The Seduction

So miniscule was their value, the huge glass windows separating tarmac from rows of molded plastic chairs in the Departing Passengers security area may just as well have been made of adobe and painted with gang graffiti. Snow and ice covered nearly every available exterior surface, mounding in the corners and preventing all but the most vague of images from penetrating the glass to supply the travelers a glimpse of activities transpiring in arenas beyond their control. Not that many of the stranded throng of would-be fliers would really care very much at present. Bodies lay strewn across both floor and banks of seats, grotesquely situated as though they’d just washed up on shore, detritus from a raging storm, semi-conscious but unable to move more than the occasional stretch or slumbering readjustment. Even the once-attractive uniformed Customer Service Representative stationed behind the tall Southeast Airways counter sprawled inelegantly in a chair, disheveled and fighting impending slumber, invisible to her customers below the bank of monitors; computer displays of arriving and departing flight times brandished a redundant list stating ‘delayed’ next to every flight number.

Amidst the jumbled array of cheap human shoes displayed on a shelf, trying not to offend the mismatched pump or slipper placed next to him, sat a balding businessman clutching a laptop computer across his breast, protecting it from any attacks that might arise. Twenty-five years north of any last vestiges of attractiveness, he nevertheless graced the assemblage in his refusal to inflict the other zombies with unnecessary chatter. On occasion he craned his neck and stretched as much as possible without disturbing the woman sitting to his immediate right, avoiding contact at all costs.

He’d not eaten in over twelve hours, but still he felt the need to fart. Intestinal gas created from last evening’s ill-advised consumption of chalupas purchased at Kansas City International’s representative of culinary excellence, Taco Bell, now tested both his fortitude and his sphincter’s integrity. Perhaps if he moved his pelvis only slightly it’d come out slow and silent. Sure, the smell would be capable of stopping a stampeding rhinoceros dead in his tracks, but no one would be able to prove him the emitter. Yea, maybe, but why should he feel compelled to exercise such caution?

Segrid (Sig) Grimshaw claimed knowledge of no one in the room, after all. Hadn’t he been treated to malodorous sonnets with varying degrees of intensity throughout the night? Nearly forty years of experience guided his next move. Balling his hands into fists, he stood up and placed both arms over his head before lifting one leg slightly and began pumping his arms. With every thrust came an increasing expression of his contempt for their situation, his ass barking like a cur with colic. Then, apparently satisfied with his revolutionary display, he waved his hand to clear the air and returned to his seat, once again retreating into turtle mode.

“Nice one…” The feminine voice came from Sig’s right, although the eyes remained closed; a cast-off remark with singularity evidently intended to float independently throughout the room until becoming shipwrecked in some invisible recess known only to it.

“Thank you?” Sig watched as the eyes opened a crack, revealing bloodshot whites and darkish corneas.

A deep yawn escaped from the woman’s now-gaping pie-hole, forcing her to squint and cover her maw with a creamy, recently salon-crafted hand, the fingertips sporting a luxurious shade of cerulean blue. “Pardon me…” she offered, her eyes widening as they focused on Sig.

“I wake you up with a poisonous gas barrage and you yawn, offering me a ‘Nice one’ and ‘Pardon me’…? That’s the best you can come up with? Either you’re some combination of tired, lame and boring, or I’m losing my touch.”

Once again closing her eyes, Melanie Landrieu smirked in spite of her intentions to remain complacent. “Well, I forgot my evening gown, so I didn’t feel it appropriate to present you with an Oscar dressed like this. Honestly, whatever you have by way of ‘touch’ is, in all likelihood, spent on yourself. I’m guessing that you lost it years and years ago.”

“Well then… that’s a little better.” Sig said, feigning annoyance. “I accept your apology. Not all of us are blessed with an innate, blatant disregard for others. Don’t be concerned, you can’t help it…” Now Sig yawned, completing his performance and reinforcing his stage presence.

“Yea, I’ve been taking classes for years, trying to un-learn decades of manners and civility. I even enrolled in a Biker Mama seminar offered by the Oakland Chapter of the Hell’s Angels. I didn’t get too much out of it, honestly, although I am now capable of suck-starting a Harley-Davidson. Now, however, Lester (Crank Animal) Banks never fails to say ‘Excuse me’ if he farts, belches or pukes in the presence of a lady. I consider it a push.” Again, the smirk…

Sig, still expressionless, tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Is it just me or did it suddenly get hot in here?” Taking a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, he began to dab his brow, causing Melanie Landrieu to throw her head back and start laughing uninhibitedly.

After a few seconds, she smiled at Sig and replied, “My, my… you are easily impressed. I normally have to remove something or lift my dress up above my knees to invoke such a response.”

Sig smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t even notice that you have knees until just now. I guess I assumed they must be there somewhere, but, honestly, their placement in juxtaposition to the rest of the package wouldn’t be my most immediate point of focus, unless I thought I could convince them to rest in a position as far from each other as humanly possible without a change of zip codes. But even then I think my mind might be centered a foot or so away.”

“Like at the guy sitting next to me, perhaps?” After pausing for effect, she rested her chin on her fist, provocatively and continued, “Well, aren’t we the kinky one? Personally, I wouldn’t have guessed that you were gay— not that there’s anything wrong with that.” Another coy smile found its way to the surface, poking its head out of the water, satisfied that the dive had been successful. “Want me to ask him if he’s interested?”

Deadpan… totally expressionless. If you smile, you lose. “Um… no, that probably won’t be necessary, but thanks for offering. Isn’t it strange and wonderful what messages a good fart analysis can reveal? Here I am, queer as a three-dollar bill, going through life convinced that I’m an avowed heterosexual, never once having had the pleasure of caressing another man’s Johnson. Would you mind holding my hand? I think all this coming out of the closet has made me want to weep a little.” Turning his head away, Sig started to sob and stretch his hand towards her.

A sniff or two later, she’d heard enough. Slapping his hand hard enough to make him jerk it back, she whispered, “Stop your sniveling, Brucie, before I’m forced to take you somewhere and give you an object lesson in manhood.”

Slowly, Sig wrapped his arm around her shoulders and moved his lips close to her ear. “There’s a Holiday Inn Express less than a mile from here. Care to chance the elements?”

“Will you pay for the room?” she teased.

“No, but I’ll flip you for it, best two out of three for the room and the cab ride.”

“Promise not to fart?”

“No, but I’ll try to warn you first.”

Taking his hand, she paused. “Let’s get out of here before I feel compelled to ask you your name.”

“Oooooh… now who’s the kinky one?” Sig asked while standing. Offering his hands, he helped her to her feet. Without another word, the pair walked out of Kansas City International Airport in search of a cab driver. Sometimes the karmic pieces align and things just work.