I am writing just now from the JetBlue terminal at JFK airport in New York. The woman seated to my right has a big bag of Cheetos which she’s crinkling and this alone would not be entirely disturbing but she also has an evident head cold and she’s snuffling almost in rhythm with her cellophane foraging. This alone would not be entirely disturbing but she also has an odor of cucumber. And she’s chewing. These varieties of experience would, taken together not be entirely disturbing but she’s also talking on her cellphone and hiccuping.
She’s a happy innocent. I herald her. I’m not quite ready to celebrate her “scene” in the manner of Walt Whitman but I’m all for her. She’s just getting on with it.
The two men to my left are very quiet. They’re getting on with it too. When they deign to speak with each other they whisper. They may be philosophers.
They can’t be poets. Poets never whisper.
JetBlue just paged a man named Richard Bigger. They don’t know someone is having them on.
I had a classmate in college whose last name was Dickoff.
Once, on a flight to Reykjavik the cabin attendant called for a Mr. Magnus Krapper to identify himself by pressing the button above his seat.
We’re all just getting on with it.