Come on girl, you can make it.
Being enclosed in that small space – locked in and safe – it felt good. It reminded me of once reading a book by Temple Grandin. She’s the academic who has full blown Asperger’s. She also constructed a device along the lines of the bracing that holds cows in place before they are stunned. At times of stress, she harnessed herself into it. And it calmed her.
After a minute or two, I began to regain my own composure. It was just a wobble, that was to be expected. I’d be alright. I was very sore though and took another tablet with a slug of water from my bottle. I’d have to throw the bottle of water away before check in.
Shit – security.
It’d be fine – I’d get through it all okay. They’d not be looking for me.
I brought my head up and stretched my neck, got my thoughts together. Putting on makeup always helps me regulate. I took out my little mirror and scowled into it. Then I poked in my bag and took out my tools and tried to make something of the state of my face again. The door slammed every so often as other people came in and out. Cubicle doors slammed open and clicked shut, toilets were flushed, and a few disembodied voices spoke to one another in Spanish. Once I was satisfied I’d done as good a job as I could under the circumstances, I used the toiled, flushed, then went out and washed my hands. Walking back into the hall, I felt better.
I joined the queue for Belfast, ten metres deep. The B.G.S sports team had just loaded their bags and were ambling off in the direction of passport control, with a few teachers herding them along like stray cats. As the line grew shorter, I noticed that I kept swallowing, struggling to stay in control. Soon enough it was my turn at the front of the queue and I handed over my passport and my phone with the barcode on it. The check in girl smiled at me, but it was half hearted at best. She was about my age, her hair pulled back within an inch of its life. As she went to scan my phone it dinged as a message came through. I could see it said it was from Mike.
“Oh, you have a message,” she said, trying to smile again.
“Yes, sorry, don’t worry,” I said and reached over and swiped it away without reading it.
She offered a thinner smile and returned to typing on her computer keyboard. What had it said? Had she read it?
Shit. No, of course not.
“You can have this back,” she said, handing me it. Then she typed some more, head down. I ran my finger over the phone and found the message. There was nothing to worry about – it was just asking how I was.
“Did you pack your luggage yourself?”
“Sorry what… oh yes – I did, no guns or bombs,” I said and made a goofy laugh.
What the fuck Vicky?
“You packed your bags yourself?” she asked again, her brow creased.
“Yes, sorry, I did… I’m a bit of a nervous flyer.”
There was a long pause as I hated myself and she typed again.
Click, click, clickity click.
“It is terminal two, please check the screens for your boarding gate. Have a nice flight.”
I gratefully received my boarding card and the empty smile, then scuttled off towards passport control.
The passport control area was vast and heaving with people. The overriding feature was metal. It was filled with countless scanners, with seemingly endless queues of people snaking around to them. In between were sprinkles of security guards and police. It took a while until I was near the front and I could feel nerves rising up through my body. I lifted out my pocket mirror and touched up my makeup again, more just to find something to do. I felt self-conscious and stuffed it back away. We had moved about half a foot. Everyone around me looked sullen and bored. I slipped out my mobile and unwrapped the new headphones I had bought in the airport shop. There were also some ‘sucky sweets’ for take-off and landing. A distraction would be good. I flicked through my music and considered for a second. I didn’t need anything too upbeat or intense. Something cool.
Aha.
Grinding slide guitar forced its distorted way up a fret board. It was one of my favourite non-jazz albums: Safe as Milk by Captain Beefheart. It’s not avant-garde like much of his later stuff and was just the perfect fit for the moment. I suppose I kind of believe that there’s a piece of music just right for any occasion. You just have to know what you’re looking for. Sometimes I’d wonder what the perfect song would be to die
