The Boise Airport is tiny, with just a handful of runways, a totally different species compared with Newark or Kennedy. Holiday travelers bustle from ticketing over to the main gate, and arrivals move from the main gate to ground transportation. It’s a little beehive of activity and a lot busier than I imagined. Somehow that’s comforting; it makes me feel invisible.
I head directly to West Air. As I walk, I feel a buzzing in my bag. I look in and pull out the Life House cell phone. It’s lit up with the general number to Life House. I debate for a second about answering it, but then decide against it. If they’re trying to reach me, it can’t be good. Why did you have to show off to the attendant, Jane? I pinch my leg hard, just to give myself a reminder about screwing up anymore.
I look up at the departure board and I see a long list of canceled departures, beginning at 5 p.m. My flight’s status is still on time. There must be a storm coming through. Damn it. Damn it. My heart starts to race and I swear to myself about how much I hate life and the unexpected and how if God will just get me on a plane, I promise I won’t go through with the Plan. I’m lying, of course, but frankly, if I thought God paid attention to the details, I probably wouldn’t be here in the first place. I put my mother’s credit card into the ticketing machine and it prints my boarding pass. Boarding at 3:30 p.m. Thank you, God!
Before I can go to gate 12, I have to pass through security. They have two scanners for the whole airport, and the thought of missing my flight makes me break into a sweat. I check my watch; it’s still only two twenty. I’ll be fine, I tell myself.
There’s a line of about ten people waiting to be processed. A young guy with a punkish haircut and a snowboard is having trouble passing through the right-side scanner. He probably has a metal plate in his head from falling off a ramp. I could just kill him. He looks at me as if to say, “Sorry-it isn’t me.” He’s cute, but really annoying right now.
Behind him, there is a group of rock climbers who all wear T-shirts that say Matternaught: Avalanche Valley, Grand Tetons. They are surrounded by a massive amount of baggage and gear.
They are loud and boisterous, like they are not used to congregating in crowded public places. They simply prove to me what I’ve always thought: there isn’t a group of people in the world that doesn’t bug me, given the right time and circumstances.
I check my watch again. It’s already two thirty. My anxiety is causing me to bite down on the inside of my cheek to avoid screaming right now.
A newlywed couple stands directly in front of me, waiting to go through the left scanner. Their names are Margaret and Eddie, two of the many facts I’ve gleaned from their unusually loud conversation. I never had any particular issues with the newly married, but now I begin to radiate contempt in their direction. Their incessant, narcissistic conversation about themselves is enough to make me vomit. I bite down harder on my cheek and I taste the salty metallic flavors in my own blood.
Margaret is complaining about her wedding ring; “Eddie, it’s just so heavy, it makes my wrist tired.” Eddie looks proud and embarrassed all at once and says, “You may have to start working out, Margaret… heh heh heh.”
They keep up this nauseating chatter, all interspersed with unnecessary touching until they kiss goodbye before Margaret passes through the scanner without Eddie. Then they both get teary and actually blow each other kisses. I want to scream, but I keep my head down and know I’ll be thirty-five-thousand feet in the air soon enough.
After Margaret walks through, I approach the scanner, but the TSA officer puts his hand up to stop me and asks the punk rocker to walk through my scanner. I explode with anxiety and shout, “My flight is leaving soon!”
I must have screamed really loudly because the immediate area goes still and both the snowboarder and the TSA officer turn around.
The TSA officer looks me up and down and assesses my level of crazy. Is it Christmas crazy or real crazy? That’s what he’s trying to determine.
“Miss, what time is your flight?”
“Four.”
He checks his watch and looks at me strangely. “You have an hour and a half, miss. I suggest you take a deep breath and calm yourself down.”
I bite down harder as I nod and now I’m swallowing blood.
The snowboarder picks up his bag and his board and moves a few feet to the side. I can’t help looking at him. He is stone cold, completely devoid of emotion. His cheekbones are sharp, like they were carved from rock.
“It’s cool,” he says. “Let her go.”
I nod thanks, mostly because I can’t open my mouth. I put up my hands and pass through the scanner and body check. No alarms go off, so I guess there’s no detector for somebody who’s planning to do bodily harm to herself.
I grab my bag from the tray and walk quickly to the first restroom, where I lock myself in a stall and spit out a little blood into the toilet from where I bit my own mouth. I can barely breathe, so I sit down and cover my mouth with my hands, trying to limit the air coming in and out of my lungs. It works. I gather myself and splash some water on my face from the sink. I look at myself in the mirror and am alarmed at the high color in my cheeks. Calm down, I order myself before I walk back out.
I make my way to gate 12 and find a seat. I check the time. Two forty-five. I look at the flight board and pray again that my flight doesn’t get canceled.
I check my watch again, just out of habit; it is still two forty-five. I wonder if I can make it another forty-five minutes. I slide my tongue between my teeth and clamp down. Not too hard, not enough to bleed, but just enough to focus my mind and clear my head. I’m gonna make it. I say it over and over.