The Watcher Leaves

You are being watched.

Oh, yes you are.

By me.

You are hurriedly putting your bags through the agricultural quarantine scanner at the airport, and you just look like a guy from San Francisco. Like a guy I might even know. But you are trying to dress like you’ve been to Hawai`i. And naturally, because you are who you are – you there, with your appealing, stocky build and your good hair and short beard – you have done a good job. I’d almost think that you were local by your choice of aloha shirt. But of course you’re not.

You nod and smile. You know.

And you, with your plucked eyebrows - I know you do drag when you’re not in that uniform. The way you pull the curtain back using only two fingers and never, ever using your pinky. I know. And the rest of you, with the proper gait but just a bit too much lift in your step. I can recognize which one of you said, “Welcome aboard United flight 72 to San Francisco,” without even hearing you speak in person. And, sir, when you do speak to someone face to face, you still sound like Bea Arthur doing voice over for a Discovery Channel special.

Such a shame you couldn’t get the video system running properly. The movie was cute.

I don’t mind watching you. The guy who reads while biting his tongue. The tongue that just hangs from between his teeth, thoughtlessly resting between his lips. Or the guy who gets a nicotine fit and has to dip to calm his nerves.

I even enjoy it. But I’d give it all up to spend the day at home, play the game, work in the yard, and go to bed together tonight. I won’t do those things for a month, and I’m not happy about it, but it’ll be OK, and I’ll do those things again soon.