Dirty Pants & Fake Phone Numbers
Traveling during the holidays sucks. That’s not news to anyone. So when the worst thing that happened to me was having to wait at LAX for seven hours to get back to Indianapolis, I was actually quite relieved. For days leading up to my travels, I had intense anxiety that I would get stuck at the Detroit airport (where my layover was originally scheduled). I’m not entirely sure why I was so concerned. After all, Detroit isn’t all that far from Nap-town, and I could have probably gotten a ride there, or, at the worst, spent a couple of hours riding the little shuttle tram thing around that ginormous airport (I decided everyone that is still gainfully employed in that city must work at the airport because it is HUGE), but I digress. Long story short, my flight to Detroit Rock City was delayed which would have caused me to miss my connection. Luckily for me, I got bumped to a direct flight leaving LAX at 4:50. The bad news? I found that out at 10:00.
Having taken the bus and shuttle to LAX, and not having any friends that were still in town to pick me up, I didn’t have any other options than to find myself some breakfast, a corner to hide in and an internet connection of sorts. It wouldn’t be so bad, I could listen to some music, mess around on Facebook and maybe do some reading. In other words, I would act like I was at work, but without that little nuisance of job responsibility.
By hour three, my butt was asleep, the mass of people crowding in around me was making me claustrophobic, my book about Dorothy Parker was considerably less interesting the third time around and the Internet was just a big tease. My computer detected a wireless signal, but refused to connect. So I sat. I, who hates talking on the phone with a slow burning passion, called anyone that I knew wasn’t traveling. Surpisingly, they didn’t seem all that interested in listening to me gripe about greasy skin and numb butt.
When all of my phone resources were used up, I tried to see if I remembered how to make paper cranes. I don’t. I people watched. However, it wasn’t all that interesting considering they, like me, all looked like hopeless zombies in need of a shower. Well, I guess that’s kind of redundant considering most zombies look like they need a shower. Unless, of course, you’re into that sort of thing. I finally decided to try to nap.
By hour 6 I had spent and hour spooning my computer bag and purse against a wall without dozing off for a second. Seeing sleep as futile, and finally seeing a ray of light at the end of the terminal, I decided to go wait at my gate.
A10 was even more packed than the seating area from before, and it took me three laps to finally find an open chair. I squeezed between an adolescent who constantly picked at his red, chapped skin and an old man dozing off while holding an apple core. Replacing my earbuds and turning on my computer I began to zone out once again, and hardly noticed when the bad skinned boy got up only to be replaced by a trench coat wearing twenty-something guy with a ratty ponytail and facial hair that made Keanu Reeves’ beard look awesome. Out of the corner of my eye I could see trench coat guy looking in my direction multiple times, but tried to appear to be typing something very prophetic and important.
“Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me,” was all that went through my head by the third time he glanced my way. Trying to keep up even remotely clever or interesting conversation sounded about as appealing as a hug from a urine soaked transient, and as he tapped my shoulder it was a struggle to put on my friendly face and turn to see what he wanted.
Pointing to his ticket he said, “Did I just get hooked up?” Looking at it, I realized he was sitting in first class.
“Looks like it.” I replied. In reality I wanted to keep my earbuds in and answer with a monotone, “I’m sorry, you must have me confused me with someone who cares.” Simple. Effective. To the point. But I’m a pussy. So he kept talking, and somehow I fained caring.
“Man, this is like the third time this year I’ve gotten hooked up with a first class flight.” He gloated.
“Wow. I’ve been here for seven hours.” I stared blankly at him.
Realizing I wasn’t impressed by his first class upgrade, scruffy trench coat dude decided to change the subject. He chatted away, telling me he was an aspiring actor/model (ew) who grew up one town over from mine. He possessed the same forced charm and, come to think of it, facial hair that my senior year boyfriend had. Had this scenario happened five years before my heart would have probably been aflutter with hopes of a date with a new boy that my mother would have found repulsive, but this was five years, many dates and skeezy guys later. Not gonna work. Oh well, at least it helped pass the time.
As he rattled on about whatever he was talking about, I looked down to notice his hands were extremely dirty. Not just the gunk under the nails that happens to everyone, but legitimately dirty. Like he had robbed a grave just hours before. Maybe that’s where he got the trench coat. Looking past the grave digging hands I noticed his jeans were equally as filthy. I couldn’t help but stare, and go through scenarios in my mind for such an appearance. Grave robbing was really all I could come up with. Definately grave robbing.
After a solid ten minutes of “Guess That Filth” in my mind, it was finally announced that our flight was boarding. As we stood up, I was hoping we would have to separate as he boarded with first class. No such luck. He walked by my side as I fidgeted with my phone like I usually do out of nervous habit. He read that as me hinting to him that I wanted his number. I didn’t. He gave it to me anyway, and asked me to call it so he could have mine. Shit. No faking my number with him. Clever dirty bastard.
After I made it to my seat I didn’t see trench coat dude again, and eventually made it to my parents’ house where I soon forgot all about him. (By the way, I googled his name today to see if I could find some of his acting/model photos. The photo at the top of the post is all I could find.)
A few days later, I received a text from him asking if I was the girl that was at Clancy’s the night before. Clancy’s is a southside bar that I’d never go to for good reason. Not remembering who he was I answered with a simple “No. Not even a little bit.”
“Then who is this?” He asked.
“Lindsay Harbert. Who is this?”
“James Cook.”
“Sorry James, but I have no idea who you are.”
That was that until the next day.
“Oh! We met at the airport!” Arrived in my inbox shortly past noon. My stomach sank. I couldn’t think of what I could say to him to be nice while showing him i wasn’t interested, so I didn’t say anything at all. He’d get the clue, right?
The next day I awoke to find a text from the night/morning before. “Seem chill. We should hang in the city. Myspace?”
I hoped he didn’t still have the text with my full name, and ignored him once again. I felt kind of bad, but my freaked out feelings won that battle. Another day passed, and I didn’t hear from him, so I figured he got the hint.
On my fourth day in Indy I flipped open my phone to see. “This is {Trench Coat Dude’s Real Name}. The guy that got moved to first class.”
You guessed it. I didn’t respond, so the next day I awoke to, “FROM THE AIRPORT!!!”
Ya know Trench Coat Dude, you almost convinced me to respond by adding that third exclamation point. Nice touch.
I didn’t hear from him again after the capstastic exclamation, and thought I was finally in the clear. I’ve been back in LA for about a week now, and he and his dirty jeans had easily become a distant memory. That is, until last night. Sarah and I decided to grab some sushi and see Rachel Getting Married. Which was, on a side note, amazing and gut wrenching. As we sat chatting at dinner my phone rang. Usually Donny calls around that time, so I thought nothing of it. As I glanced down at the phone I stared stunned at the name that appeared.
Really? Really?!? How could calling me possibly seem like a good idea to him? How is that possible? I mean, I’m about as clueless as they come when it comes to dating/calling/texting, especially after a couple of drinks, I’ll be the first to admit, but even I know you don’t call a perfect stranger that has been ignoring your texts for days.
He left a voicemail. I’m scared to listen to it. Maybe I should be more sympathetic. Or maybe his pants were dirty because he was digging, not robbing, a shallow grave. Just saying.
