I was looking through some old emails to find something else, and stumbled across this piece I wrote in another life. 1999 or 2000 …. or somewhere about then. It says LA. Story – Part II. I liked this piece when I wrote it, and am glad to have found it. I was in LA on a business trip, but took a couple of extra days of personal time just to explore since I’d never been there before.
LA Story – Part I dealt with a Friday late night drive up the PCH to Malibu, I was in a white Mustang convertible with tunes blaring and the top down, and it was a glorious trip Then a spur-of-the-moment decision to drive up north out of L.A.early the next morning, Saturday, through Bakersfield and the San Joaquin Valley, all the way up to Sequoia National Forest and back. But I think that story, as written, may be lost forever. It was a great day from start to finish.
So Part II, here, deals with my experience at the LAX airport Sunday morning, waiting for my return flight to Nashville. Every one of these vignettes to follow is true… either entirely or mostly…. based on observations as I was just killing time very early that morning on a bench, curbside, at the airport waiting for a later flight. Hope you enjoy ….
I’m sitting at the airport in Los Angeles, LAX, waiting for my flight back to Nashville. For reasons unnecessary to explain, I ended up getting up at 4:30 LA time after a whopping 1 hour of sleep. I needed to get to the airport, turn in my rental car…. a white Mustang convertible … and get checked in for a 7:00 AM flight. HOWEVER, I ended up not being able to get on that flight (I was on stand-by, and would have had to pay an upgrade anyway), so I sat waiting for the next non-stop to Nashville at 11:35. Since the airport policy is that you can’t check your bags more than four hours prior to flight time, and since there was no really good inviting place to sit INSIDE, I ended up sitting outside on a bench at the curb, experiencing early morning LA.
I watched the sun come up over the smog, definitely a weird sight for a small-town boy. It was interesting that when I got to LAX a couple of days ago, I was dressed for a business meeting in suit and tie, and I was walking through the airport like a man on a mission. Today however, I was in jeans and hiking boots and comfortable Hawaiian shirt, and was in no particular hurry to get anyplace in particular. The other day in the suit I was pretty left much alone. Today, taking my time and dressed casually, I was approached by three separate people looking for a handout.
Where I was sitting outside passing the time, I had a ringside seat as a variety of travelers showed up (many seemingly in a stressed out rush), and dealt with their own minutiae of arrival and preparing for air travel. As a confirmed “people watcher” this was not a wholly 
odious task. It was rather enjoyable actually, if admittedly somewhat voyeuristic. Here is my version of their stories.
There was the fellow who was something of an old hippie-type, with long gray hair and long gray beard who showed up at the curb in a 1960’s Chevy step-side pickup driven by a young Rastafarian in dreads. These two were maybe coming from a late/early ganja party. The Rasta man jumped out of the driver’s side and came around the back of the pickup as the old hippie slid out of the passenger seat and got his army surplus duffel out of the back of the truck. The old hippie was wearing faded jeans, tattered chambray shirt with sleeves rolled up, and well-worn sandals. Rasta man was in cargo shorts, faded t-shirt and sandals, hair in matted dreads. The old hippie reached out for a little “slap shake” with the Rasta man, but Rasta had a different idea. He smiled and grabbed the old hippie and pulled him close and enveloped him with a big hard hug. Then Rasta man threw back his head and laughed at the sky. He told old hippie, “I love you mon”, and then, “Thanks for coming down mon.” I wondered if he meant “down” as in down from on high. Down from his holy seat of wisdom and reflection at the top of Mt. Shasta? I think maybe I’m right. Old hippie gave Rasta man a smiling nod, said something I didn’t hear, slung the duffel over his shoulder and headed for the terminal. One can only guess what the relationship between these two travelers is. You know what I mean. “Travelers”, as in “fellow sojourners on the planet”. Travelers in the sense that we’re ALL travelers.
There was a group of four girls traveling with what I assumed to be the parents of one of the girls. Probably in the early- or middle- high-school years. We used to call them “Valley Girls”, but not sure what the current moniker-of-choice is. Headed to some kind of competition or convention? Not sure, but they were all wearing identical warm-up suits with school colors. They were on a mission of some sort.
“Oh. My. God!!!” , said one (Yes, read that with the periods between the words. Three separate words. Not really like a single phrase). Another said (to no one in particular), “Like, can you even BELIEVE we’re, like, actually like HERE?” Then she grabbed the sides of her head and shrieked just a little. A bit too much for the hour, actually. I’m sure that grabbing the head was an effort to keep the air from escaping.
There was a young African-American mother who was probably not yet twenty. She had a little girl in a stroller, perhaps about 18 months old, maybe just a bit older. And she was pregnant again. She sat down on the next bench and started to sing to the little girl, who had started to whimper a bit from the hubbub of the LAX sidewalk. She stroked the little girl’s hair and sang softly and lovingly. A church song I think. Had that sort of feel. I didn’t know the song, but I guess the little girl had heard it before, because she quieted right down. I’m ashamed to say that my first reaction to this woman was one of an ugly stereotype. (Just momentarily, I thought, a teen pregnancy, maybe no dad in the picture.) But then, seeing how she interacted with her child made me realize how presumptuous and awful those thoughts were. Hearing the mother’s love in her sweet voice as she sang left me more than a little ashamed for my presumption, and I was surprised my mind went there first. When she looked over, I smiled…. and was glad she smiled back, for a very brief moment of real human connection.
There was an overdressed, over-jeweled, over-coiffured, over-perfumed matronly woman that showed up driven in a very LARGE new black Mercedes by someone with whom she barely interacted. She in back, he behind the wheel. The car’s OTHER occupant was a little white Scotty dog that was similarly over- dressed and coiffured. While the gentleman driver unloaded the lady’s bags, she picked up the dog, cooed to it a bit, and and kissed it right on the MOUTH. Gag. Spit. Hack. (That was me, NOT the dog, though you can make your own judgements how the dog felt about it). I wonder what the relationship between the driver and the dog was while they cruised back to Bel-Air or Beverly Hills.
There was a young woman of undetermined ethnic origin (Mediterranean? Egyptian?) Her hair was jet black and straight, and her skin was olive. She was very thin. Almost, but not quite to the point of being emaciated. Even though the morning was a bit crisp, she had on a black sleeveless top, black spaghetti strap platform sandals and an ankle length black skirt that was slit on BOTH sides all the way up to there and beyond. It reminded me of a long black loin cloth. As she negotiated her way through the crowd, with some difficulty due to the precarious height of the soles of her shoes, with each step her thin legs would slide in and out of the slits on either side of her skirt. She looked like nothing so much as a granddaddy long-legs spider trying desperately to get out from under both sides of a black tissue paper at once.
There was Bill Gates. I mean, I ACTUALLY thought it was Bill Gates for a moment. Sure looked like him. But then I stopped to think about it and realized that the wealthiest man in the world does NOT arrive at LAX on the Avis car rental shuttle carrying his own bags. The richest man in the world undoubtedly uses Hertz, don’t you think? Or maybe even GigaHertz? And he probably wouldn’t be carrying a big brown cardboard box that was fastened up with duct tape either. But this “Mr. Gates” was.
There was a late twenty-something woman dressed very professionally in a dark red business suit from head to toe who got out of an old beat up car driven by a young guy with at least three visible piercings and one arm and his neck covered in tattoos. A mismatched pair?? I don’t know… perhaps. I do know that after he unloaded her bags, he proceeded to give her an oral tonsil inspection. So, I guess they’re pretty close. He also grabbed her butt with both hands and squeezed and squeezed it and pulled her close. Any closer and she’d have been behind him. Ah, young love.
There was a pair of what I’d judge to be New Yorkers. Maybe they were Jewish from their stereotypical accents? Husband and wife, who were driven up by a guy who was oh-so-very CALIFORNIA, in a brand new Jaguar. California had on white pants, loafers with no socks, a designer silk shirt unbuttoned down one button too far, a heavy gold necklace, and heavy rimmed black eyeglasses. As they unloaded the luggage and said their good-byes I got the impression that the wife (NY) and the Jag driver (CA) were maybe sister and brother. As California drove off, NY man said… “Can you get over how good he looks? Seems happy, too.” NY woman says, “Honestly, getting rid of her was THE best thing he’s ever done. It’s like a huge weight has been lifted.” (Insert appropriate heavy NY accent here).
There was a mid-60’s couple just going on or coming from vacation. He had on a Hawaiian print shirt and a camera bag around his neck. She had on a floppy hat and big sunglasses though it was still early and not very sunny. The impression was of hard-working folks from the heartland who’d saved up for years to be able to take their dream vacation. I don’t know what they were saying, but they were snipping and gibing at each other in a way that made me think that they didn’t really like each other all that much any more. Or maybe it was that they’ve descended into a way of being where the snipping and gibing IS their life and provides them some perverse sense of joy? Maybe it was just bad pork at the luau. Of course, all of that’s a grossly unfair snap-judgment and I know it. I don’t know them, will never see them again, and I really do hope I was wrong. Maybe when they got on the plane, he looked at her, smiled, gave her hand a squeeze and said, “You know sweetie, …. I still love you, and after all these years, I’d still marry you again if I had the chance.” Maybe pigs fly. Pigs fly on their way to the luau, where they are the guest of honor.
There was the early thirty-something business man, showing up in an SUV with his wife and young child bringing him to the airport to see him off for his trip. As they hugged and said their good-byes I could almost feel her longing for him not to go. He kissed and hugged the toddler one last time, hugged his wife again, grabbed his luggage and stepped inside the terminal without looking back. She stayed just a second longer, and as she made sure the little fellow got buckled up in the back, she watched her husband disappear into the crowded terminal. I’m sure this scene is repeated countless times with minor differences at airports all over the country …. all over the WORLD …… each and every day. But there was something very touching about watching this guy leave on his trip, and getting the feeling that BOTH he and his wife would rather he could stay home. I smiled to myself when I thought of the hugs and laughter he would get upon his return.
In stark contrast, there was the California casually attired business man who showed up at the curb in his Mercedes with his wife in the passenger seat. As he got out and unloaded his bags from the trunk, including his golf clubs (of course), the wife quietly got out of the car, walked around to the driver’s side and slipped behind the wheel. As he took his place in line to check his bags, she drove off, neither one exchanging a word, a touch, or seemingly not even a glance at the other. Somehow this scene left me profoundly sad and empty.
As I looked back up towards the front of the line of folks waiting to check their bags curbside, I noticed a somewhat older woman watching ME. Busted! I think she’d seen me keenly watching the parade, and now SHE was watching the watcher.
She was a petite woman, with a small round face, really pretty, knowing eyes that spoke right to my heart. I sensed that she was probably approaching seventy, but somehow seemed younger. With long silvery hair, and what appeared to be some sort of talisman or pendant hanging around her neck and laying against a lovely purple print top. Over the purple top she had a comfortable and much worn denim jacket. Her blue denim jeans were well faded as well. I’m certain the fading was from real work in her garden and not “pre-worn” in the Levi’s factory. I don’t know how long she’d been watching but she had a knowing look and a smile on her face that made me smile in return, and she gave a little nod. There is very little chance that I’ll ever see this lovely woman again, nor will I ever know her name. But somehow I just knew from this brief wordless encounter of maybe 15 seconds at most, she was someone I’d really like to sit and share a cup of tea with, smiling and listening to her stories. I bet I’d really like her stories.
And finally, this….
There was an old Asian man who showed up driven by his son in a new Jeep Cherokee. The older man carried himself in that slightly bent over way that speaks of a life of humility that you often see in older Asian men and women. Think about it a minute and you’ll know EXACTLY the walk I’m talking about. The son unloaded the father’s lone bag from back seat of the Jeep, as the father reached into his wallet and pulled out what looked to me like a couple of hundred dollar bills. He pressed them into his son’s hand, as the son protested. The son smiled and said, “No Pop, you keep it…. I’m fine.”
Wordlessly the father presses again, a little more insistently, making it clear that he has every intention that the son WILL take the money. Reluctantly the son agrees, but as they embrace for the last time …. and who knows, maybe the last time EVER in this life …. the son deftly places the bills into the father’s jacket pocket like a practiced magician, without the old man ever realizing. I see it though, and the son sees that I see it. We each smile, and we’ve shared a secret. Then the son tells his father “I love you Pop”, and the old man gives him one last loving look and a quiet word that I didn’t hear. Then Pop then takes a half step back, stands up just a bit straighter, then nods his head slowly in what is almost but not quite a bow to the son. It is a gesture of respect for all the son has become, all he will become, and a profound acknowledgment of a lifetime of love given and received. Somehow I felt honored to have witnessed this exchange. As the father turns to go inside, there are tears in three sets of eyes. It’s a powerful moment that I will carry with me for a long time.
The world is a magical place. It may seem sometimes that the panorama of daily life isn’t always as bold as the one I saw at LAX this morning, but no matter where and how you spend your days, they are pregnant with drama.
The stuff of life.
“Ordinary” is a word we devalue too easily. In the end, the present moment is all we have. The “ordinary” ones are the most precious ones of all.
Take a deep breath, open yourself to the possibilities brought you by THIS moment.
You’re in the parade too. Drink it in.
Love,
John