Another New Piece - Catching Up with Judith

Catching Up with Judith

Bobby devoured his chicken wings and spat the bones onto a paper place mat.  You could feel the whirr outside the restaurant windows as the WestJet at the nearest gate prepared to taxi away, guided by a man with orange torches and wearing a neon yellow vest.

The bartender made the universal gesture for "Another drink?", and Bobby nodded.  He stacked and arranged the bones, forming a pentagram, and the word "HELL".  The bartender set two fingers of scotch in front of him.

"How are the wings?" 

Bobby pulled his thumb out of his mouth.  "Tolerable."  He asked for a Red Bull.  When the waiter brought it, he poured it over the scotch and the ice cubes, looking around to see if anyone was watching.

Judith would not approve. 

The taxiing 737 had pulled back from the gate and the tunnel retracted toward the terminal.  As if the fixed were withdrawing from the moving.  It looked like the man with the torches was walking a well-behaved dinosaur.

Bobby would be on a jet soon, too, he reminded himself, leaving YYZ and the whole crummy city behind.  He polished off the last of the wings and set down a radius bone as an exclamation point.  He was certain Judith would not approve of that either. 

Or would she?  

Bobby sipped his energized whiskey, questioning whether he knew what Judith would think of his chicken bone epitaph.  She was the one who took off, headed for the Left Coast in pursuit of “her conscience”.  After that, Bobby could not be too sure. 

From the restaurant, Bobby could see the gate where he’d board the plane in an hour.  Two children chased each other, leaping occasionally over the outstretched legs of sleeping strangers.  Passengers were reminded to not leave bags unattended. No one was reminded to not leave children unattended.  No one ever warned you to not leave your girlfriend alone for too long, either.

Bobby struggled to remember when it was that he lost touch with Judith.  He’d need to lay off the Red-Bull-scotches from here out.  When the bartender gave him the look again, he placed his hand over the mouth of the glass.  He looked at the tarmac, and then at the sad parade of humanity passing through the terminal on their way to other places they wanted or needed to be more than here. 

A flight to Boston was announced.  And then one to Kingston, Jamaica.  He was listening for Air Canada, flight 739, knowing there wouldn’t be a boarding call for half an hour.  Still, it gave him something to listen to aside from the steady stream of inoffensive soft rock that the restaurant P.A. oozed.

Judith would approve, and Bobby marvelled at how his mind endlessly returned to her.  He wished he could smell her hair right now, or taste the pancakes she made with fresh blueberries and small chunks of canned pineapple in them.

And then, just then, as he imagined the taste of Judith’s pancakes, he stopped.  She’d made those pancakes the day that she left.  She set them in front of Bobby when he arrived at the table.  She placed those very same pancakes on the table, like she’d done a dozen times before, and he never knew that this would be the last time she’d do that. 

No one ever warns you that this time, right now, will be the last time for anything.

It was thinking of those pancakes that compelled Bobby to buy the ticket.  It drove him to the airport, too – despite knowing he’d white-knuckle the take-off and likely crap on the landing.  Judith’s pancakes, and the way that she said nothing as she set them down to be eaten.  He recalled that she just watched him eat, and then cleared his plate away, wordlessly.

That was just Judith, he told himself at the time.

She put his plate back in the cupboard.

Just Judith.

Southwest flight 1752 to Miami was boarding Premium Class passengers.  The elderly, disabled and people with children.  Rows 17 – 28.  Finally steerage class.

They would call his flight soon.  He finished his drink and slid the credit card across the counter.  He hoped it would go through.  The airline ticket ate most of his remaining credit limit.  The bartender took it without comment, being accustomed to people who eat, drink and clear out in a hurry.

As the bartender rang up his bill, Bobby looked back at the tarmac.  They’d be wheeling a 737 up to his gate by now.  Cleaning up after the last passengers and re-loading with booze and overpriced snacks.  He looked at his wing bones and scooped them into his napkin.  He placed the package on the centre of the plate and his knife & fork at 25 after 5.

Judith would approve.  As if that mattered now.

The man sleeping in the lounge at Gate 15 stirred, and one of the children tripped over his feet.  The man pretended to fall asleep again, with a smirk on his face.  No one announced, passengers flying with children should ensure that they are properly stowed in overhead compartments or under the seat during flight.  Bobby thought someone should have.

The energetic whiskey skipped in his stomach and spread its warmth.

Judith had some explaining to do, Bobby told himself.  He needed to find out:  did she know she was leaving before she served him pancakes or after?

Bobby stepped out of the restaurant.  He was only steps from the departure gate where they’d be announcing boarding any minute.  He reminded himself to take it all in – this could be the last time he’d be in Pearson International Airport preparing to ask Judith when she decided to leave him.  “Before or after?” he asked.  Sadly, whether she approved or not, he’d be boarding soon.  Bobby would be catching up with Judith before she knew it.