Dont Mince Words

While connecting in the Charlotte airport on my way back to LA, I heard the recorded announcement, “if you see unattended luggage or suspicious packages, please contact a law enforcement official.”

When I realized where I was, I had a panic attack.

The cop I turned in to NYPD IAD is supposedly a federal marshal in Charlotte now. The thought of being in the same area code as him sent me running to the bathroom with dry heavs.

I walked to my gate looking over my shoulder and wondering if he had read flight manifests. Did he know I was there?

Will I be scared the rest of my life?

My brother and sister-in-law left the kids with a relative and the three of us went to Key West for my birthday in the 31-foot Ultra.

We did what you would expect in the limited amount of time we were there. We drank and we shopped. By 10:30 p.m. I was tired and somewhat bored since I really don’t drink much any more.

The cab ride back to the RV park was fast and we retired quickly. The couple slept in the front over-the-cab area and I got to try out the back full size bed. I was prepared to get my first good night’s sleep in more than six days.

I was tossed awake – rolled from side to side in bed, like a sailboat hitting a wake. I sat up in bed and realized my brother was having sex 30 feet away from me. While the heat generator drowned out the audibles, the RV obviously did not have fully independent suspension. I was getting residually fucked on my own birthday.

I felt like I was in college. You know when your roommate thinks she can be quiet having sex. You want to say something, but you know it will be over soon. You are happy for her. This experience was something different. I was a part of this act. It was yucky. It was my brother.

When the generator shut off, the movement subsided. I imagine the fuckers up front were restratigizing their actions. About a minute later, it started again. I debated about what to do, then I figured it would be over soon. You know, they are married, they have to do things fast, in between soccer practice and Dora the Explorer.

It eventually ended without an audio track, except the one in my head saying, “Happy fucking birthday.”

Ever since 9/11, I’ve been a little noise sensitive. Hearing the clack of metal plates banging on a street, firecrackers, or any other unexpected noise sends my heart racing.

I live steps away from a one-way street. Drivers often miss the light and hit cross traffic. I’m getting used to that noise. It just happened again. Squealing breaks, then the horn, then the bang. I stopped calmly folding laundry to go outside, not to look. I know, 9 out of 10 times, it’s some jackass on a phone that screwed up. No, I grabbed my business card and went outside in my Brooklyn sweatshirt to see if my parked car received any collateral damage.

My car was fine, but this time the innocent cross traffic car had been flipped. The corners of the intersection were littered with on-lookers. These are probably the same people that go to Ground Zero when they visit New York. Fuck them.

When I turned around to go back to my apartment, the sirens were near and the local news helicopter had already arrived.

I need to move.