crusty flamingo's

The airport used to be busy. In the sixties, our little town was a place to go to or come from. It wasn’t the largest airport, by far. They boasted of the presence of one bar, with seeded glass windows and dark paneling. There were only two dozen gates then, but something was always coming or going.

Infants with drooly faces and dark fingers would beg to be lifted up to the angled pane glass in the terminals. They would press against the warm glass, their foreheads and crusty noses flattened, and watch the planes jump off and slide down.

They used to let families back to the gates. Incoming flights were greeted by lines of people; some with flowers or signs, some sitting patiently, and some too excited to not cry.

Once, my mom took me upstairs to the smoking section. She sat at a small round table, her eyes turned off, and pulled out a long cigarette. I could always tell something was wrong when she would light her cigarette without even looking at it. It seemed like she was watching her own personal movie, and maybe she was. I stood there, the tips of my small shoes touching awkwardly, until she noticed me. “Oh honey,” she raised her knuckles, making spirals of her smoke, “why don’t you go and look for your father’s plane.”

The windows in the smoking room were even better than the terminal windows. These were large and high up, and you could see all the planes. I didn’t know which plane could be my fathers, they all looked the same.

Now that everyone’s afraid to spend money, the airport is struggling to hang on. Only one gate is operational now, and there’s barely enough flights to keep that one busy. Now our town is a place where you can get to a city. All the flights throw people to airports that can actually take them somewhere.

Almost all of the stores in the airport are closed now. They never even bothered taking apart the bar that everyone was so proud of. The bar made the airport seem legit, for some reason. All of the Floridian nick-knacks are still displayed proudly. Alligator heads, shark teeth, and pink flamingo coasters have the bar all to themselves.

I like to think that they talk to each other, that the alligator sighs “what a shame.”

And the flamingo cocks its head and asks “what is?”

“How nobody comes in here anymore, and we’re stuck here.”

I’d like to think the flamingo would be indifferent, that his head would snap back in place when he said, “at least it’s quiet.”