In the Chicago airport, leaning against a wall, waiting for my flight. A woman walks by. She is old and short, with mussed hair. Four hundred flights were canceled yesterday, it’s possible she slept here last night.
She crosses through my line of vision, catches my eye, looks straight at me and keeps looking. She smiles big, says Hi! in the wide-open Midwestern way. Then she veers toward me.
This is what happens. My family calls me the Nut Magnet. Often these encounters prove interesting; often they don’t end well.
When you meet a nutjob, you have to open up all of your borders, but keep an eye out. They can’t meet you halfway. You have to go deep into their territory to meet them, because they can’t leave their own turf. Often they don’t know how to navigate even within their own territory, so you have to wander with them at will, bending sticks and leaving signs to mark the way out.
(Or: They can navigate perfectly well, but their lead is so idiosyncratic you can’t read it.)
I like marginal nutjobs. I am comfy on their turf, I find it easy to follow their lead. Their inner landscape is certainly interesting. But today I don’t have the energy for it. I have been very social for five days. I need isolation. I want to get on the plane and into my seat and close my eyes on the world.
She is veering toward me. I am trapped against the wall. There is nowhere to turn, and even if there were, I wouldn’t do it. You don’t turn away from a person who looks into your eyes, says Hi! in the wide-open Midwestern way. You don’t hurt the feelings of a person like that.
I let her veer toward me. I let her continue to look into my eyes. I smile back.
Happy and friendly, she approaches. Then her trajectory tilts a few degrees. She turns her head, not looking where she is going, to keep her eyes locked on mine, even as she steps past me, through the door of the ladies’ room, which I have failed to notice on my immediate right.
* * *
"Our flight is on time," offers a man who has come to stand beside me.
He is wearing a striped shirt wrinkled and untucked. His brown hair is mussed, hanging over his forehead. He lounges against the newstand, one arm propped on the NYT box.
Again with the Midwestern way: breezy and mussed, unself-conscious. Brimming with the confidence to strike up a friendly conversation.
When people say Americans flaunt rules, they are wrong. This guy is not flaunting the rules of etiquette. His rules are different, his etiquette is based on the assumption that people like people.
"Look at the boards," he says, gesturing with the straw sticking out of a cold drink cup. "We’re one of the only flights that’s on time."
He likes people. He thinks I like people, too.
Shit.
* * *
This woman’s hair is a mane, rich brown and dark gold, sliding down her back like rain.
She wears dark clothes, fitted pants, tall boots with high heels. Her bag is huge, but she carries no luggage. I can’t see them, but I bet her earrings are hoops. I bet her makeup is detailed and subtle.
It’s a dated look, but it speaks.
The flight attendant calls our group to board. Chicago must be the only airport where people actually wait their turn.
I move toward the line, behind a man in an exceptional coat. We wait.
The woman rises from her chair, peruses the line, chooses her place. She steps into the space between the coat and I. At first this is really annoying: am I invisible? And then I see something cool:
This woman has just demonstrated the first step of cabaceo, as David Hodgson explains it: She is putting herself in position to be noticed. Standing in line, she is using her body language. Restrained, very classy—but wasted. The coat wants nothing but to get onto the plane.
We walk down the jetway. There is a cargoman near the end of it, packing up strollers. He says hello to her. The captain greets her. She did not get a nod from the man in the coat, but she gets plenty of others.
But wait. When the coat steps into his row in first class, she passes by. Looks. He says hello.
Yes!
I like this woman. She is clear and subtle. Her appearance makes an obvious statement, but only her eyes deliver the message. She is not asking for anything, she is only making herself visible, inviting.
This woman is the killer app of cabaceo.
* * *
Gracias, I say to the busboy.
I say it softly because I am not confident of my pronunciation. Also I don’t want to appear precious in front of my friends. The Hispanic culture is less integrated in Chicago than in Denver.
The busboy glances my way. Nods.
Cabaceo.
* * *
There are two little girls in a stroller on the tram at DIA. One is one year old, the other is three.
It is a back-to-back stroller. The one-year-old is facing forward, into the door of the tram. The older girl faces me. She is only a few feet away. The mother is there, but it is the end of a long flight and on this tram ride she is taking a little time for herself.
The older child is looking around, mostly at people’s shoes and their bags. Sometimes she tilts her head to look at her mother, or at various hands where they rest on suitcases or purses, or hold onto the tram’s bars and poles.
I wiggle my fingers. Hello. She glances at me and away. She looks at her mother’s knees, then back at me and away. She does not look again. It is impossible to tell whether the trip has made her restless and dissatisfied, or people don’t interest her, or she is shy.
The baby cranes her neck to look at all the people around her. When her eye catches mine, she looks a long time, as if she doesn’t quite know what to make of it. I smile, but she doesn’t. She turns back to the door.
Mulling over the trip and what comes next, I stare at the floor, at the shoes, at people’s bags and their hands where they rest or hold on.
1 comment:
It's a beautifully written story
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