rolled her eyes, heaved the bags into the trunk and slammed it shut, juggled purse and planner, keys between her teeth dangling over peachy-beige, one hand tugging at her mini dress alternately left side right side, around the back of the car to the driver’s door. She opened it, swung her purse and planner over the console and onto the passenger seat, then plopped down, annoyed through and through, into the driver’s seat, into a mental checklist, check, check, shit! Her iPod. Forget about it. This can’t happen again, says the boss, the parents, the sensible people and part of her. It’s not a critical item, just a really desired one that could critically alter her already hosed schedule. Fuck it. Every moment is roulette. And darkness was pulling to win, in a flash, she could see that, could feel its pull out of the car, up the stairs, back into the apartment, to the iPOd, to the Jack Daniels, and there was a sense, in this rebellion, of being only another of its pathetic black pawns.
She tore into the airport long-term parking lot, pulled into the first spot available, spilled out of the car, gave the guy in the adjacent spot a look up her dress when she reached back into the car for purse and planner, then out, keys in teeth, peachy-beige, one hand, dress tug left right, trunk open, heave ho, suitcase handle fight, bags, balance, roll, out of control, 46 minutes to takeoff. She hustled all spindly in heels, across the parking lot, up the stairs, sun beating down, sunglasses falling down her nose, a bead of sweat on her perfect brow attracting a strand of ace-black hair to stick to it, through the parking garage, across the road, into the terminal, up against an infinite waiting line, into bitch mode. She thickened her New York City accent, sharpened her nasal tone, mouth moving, free arm lassoing the air above her head, pushing, demanding, boarding pass, baggage, all the way through security and to the gate just in time to see the USAir rep shut the jetway door. Damn it. Some seconds, lifetimes, eons, into the rash of shit she was giving the rep, she saw the 747 pull away from the jetway with her job, with her old destiny. There were no more decent indecent words, words at all. Everything stopped. She could see herself split off, one of her soaring in the 747, sipping a Jack and Coke, laptop open, preparing for the Chicago show, the other of her walking away sore, pissed… This is where it stopped, what she could see, imagine. Walking away sore, pissed, to what, to where, to how? To the bar? Back to the car? She had no idea. But there was a sense that she’d made this choice already, when she went back for the iPod.
Amy Winehouse photo snagged from Random Citations blog http://fisherwy.blogspot.com/
Back space key from stock.xchg http://www.sxc.hu/
Click here for more on prompt “#111 – Soar/Sore” from other Sunday Scribblings participants.