Seeing Them Go

Sometime past 7:30’ish, Saturday Night. 12th of September.     

     Out for another trip north on the 101 to SFO, go-go-go! Up through the familiar sights of freeway-side buildings, stable, ever stable, made ever more so by the years they’ve been (by these very eyes) seen stood. And I look and I sigh and I’m glad they are where they are, no matter how fast the chargers through decades go guzzling on the way past them to somewhere else. Signs have changed, made modern, the occasional boy-that’s-bright of LED displays, advertisements of products unknown in ‘92 or whenever when what was being sold didn’t have the polished sheen they have now. The IT’S-IT factory I look for. Always the IT’S-IT factory. Going north, on your right, LOOK! Small, but THERE. With signs plain, appropriate, freeway dust spackled on in--yes--a perfect finish. In all that, how little that, the goodness of that. What treat I adore to taste, and treasure to see ITS home! On the way to SFO.


     First, a stop to have dinner with mom, dad, and the Brother Younger. Under a cloudy black sky tinged yellow by plaza lights, a car parked at IN-N-Out Burger. Family time is rare, and here, we take the opportunity generously through feast of cheese, double cheese, fries, sodas. Dr. Pepper you better be there, and it is there. But the people, they have me itching. 

     Timid, I ask if we eat inside. 

     Yes, they reply.

     Darn.

     Mom and younger go in for the order, wait in line. Dad lingers in the parking lot, cooling a pre-meal cigarette. I stand by to stay outside, to longer keep my time away from people. These legged, armed, headed figures who I am most familiar with--and infinitely more comfortable with--as images on an electric screen. They can’t hit or hurt beyond that flat. Through windows now, in this evening end of summer, here they are flat people in flat windows, keeping in glory and good graces, flat oh far away from me. And this is a calm.

     But to go in, and to eat?

     Oh.

     I’ve lost sight of where mom and younger went, somewhere inside. Now, to join the lost mass where you’re not a person, but instead one of the people. On a count you’re not even an individual. You’re among the tens. Bigger than most bands and this is no jam, baby. What music is there to be made with throngs of breakless breathing and hacking? It’s that free jazz of noise on top of noise in one people drone. Oh to drone. To be a drone. To be lost in that so, so many. No. 
     
     Dad gets tables, thankfully some corner set. Mom appears from nowhere--whoosh!--mentioning how she thought we were to dine at the outside tables. I had hoped for the same, but kept sat still and thought what is this now? Can I sit and eat? Just that? With no anxiety scratching away at my brain with glistening silver nails? I shrug my shoulders and remain. Firmly I clasp the right cup of my headphones over my right ear, playing A Taste of Honey’s Boogie Oogie Oogie on repeat, filling my head with stellar in a Hail Mary act to push out the bugs; boogie no more, listen to the music. My left ear is left open for conversation’s sake. Younger asks with a smirk if I’d trade places with him, curiously sat next to a table of three women. He knows the play that I won’t budge. My eyeglasses were pulled off before I entered; seeing less beauty is to keep from getting stuck in awe. I catch the blur of their faces, maybe bullets missing the heart, who knows? All’s a blur, to better not know.

     Eagerly, we all tucked away at the food. I go fast for the fries. There’s a genius with french fries that I particularly enjoy. Not this night, sadly. Dry. Room temperature. Hangers prepped early and made waiting in anticipation of a busy night of a potato war where the scarfing nga-nga mouths always win. Even the early made make enduring pawns. A bad fry is still a fry. I alternate the bites with and without ketchup. Then the burger. Heft. Warmth. The come-hither display of all its ingredients splayed out, staring you down, daring you to devour. I do. In the heedful marching act of stuffing my face with a yes-you-better Dr. Pepper chaser, I almost forget.

     There are people here.

     But I march on.

     Listen to the music and let your body move.

     We leave full. Dad cools a post-meal cigarette. The rest of us stroll over to Panera Bread for dessert options. Something sweet to greet the savory. It’s a first to be in Panera Bread. The dead hour near-empty atmosphere suits me just fine, patting me on the shoulder reassuringly saying, “Hey, it’s okay.” Talking in near whispers--unnecessarily so--is automatic, in reverence of the quiet, holy, bready place. But the air is pungent. I confuse it with being the natural aroma of a joint steadfast in its health-conscious promotion. To think, eating smart equals...the punch of vomit? Or sourdough? They love their sourdough? REALLY love their sourdough? Younger spots a wet floor sign down the aisle, a marker of a major spill of sour milk. Is it forbidden to wipe it up properly with unnatural cleansers? The sour stays in the air, mercifully leaving our eyes free to shop for sweets. I don’t go beyond the large pastry display beside the pay counter. My sights are set. Something there. A bear claw! Rejoice! At an instant, I pick that bloom sitting behind the euro style curved glass. 

     Why a bear claw? I enjoy the make-fun ritual of first eating the digits one-by-one, each with a delighted chuckle.

     “Ha! You’re mine!”

     Munch!

     “Aha, you’re mine too!” 

     Munch, munch! 

     A scone also makes itself known. I rarely have them, being typically an American gimme-a-doughnut guy. With my fondness for tea, the scone makes a match in that good ol’ British tradition. I’m not one for coffee. This decision solidifies it. Unfortunately, as soon as my eyes brightened at the confirmed choice, mom and I hear another customer at the cash register request the very last 3 Cinnamon Crunch Scones. Ah, to be late in my decision again! (It goes all the way back to a Lego buying incident when I was 7 or so.) It doesn’t fulfill a desire to be indecisive. Mom verbalizes dismay at having missed out. I don’t mind so much, figure I’ll pick up a rare scone another day. Younger picks a Pecan Roll. As the treats are about to be paid for, mom spots a single scone left at the display. I go for it. I easily swap out the Chocolate Pastry that was to be its lesser-than replacement. The roll, the claw, the scone make it boxed home. I thought perhaps to thank the customer who may have heard the disappointment of those mere paupers who lost the scone to him, the Crowned King of the Easily Decided, and was kind enough to leave one for us to fancy. Then I thought showing the gratitude, the action itself, would be weird. “Thanks for letting me have what you obviously wanted first and had first-come, first-served rights to.” Being strange to a stranger makes everything stranger. And for goodness’ sake, it’s just a scone, man! Plus, he might not have even needed to go three-full. I don’t know. I wanted the scone. To dance the filthy lambada with green tea, later, in my belly. What I do know was I was thankful; to be able to rejoice in such a rare thing.

     On to the airport. It’s just one exit away, up ahead. Away from the dedicated eateries, on to the hopeful eat elsewheres. City, State, Country. Just elsewhere. San Francisco International Airport (SFO) is a structural marvel of rounding ramps, extending heartily from the colossal main glassed edifice, encapsulating traffic destinations in huge hugs of elevating cement. We make the round at the street-level Domestic Departures road, the car kept in a limited run as we scan for the airline drop point. In the cozy safety of a backseat in a moving vehicle, with glasses back on, I can look without fear or anxiety scratching away. Even a still-playing Boogie Oogie Oogie fades back. There's no time to waste, let's get this show on the roa--I see people stand eager. Drive pass and to another. What their faces reveal bear more importance than what luxuries their luggage holds. Then to another. “To go” shotgun their eyes! Then to another. “To what’s next” kept hardy in ever conscious lips! There! A long-haired girl stands! Here, the circumstance of this plane-bound beauty on this night, standing, with all nobility of hope shown on her face in fervent splendor. Oh to live! To hope! And all of it goes.

     It takes two rounds of driving by Departures to find the airline. Out on the curb, under fluorescence fencing the night at a distance, I embrace mom and dad each, well-wishing their adventure. They too go, from a plane to a ship, no-less. Their hope of a fun time goes with them in earnest. To know this is beyond faces, there’s no need to sight what you can hold. Waving a bye out the window, Younger and I head back home. He the driver, an assurance, as he’s been more sure in life and has been, has driven, to more places than home. Back down the 101, through familiar sights of all I’ll ever dare see, I wonder: When what I’ve seen is all I hope to see, what is it to live when you don’t care to see no more?