The Airport Guy

Another layover. Another time I face mild boredom in a brightly lit but rather sterile airport terminal. What to do? Well, get some food, first of all. But getting food is a relatively mindless process in the airport terminal, and it needs a concurrent activity. Sometimes I people watch. Today I'm going to Airport Guy watch.

The Airport Guy. Quite different than the Airplane Guy. The Airport Guy is more desirable, for several reasons. First, he requires considerably less commitment than the Airplane Guy. If the airport guy turns out to be a dud, he can quickly be dumped for another terminal or quick paced walk in the other direction. On the other hand, if by some miracle a conversation starts, an airport terminal is a far more desirable place for such interaction. You can sit and chat, walk, grab food, even get a drink, all considerably more conducive to a fun time than sitting in cramped coach class seats.

In the beginnings of my search for food I spot Airport Guy #1: a clean shaven white guy in a suit, with a laptop bag and PDA. Definitely a business guy, but definitely about my age. He starts talking on his cell phone, and not finding food in that direction, I about face and head the other way.

Three quarters of the way down the terminal I spot Airport Guy #2: a very good looking young black guy with a wheelie suitcase. In his "Newark" sweatshirt and me in my "Ocean City" sweatshirt, I consider that perhaps New Jersey destiny has brought us together. I head to the pizza place a few feet away, where I turn over my life savings in exchange for a ridiculously small, greasy, and squishy slice of pizza. Here, any hopes for Airport Guy #2 are squashed as I see him with Significant Other, a gorgeous black girl with a matching wheelie suitcase. (Significant Other is not to be confused with Airport Girl, who has perfectly done make up and hair and a super cute outfit, usually a skirt, always making me look frumpy in my usual comfortable plane-wear).

Hoping that perhaps the third time will be the charm, I head toward my gate to eat my bread soaked in grease (aka pizza slice). Hark! There, sitting just a few benches away, is Airport Guy #3. I see him from the back, so it's a gamble. The good haircut is what catches my notice, it says a lot. Yellow and green t-shirt, looks alright. Black backpack. He has dark hair, but he's clearly I white guy. I can deal with that.

I sit and give my hands an oil treatment trying to eat my pizza while watching the back of Airport Guy #3's head. Ah, the moment of truth! He's standing up. I've seen enough cute back-of-the-heads to be cautious, as all too often then are attached to very old, very young, or very not good looking guys. A turn of the head, and I see he's none of the above. But, wait. God, no! Is that a . . .?
Not only is Airport Guy #3 wearing a fanny pack, but he's wearing over one shoulder across his chest. I sigh a sigh of disappointment. Three strikes and I'm out. Luckily by the time I wash the grease off my hands and get back to the gate, it's time for me to board, so I can't dwell on my umpteenth consecutive strike-out among Airport Guys I've never once talked to.