ericboy's Diaryland
Diary
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\"I / withdraw / hiding cold sweat / quivering lips\" - 10 Years
The Ballad of Casey and Elvis �My flight�s been delayed.�
You�ll hear it in places like this all the time. Every city, every bar, every glass of scotch the same. The faces the statement comes out of; well, they�re the same, too. Earnest, sad, yearning faces reaching out for fast friendships. The young girl from rural, middle America with the slight drawl and the tired shoulders. The junior executive who wears a Green Day t shirt beneath his Eddie Bauer mauve pressed dress shirt. The older fellow in his threadbare blazer who peppers his discourse with extra profanity to further identify with you and endear himself to you. They�re all the same and they all suffer from the same plight:
�My flight�s been delayed.�
Always �my flight�; never �The flight� or �flight blankety-blank�. People take fierce ownership of the flights that take them here or there and back again, as if the act of flying through the sky is something reserved solely for them. You can pay money for a car and it�s yours. Hell, you can even by a plane and it�ll be yours, in your name, on your tax documents. You can own that. But no matter how much money you put into it, you can�t own a flight. Like a quick roll in the hay or a good night�s rest, these experiences can be bought but never kept. We�re paying for moments and we know it. That�s why, in the moment, we claim it as ours, like school children playing �King of the Mountain�.
Casey Bean is in the Bar down the Hall from Gate 23. The name of the bar, the name of the airport, his city of origin, destination, nature of business; none of this is important. What is important right now is the glass of Dewars on the rocks in front of him and the Elvis impersonator seated to his left. All that matters is their immediate and unmistakable camaraderie, the ease with which they speak to one another, despite Casey�s aversion to talking to his left. He prefers all his conversations to his right. He doesn�t even realize this is true, though it is.
�So I said to the boys, I said, �Either we�re gonna rock this jailhouse tonight or you ain�t nothing but a buncha hound-dogs!�� Elvis slaps Casey on the shoulder and the latter practically flies off his stool. �I told them that, I did. Sure.� His drawl is pronounced by the third pint of lager that sits half-empty in front of him.
�Well, what did they do after you said that?� Casey�s voice sounds thin and weak, even to him.
�Well, they laughed like they�d just seen a dog licking its balls and then we played a helluva ninety minute set for those people.� He chuckles to himself and lazily throws his arms forward in karate-esque motions, much like the King, circa his 1976 Comeback Special.
Casey Bean is on his third glass of Dewars on the rocks and, you guessed it: his flight�s been delayed. After each glass he pays the tab, tips the bartender two dollars and ten cents, and goes down the hall to check the gate. He takes the news of the continued delay like a breakup and goes back to the bar and opens another tab. On this most recent visit the stewardesses gave him an electronic pager to let him know when it finally arrived, as if it were a preferred table at a fine restaurant. He reasoned that he wouldn�t be flying the plane himself, so here he is: drinking a third glass of scotch much faster than the previous two and listening to Elvis laugh at his own bad puns.
8:11 p.m. - 2006-06-18
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