Gatekeeping
My passengers are old, but rarely senile. Still very much themselves. The Black dude I wheel toward his flight to Paris every other Thursday morning wears a patchwork cardigan and a teal silk scarf, regardless of the season, because, he tells me, the airport’s temperature is always the same.
Bet you keep this bitch freezing on purpose, Carl says.
It’s out of my hands, I say.
Whatever, Carl says. With this wardrobe? I’m giving you predictability. You don’t know shit about that.
O.K.
Believe me. You’ll appreciate certainty when you’re old, with grandbabies.
What the fuck am I talking about? he adds. You’ll never have kids.
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I just keep pushing Carl along. He’s some kind of pianist. I’ve never heard him play. He insists that escorting him is the only part of my job that matters. When a crowd disembarking a flight from London crosses in front of us, I brake just a little too hard, and Carl’s coffee spills.
He turns to me, furious. But I smile.
We’re silent the rest of our way to the gate.
As a flight attendant assists him down the tunnel, I wave. Carl scowls.
•
Evelyn, the woman I wheel to her Taipei flight, speaks gently. I don’t understand Mandarin. But I still hum at the breaks in her speech, and nod when she glances my way. She has a sash around her neck, and she asks me to feel its edges. Its pastel corners are thinning. Evelyn presses the fabric against her cheeks.
When I drop her off at the gate, a chubby Taiwanese flight attendant asks what we talk about.
We have an understanding, I say.
Bullshit, he says. I can barely make out her accent.
O.K., O.K., I say. Then we’re kindred spirits.
The flight attendant gives me a look. When he takes Evelyn’s arm, she’s still rubbing the sash between her fingers.
•
Sometimes I accompany mixed groups. When I walk a lady to her New Orleans flight, she’s with two friends, all in Saints jerseys, sailor caps, thigh-high boots. Laughing. Yelling. Other passengers glide around us. The ladies ask me to stop at a sports bar ten minutes from their gate. When I warn them about the time, they insist that the plane will wait.
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The woman I’ve been wheeling, Rose, wears gargantuan glasses. Three times the size of my own. After one margarita, and then again after her third, she asks if I have a wife.
Must, Anne says. Looks like you eat well enough.
No, I say.
Then a husband, Gladys says.
No, I say.
Listen, Rose says. Do me a favor? If you want kids, have them now. Or don’t have them at all. You’ll just be a burden when you’re older. I’m telling you the truth.
Preach, Anne says.
To God’s ears, Gladys says.
Then Rose taps me on the shoulder. She asks about my favorite N.F.L. team, and I inform her that I don’t have one.
Rose runs a finger across the collar of her jersey, cackling, and yells, Me neither!
•
Sometimes I’m the man in the middle. A white couple I’m assisting to their Berlin flight—the husband’s in the wheelchair—snipe at each other, in hushed voices, for our entire walk to the gate.
You probably left the stove on, the wife says.
The better to burn your son’s house down, the husband says.
Leave your jacket on the security tray, he adds. It’s a rag.
I didn’t want you to feel left out, the wife says.
Don’t bother helping him out of the chair, she adds, to me, as I lead him to the metal detector. Give him something to actually do.
I smile, nodding. I am a rock and a sponge. When we finally make it to the gate, I pass the husband off to a flight attendant, an Indian twink who throws me a knowing look. But the wife stands beside me.
What if I just stay here? she says.
It is a question without an answer. And I don’t know if she wants one. So I loom beside her in silence, until last call sounds and she sighs and boards the flight.
•
That night, the chubby Taiwanese flight attendant—JT—finally comes on my belly, and I do, too. Then I roll onto my side. We’re silent except for the television’s drone, and then he chuckles, exhaling. Some women in the hotel room next door are throwing a bachelorette party.
I said it’s cool to finish inside me, JT says.
I don’t know, I say. Feels weird.
Boyfriend-adjacent?
That’s not it.
Suit yourself, JT says, reaching for his glasses.
Both of us tap at our phones. Michael B. Jordan hits a punching bag in front of us, yelling about somebody’s legacy.
It’s because of your face, JT says. That’s why they talk to you that way.
You think so? I ask.
Soft features. Everyone’s always touching you, right?
Right.
Fat-people problems. Happens to me, too.
It’s JT’s second night in the hotel. Some kind of flight delay. Which makes this our first back-to-back in months. We’ve been doing whatever this is for about two years now. The coffee table’s covered with mostly unfinished takeout noodles, because JT ate only a few bites before deeming them inedible.
Now he reaches for his vape and takes a pull. When he offers it to me, I inhale a slower one.
Once, JT says, this pilot spent our entire shift talking shit. Just punching down. I couldn’t do anything right. When the other attendants tried intervening, that didn’t help at all. But after we landed I caught him waiting for me on the bridge.
To finish you off, I say.
Right? You’d think. He had this look on his face, like he was so fucking embarrassed. Then he puts his hand on my side and asks if I want to get dinner.
JT sets a palm on my belly. Our cum’s still on it. When I make a face, he rolls his eyes, wiping some of the mess on his stomach, too.
So, I say, what happened?
What do you think? JT says. I told him to go fuck himself.
Wrong answer, I say.
Yeah?
Yeah. You could’ve been a househusband by now.
I like working, JT says. That’s my problem. Yours, too.
Then he squeezes my hip, sticking out his tongue.
•
The next morning, JT starts getting ready to leave while I’m still in bed, but eventually I get up and pack my shit alongside him. In the elevator, he says that if I just came to Taipei, then I wouldn’t have to wake up so early.
My sister owns a coffee shop below our apartment, he says. We’d walk right downstairs for breakfast. Danbing and luo buo gao.
Luo buo what?
We’ll practice that before you get there.
I couldn’t even find Taiwan on a map, I say.
Look for China and poke around, JT says, and snorts, hopping into an airport shuttle.
Rest, he says.
Aye-aye, I say.
So I drive home. My place is twenty minutes from the airport. And my brother’s on the sofa, because he is always on the sofa. When I lock the door, he yells my name from the living room.
He’s playing video games, smoking weed. Two of his friends occupy the cushions around him. They nod at me and I nod at them, and I ask my brother if he’s eaten and he tells me there’s no food.
I bought groceries yesterday, I say.
But there’s no food, my brother says.
Right. I’ll make sandwiches or something.
Word, my brother says, not looking away from the screen.
But instead of stepping into the kitchen I slump toward my room and lock the door behind me. I strip, lie down on the carpet, and spread my arms and legs, fanning.
•
That’s something I picked up. My first month on the job, I walked a white woman to her midday Vancouver flight. Sarah was entirely pleasant, and then she informed me that she had several months left to live.
Four or five, she said, smiling. Give or take.
Ah, I said.
Terminal diagnosis. So be gentle, dear.
I’d only just finished orientation. Hadn’t seen this situation in the manual. I was silent as I pushed her wheelchair through security, then immigration, before she asked if I could wheel her to the terrace. Once we were outside, Sarah gripped my wrist and stood, then lay down on the cool tile. Then she spread her arms and legs. Slowly, she brushed them along the ground.
Want to try? Sarah asked.
I did not. The air was too crisp. But I lay down beside her. Fanning slowly, until our movements matched, and then our breathing, too.
Sometimes I do this, Sarah said, to remind myself that I’m still here. I won’t be, eventually. And that’s O.K. Because it has to be. But, right now, I am.
Then she sighed, deeply, pushing all the air out of her body.
•
This week, Carl stares ahead in silence for our entire walk to the gate. No quips about passersby (pajamas in the airport, grown fucking toddlers), or the shouting from random children (Neanderthals breeding Neanderthals), or the pop music droning overhead (fentanyl). He’s just quiet. When we stop for coffee, Carl’s still wordless—he doesn’t send his order back or switch the milk at the last minute or berate the barista in French.
When I ask what’s wrong, Carl gives me a long look. Then he clears his throat.
I’m going to the hospital, he says. My oldest friend in this world is sick. Tumor in his head.
Oh, I say. I’m sorry to—
Stop, Carl says. You were doing just fine.
Then he looks down at his hands.
He and I didn’t speak for two years, Carl says. Over a woman. Not just her but, you know. He spends one fucking summer in Kanazawa, and all of a sudden she’s his wife. We were thirty, thirty-one. I’m their daughter’s godfather. Do you know I learned fucking Japanese to speak to this fucking child? The girl’s a doctor now, and she doesn’t listen to anyone, and she’s perfect, and her mom is, too. But I wasted two years not speaking to my friend.
Carl’s silent again, and then he sneezes. I hold out a handkerchief. A whole minute passes before he accepts it.
When we reach the gate, I ask for his friend’s name. He gives me a long look.
So you’re a fucking brain surgeon now? he asks.
•
Later, I walk a woman to her Mexico City flight. Her daughter passes her off to me after check-in.
Watch my mother’s hands, she warns me.
I’ll do my best, I say.
I’m serious, the daughter says. They wander.
The woman, Catalina, asks a question in Spanish, and the daughter replies nada something or other before her phone rings, and she gives me a frown, and then she’s gone.
As I walk Catalina through the airport, she crochets what looks like a ball. Her hands move deftly around a hook. From time to time, she holds the ball up for me to inspect. It is gorgeous, split between bright colors and soft pastels.
A toddler chewing pretzels and his sister amble through security beside us. Catalina holds the ball up for them to see. The T.S.A. agents turn the sphere in their hands, and ask if she sells them. Catalina just keeps at it, as we pass from gate to gate, until we reach her flight.
That’s when I see the bar of chocolate in her pocket.
And that toddler’s pretzels in her tote bag.
Three water bottles and a baseball cap are tucked underneath them.
Catalina follows my eyes. She sets one finger to her lips, winking as the flight attendant wheels her away.
•
Later, I’m taking a guy named Edwin to his Montego Bay flight. One of my co-workers, José, comes along, because he swears he has nothing better to do. But I’m grateful: Edwin speaks in a rapid-fire patois. José nods along, clapping his hands.
When we reach Edwin’s gate, José waves us off, and when the two of us are alone the old man finally turns to me. Beckons me forward, as if he has something to whisper. Then he kisses me on the cheek.
I pull away. Edwin just stares, a goofy smile on his face, before he’s whisked onto his flight.
Afterward, walking through the terminal, José asks what happened.
When I tell him, he squints.
Oh, he says, that’s assault.
It’s fine, I say.
Fuck that. Old fucking bag.
They’re already airborne. It can’t be helped.
José fumes. Then he cracks a grin, just slightly.
He was telling me about his wife, José says, and how he couldn’t wait to get back to her. But he was also trying to persuade me to visit him in Jamaica? Said he’d pay for everything?
Your type, I say.
Fuck you, José says.
Then he chuckles, shrugging.
But I guess you really never know, he says, right?
•
A few nights later, when I tell JT about the incident, he gives me a long look.
My brother is closeted, he says.
Oh, I say.
Yeah. Married with kids in Taichung. His wife is great. But, you know.
We’re in JT’s hotel room again. Lounging in boxers with our legs wrapped around each other. He’s got a week off for the first time in a while, and he has declared that he wants to spend it doing absolutely nothing.
So I did something I never do: called in sick. My manager, a Colombian woman who could be twenty-five or fifty-two, agreed immediately.
Do you think that old fucker knew you were queer? JT asks.
Did you know I was queer? I ask.
Are you being funny?
O.K., O.K.
Don’t insult me like that again.
Fine. How did you find out about your brother?
JT blinks for a while. Then he sighs.
He had a boyfriend, JT says. The dude worked at our post office. They were together for years, but then he broke up with my brother. And then, you know, they both got married to family friends.
Hmm, I say.
We lie there for a while, the television playing in front of us.
You live with your brother, JT says.
I do, I say.
He’s disabled?
No.
Then he can’t afford his own place?
He gambles on his phone, I say. Or something. But he probably makes more money than me. He went to cooking school for a while.
What happened?
He dropped out.
Why?
You’ve got a lot of questions tonight.
JT frowns.
Look, I say, it’s just better for me to be around.
For him, JT says, or for you?
You really are a cop.
Just due diligence, JT says. And I still need time to recharge.
We’re not fucking again.
That’s what you said last week, JT says. So it’s a guilt thing? With your brother.
What makes you say that?
Guilt smells a certain way.
He has a panic disorder, I say.
What?
Yeah. If I leave him, I don’t know what’ll happen. He’s done a lot for me, though.
JT gives me a long look. I feel myself swallowing spit.
But you know what else smells? I say, leaning toward JT, running my tongue across his chest and making my way down, and I know he has more questions, but when I take his dick into my mouth there is nothing left to say.
•
A woman I’m walking to her Taipei flight is stopped for a random security check. Her husband, Van, stands beside us. The security officer—a dumpy white guy—asks Linh to hand over her bag for screening. He asks once, and then again, before over-enunciating a third time.
She can’t speak English, I say.
You think I don’t fucking know that? the officer says.
He tries again, staring at Linh, until Van turns to me. Throws up his hands.
Look, I say, this woman’s been through security already. There’s no problem.
That’s not up to you, the officer says.
He reaches for Linh’s bag, tugging. She takes hold of the other end. But when she turns to me I can only wince and shrug.
Then she turns to Van. He nods, just once. His eyes never leave the security officer.
So the officer opens her bag and rifles through it. Shakes his head, extracting photographs. They’re old. Full of family. The officer flips through them, fingering Polaroids of buildings, children, what looks like a young couple, and a bunch of gatherings.
They’re fucking pictures, the officer says. Why didn’t you just fucking say that?
Because she can’t speak English, I say.
Did I fucking ask you? Are you the one that I’m talking to?
You don’t have literally anything else to do?
The officer glares at me. Harder. There’s something he wants to say. But the walkie-talkie on his waist buzzes.
He reaches for it, grunting as he walks off.
Van and I stand in silence. Then we both turn to Linh. She watches the officer until he’s lost in the crowd and then, resolutely, throws up two middle fingers.
•
It’s storming outside when I jog to a Toronto flight’s gate. I’ve been called over to help with a passenger’s move, which is rare after someone’s already been taken to their gate. The rain casts sheets of water across the terminal’s windows. Travellers press their noses against the glass.
I see the woman in her chair. Also her son. When I ask him where their gate is, he grins, pantomiming.
So I text JT. I know he’s working today, busy with a flight back to Taipei, but it’s only a few moments before he materializes beside me—and then the four of us are walking together.
The son holds his mother’s hand, whispering into her ear. I push the woman along, as our group weaves through the crowd. From time to time, he points and she smiles. Sometimes she turns my way, as if she isn’t entirely sure why I’m there.
Eventually, we make it to the gate, and I ask JT why they even requested me.
JT talks to the son in Mandarin. The son looks offended. But then his face softens, and his voice is lighter than I expected.
These two didn’t, JT says. Her actual son did. From Toronto.
Actual son, I say.
Oh, I add.
Yeah, JT says. He wouldn’t have known about the sugar baby. Obviously.
The woman watches out the window as planes ascend and descend. Then there’s the chime of a gate announcement. The sugar baby nods at me, once, and the woman smiles as they make their way toward the flight. Which leaves JT and me standing beside each other, not really saying anything.
We brush shoulders. Neither of us acknowledges it. But we don’t move, either. We wait until the plane takes off, lingering a little after it’s gone.
•
That night, we’re smoking on the roof of JT’s hotel.
How come you’ve never brought me to your place? he says.
Nothing to see, I say.
JT snorts. We’re both in tank tops and sweatpants. I’m borrowing his clothes, which fit me nearly perfectly.
There’s always something to see, JT says. I could learn more about you.
I think you know plenty about me.
You could be a father of five.
So could you.
I wish.
Are you even Taiwanese?
Fuck you.
But I’m serious, I say. I’m an open book.
Please, JT says.
Really, I say. Ask away.
Seeing with my own eyes is better, JT says.
Just moments before, we fucked on his bed. After he finished in my mouth, I leaned in for a kiss, and he kissed me back. Afterward, while washing each other in the shower, he told me he’d never done that with anyone else before.
Really? I asked.
Fine, JT said. Just one other guy.
Not two?
Seven.
Eighteen?
Stop. You’re one of the handful. A rare mineral.
Now, on the roof, he nudges me. We hear planes taking off into the evening sky, but we can’t see them.
If you could travel anywhere, I ask, where would you go?
I can travel anywhere, JT says. That is the point of my job.
Really?
JT scratches his ass. Then he smiles.
Ramallah, he says.
Yeah?
Yeah. I dated a Palestinian guy for a little while. You?
I don’t know, I say. It’s been a while since I left Houston. Amsterdam? Oaxaca? Osaka?
What’s in Osaka?
If I go, then I’ll let you know.
Try Tokyo first, JT says. When you’re done being bullied for not speaking Japanese, pit-stop at my place.
I take a long pull on my cigarette. JT and I make an effort not to turn to each other. The breeze flaps against our shirts, and I press against the railing.
Taipei? I ask.
Where else? JT says. A quick trip. Or longer. I could get you a ticket.
In the bottom of the plane with the bags, I say.
I’m serious, JT says. It’s a proposal. You’re American, right?
Regrettably.
No visa needed. You can stay for three months. Easy-peasy. And your passport’s up to date?
Sure. Keep it in my jacket at work. In case I ever actually flip out and decide to go somewhere.
A beat passes between us. JT stretches, showing a bit of belly. When he does it a second time, I reach up his shirt until he hunches over, nearly sending us both toppling over the railing.
Proposal, I repeat.
Like an idea, JT says.
I know what you meant. Proposal sounds better.
JT grins, reaching for my dick and squeezing it. I move in to kiss him, but he blows smoke in my face and I gag.
•
That night, my brother calls. JT’s snoring, his ankles locked around mine.
Hey, he says. I need you to pick up some food.
I look at the time. It’s half past three.
Can’t one of your friends do it? I say.
They’re busy.
And you don’t think I am?
Can you do it or not? he says.
I can hear some kind of television through the phone. Some kind of sportscasting. JT’s snoring fills the gaps. He murmurs, just a bit, and I wonder if I’ve woken him. But he only farts.
Fine, I say.
Good, he says.
But after a moment he adds, You’re O.K.?
Yes, I say.
You’re sure? Feeling normal?
I’m fine.
Really? Because you usually text. When you don’t, I get worr—
I’m good. Thanks for your concern.
Right, my brother says.
When I hang up, I lie there for another moment. I take my time slipping out from JT. He opens his eyes, briefly. But he’s still sleeping. And he closes them again, curling back into himself.
•
Once, years back, I was staying with my brother in our parents’ house when he got a call.
It was winter break. He was home from cooking school, flying in from New York for Christmas, and our parents were out. That evening, our family planned on ordering pizza and rewatching the same movies we’d spent every other Christmas with.
My brother answered the phone, then started nodding. His breathing didn’t change. But I felt his body shift, just slightly. When he hung up, he turned off the television. He told me that there’d been an accident but not to panic, because he’d take care of me.
Neither of us moved. My brother hugged me. I didn’t know it would be for the last time. It wouldn’t happen again at the police station, or when the cops explained about the car accident, or when they asked us to identify the bodies, or at the funeral, or even when my brother announced that he’d be dropping out of the Culinary Institute of America.
But it was rare. I knew that then, at least. So I squeezed him back.
•
I’m wheeling Carl to his Paris flight when he asks me to stop. So I do.
Folding his hands in his lap, he asks what love means to me.
The airport isn’t especially busy. A bunch of military people shuffle through the terminal. When one of them tips his hat to Carl, the old man only snorts.
Call it anthropological curiosity, Carl says.
Do you have a lover? I ask.
Too many to count, Carl says.
O.K.
Are you fucking stupid? Do I not seem lovable to you?
O.K.
Why the fuck else do you think I fly back here every other week?
The military crowd dissolves. A gaggle of Dutch flight attendants follows them, rolling suitcases and shepherding children who skip alongside them. Carl takes a sip of his coffee, then shakes his head.
The best one died of AIDS, Carl says. You wouldn’t know anything about that.
I know plenty about—
Of course you do, Carl says. Black fag. Have to.
The two of us are silent for a bit.
It’s silly, Carl says. People like to say that when loved ones leave you, they’re never entirely gone. Their memory lives inside you. And you do think about them, if you’re lucky. Remember their faces. What made them laugh. How you spent your time together. But, really, that’s a selfish thing. Because they are gone. You’re the only one who benefits.
Carl doesn’t say anything after that. But the monitor above us shows that it’s time for him to board. So he allows me to push him to the gate.
•
A little later, I’m with José, wheeling an old dude to his Venezuela flight. The man is talking about his new boyfriend in Caracas. His Spanish is brisk. I can pick up only bits and pieces.
But what about— the old man asks, holding his hands a sizable distance apart.
Ah, José says. Perfecto. A meal and a treat.
It’s important, the old dude says. Remember that. The most important.
He claps and cackles until we reach the gate, then squeezes my thigh before he’s passed off to the boarding staff.
Afterward, José says, He reminds me of my dad.
I thought you were Mexican, I say.
I mean aesthetically, José says. Pendejo.
Sorry, sorry.
Está bien. How are things with you and JT?
What?
You use his full name? Jint—
No, I say. JT’s fine. But how do you know about that?
Are you D.L.? Was it meant to be discreet?
I blush. José looks at me as if I could not be dumber. Then he chuckles, shaking his head.
Anyway, he says. You go together.
I don’t think it’s that simple.
You might move a little differently, José says, but you really are just a fucking man.
As opposed to you?
All fags are the same, José says, grinning.
•
I’m walking a famous white woman through the domestic terminal, alongside one of her assistants, to whom she dictates non-stop instructions about some kind of working arrangement.
The famous woman holds a dog, some kind of mutt terrier. He hasn’t stopped barking since they entered the airport. Eventually, the famous woman announces that she needs to pee. Before the assistant wheels her away, she hands me the dog.
The mutt scoffs at me. I blink back. Half of one of his ears is torn off. Every few seconds, he adjusts himself in my arms, but finally he resigns himself to discomfort, sinking his chin onto my shoulder.
When the famous woman and her assistant come out, they both squint at me.
You must be a wonderful father, the famous woman says.
Oh, I say, I’m actually not—
He’s my baby, the famous woman says. Seen a lot. Picked him up off the street in Manhattan. Hell, he picked me up off the street. Haven’t seen him this quiet in years.
Me either, the assistant says.
They both stare at me. I swallow and nod.
Says a lot about you, the famous woman tells me. Now give him back.
The famous woman extends her hands. I pass her the dog. He gives me a long look before sighing, and proceeding to bark again.
•
I invite JT to dinner at my place, wholly expecting him to decline. But he accepts. So I find myself at home an hour earlier than usual, telling my brother that I’m hosting a meal.
He’s still in last night’s clothes, a Salah jersey and joggers. Doesn’t look up from his phone. He groans.
A date, he says.
Yes, I say. With a man.
My brother scrunches his face up. Then he relaxes.
Heard, he says. I’ll see myself out.
Wait, I say. Really?
Do you think I’m some sort of sentry?
No, I say, but—
One of the boys will pick me up, he says. Text when you’re done.
But what will you do?
My brother stares at me, narrowing his eyes.
That’s your problem, he says. Worried about everyone but yourself.
I start to tell him that he’s wrong. I am worried about absolutely everything, including myself, two hundred per cent of the time. Everything and everyone horrifies me. Nothing in this life is stable. Glass houses built on quicksand. It’s why we live together, and why I haven’t left home, and why I haven’t ever taken a flight of my own, despite the fact that I babysit people who fly all over the fucking world every day.
But I do not say any of that.
O.K., I say.
Cool, my brother says. Have fun.
•
Thirty minutes later, JT appears at the door.
He’s still in his work clothes. Holding a backpack in one hand and a bag of Peruvian takeout in the other.
A gift, he says, offering me the food.
Ah, I say. A whole chicken?
Roasted, yes.
I thought we were cooking.
We aren’t, JT says, closing the door behind him, and it’s only a few moments later that we’re fucking.
•
Afterward, naked under a blanket on the living-room sofa, JT asks if I’ve thought about Taipei.
Oh, I say. You were serious.
I’m not a clown, JT says. It would be nice, you know. Come for a month.
A month?
Yes. This is my formal proposition. Do you have vacation time left?
Sure. Not like I have a reason to use it.
So it’s no problem. Spend a week at my place. I’ll take the days off, too. We’ll travel down the coast and back again.
JT doesn’t look at me when he says this. He’s fidgeting with his fingers, which is new. It’s hard to tell, exactly, how serious he is. I rub his knuckles until he reaches for my palm and presses gently.
It’s a long plane ride, I say.
Bug your P.C.P. for a Valium, JT says.
You think I have a doctor?
Ask José.
So you two are friends.
JT turns to me. He yawns, slowly. Then he presses his head against my chest, squeezing my thigh with his free hand. I do the same.
I’m leaving for a few months, he says.
What? I say.
Yeah.
When?
Tomorrow.
Oh.
JT chuckles and pinches me. I shift my weight, until we’re pressed closer together.
Doing some work with the airline back home, JT says. At least until the summer. Probably.
Summer.
Yes. So, you know, we won’t be seeing each other for a while.
But you’ll come back? I ask.
Mm, JT says. You never know with these things. I’m starting to miss Taiwan, a little bit. Edible food. Public transit. Boba that doesn’t cost a brick. But, if I want, I can take the next few weeks off, you know, to adjust. I will have some disposable time.
I see, I say.
Yes, JT says.
O.K., I say.
JT turns to look at me. I peer back. I know that now would be the moment to say something reassuring, or comforting, but I don’t know what the words will taste like when they leave my mouth.
So I say nothing.
It isn’t much longer before JT’s snoring.
And then I’m out, too.
A few hours later, I wake up to find my brother leering from the kitchen counter.
He’s watching us, silently. Tapping at his phone. I don’t know how long he’s been there or what he’s looking for. But he snorts, once, before he stands and saunters down the hall.
•
The next morning, I’m walking Carl through the airport, and he’s in as light of a mood as ever. Commenting on people’s coats. Snickering at their shoes. A T.S.A. agent asks him to stand from his wheelchair. Carl says that he’ll do it for fifty dollars.
JT left my place before I woke up. Didn’t say goodbye. But he sent me a text with his address, some dates, and several milk-tea emojis.
And also: a flight voucher.
And the dates he saved for the ticket.
There’s a long layover in Tokyo.
All you have to do is book it, he wrote. Or don’t.
Also, he wrote, your brother is cute.
Carl and I are taking our usual path through the terminal when we pass the public piano. Carl sets a palm on my hand, bringing us to a stop.
Then Carl stands and hobbles toward the instrument. I watch as he stretches his fingers. Runs them across the keys. And then, gently, he begins to play.
A few passersby pause to listen. A lady holds her toddler’s hand, wagging it along with the music. But Carl doesn’t pay any of us any mind.
He just plays.
Some birds glide above us, en route from one terminal to the next. They linger for a minute, circling Carl, and then they’re gone.
Eventually, the music stops.
Carl stands, slowly. The woman and her kid start to clap. I do, too. And Carl gives us a long look before taking a bow.
•
A few days later, a Black woman I’m wheeling to an Amsterdam flight is dozing in her chair when I ask if I can tell her a story.
Her braids are long, tucked under a knit cap. She looks up at me, squinting.
You didn’t see me sleeping? she asks.
Ah, I say.
You’re fine, she says, waving her hand. What’ve you got?
Once, I say, there was a boy who I worked with.
A man, I say.
We worked together in the evening. Sometimes the airport was busy. But sometimes it wasn’t. On the empty days, we’d lie down on the floor and stare up at the sky through the window above.
But, I say, one day we found a bird in the terminal.
A bird, the woman says.
Yeah, I say.
In the airport?
It happens.
She nods for me to continue.
His wing was clipped, I say. I didn’t want to hold him, because of the possibility, you know, of disease. But my friend didn’t care about that. That didn’t matter to him. So he picked up the bird, and he asked me to call a car, and I did. We rode together to the vet clinic. It was, like, four in the morning. Behind the desk, a sleepy attendant eyed us. But then we were called into a room where the bird was checked out. We were told that the clinic would take care of him, but my friend asked if we could receive updates, so for the next few weeks this vet sent us videos of the bird. Moving tentatively. Flapping around. And then, like a month later, the bird was released.
We even named him, I say. But the thing is, I don’t remember what we decided on.
A crowd of young tennis players passes us, jostling and laughing. Their coaches try to corral them. When I look down at the woman, I see that she’s fallen back asleep.
Which is for the best, probably.
So I continue wheeling her to the gate. But then she reaches up, slowly, and rests a hand on mine, rubbing it with her thumb.
•
Once, a few years ago, I was walking back from a gate where I had dropped off a passenger when I saw a guy lying on the floor.
His arms and legs were splayed out. You see a lot of shit after midnight, but this guy had on a flight-attendant uniform. I thought about checking on him, but that didn’t seem worth it. Probably had his own shit going on.
I kept it moving.
Then I changed my mind. Turned around and walked back.
Standing over JT, I asked what was wrong.
He frowned at me.
I fucked up today, he said.
Oh, I said. Well.
Cussed out a passenger.
Happens.
Does it?
Not really. No. But I think you’ll be fine.
Maybe, JT said. I also might lose my job.
O.K., I said. You’ll get another one.
You’re pretty confident, he said.
Trust me, I said. I’m not.
I sat beside JT. Don’t know why.
So you need to lie on the ground? I asked.
Clearly.
It’s filthy.
It helps me. Puts things in perspective. How often do you actually look up?
There isn’t much to see.
Really?
JT turned to me. He seemed genuinely curious. Then he patted the space beside him.
I frowned. But then, nearly involuntarily, I lay down, too. It really was the first time that I’d looked up at the airport.
But also, probably, the first time anywhere, in a long, long time.
Nothing to report, I said. But it did look a bit different.
O.K., JT said. But let’s stay a bit longer. Just to make sure.
•
The morning after JT returns to Taiwan, I’m lying on the sofa, dozing, when my brother opens the front door and steps out of his shoes.
He takes one look at me. Then he looks again.
You’re off today? he asks.
Yeah, I say.
And you’re just spending it here?
Where else would I go?
My brother smirks at me. Stuffs his hands in the pocket of his hoodie.
What about that guy? he asks. Your boyf—
I don’t have one of those, I say.
My brother sighs. Then he walks into the kitchen, where he opens drawers and pulls a tub of cold rice from the fridge. He lines the counter with vegetables, condiments, and a plastic container of minced crab.
Eventually, my brother comes back into the living room and drops a bowl in front of me. It’s fried rice, topped with chile oil and scallions and fried shallots, stuffed with crab and carrots and eggs and onions and peas and herbs. He settles across from me, cross-legged, sipping from a beer can and picking at a bowl of nuts.
We sit in front of the television. Leopards chase a gazelle across the screen.
It’s fine that you live here, my brother says.
Thanks, I say.
I’m serious, my brother says. Routine is good. I don’t mind checking on you. Giving you shit to do. Even if it is more for you than for me.
I don’t say anything to this. My brother burps, pulling from his beer.
But, he says, I think, you know, it isn’t every day that you have the chance to leave. And not just to leave but to have someone who wants you to follow them. That’s rare, you know. Doesn’t happen often.
How the fuck do you know that?
Your boyfriend mentioned it the other day. Before he took off.
He’s not my—
Fuck, nigga. Got it. Maybe you should just stay here.
My shoulders tense up. I feel like I should stand. And also like I’m stuck. I take another mouthful of fried rice, allowing its flavors to settle across my tongue.
I don’t know what’ll happen if I leave, I say.
My brother bites his lip. He turns to me, snorting.
So what? he asks.
What? I say.
I said, So fucking what? You think anyone does? Don’t give everyone else so much credit. You have to move to find out where the motion will take you. It’s one thing to try without knowing, maybe. It’s another thing not to try at all. That’s for dumbasses. Or rich people.
My brother shakes his head. Then he reaches for my bowl, stacking his beer and his own bowl inside it, dropping them onto the kitchen counter, and stepping back into his shoes and leaving me again.
•
A few days later, I’m walking Carl through the airport when we run into this kid. The terminal’s crowded. Foot traffic flows around us.
The boy’s standing alone. Looking fucking lost. Holding a backpack in one hand and a Nintendo Switch in the other. He can’t be much older than five or six.
This kid looks up at the two of us, sniffling. Carl turns from him to me.
Should we say something? I ask.
We? Carl says.
Um. Us?
Why the fuck are you asking me? Don’t you fucking work here?
I push the wheelchair over to the kid. He looks skeptical, wiping at his face. I ask where he’s supposed to be going, and he only sniffles back at me. He says something, and then something else, and Carl says, Japanese.
Oh, I say.
Carl glares at me. Then his gaze softens, settling into a face I didn’t even know he could make.
He speaks sweetly, slowly to the kid. Totally different voice.
The boy gawks. Then he says something, and then again.
Carl says something else to him. The kid manages to giggle.
Boy’s looking for his mother, Carl says. Went to the bathroom and lost her.
Shit, I say. Does he know what gate he’s flying out of?
Carl looks at me like I’m a fucking idiot.
You can’t be serious, he says.
You’re about to miss your flight, I say.
Then I’ll miss the flight, Carl says.
What?
Carl sighs. Then he crosses his arms.
Shit happens, he says. Do you think you’re the only one who works at the airport? I will find my own way if that is what I have to do, because that is simply what I will have to do. We adjust. That’s life.
I think about this.
Realize that I’ve stopped breathing.
The kid looks from Carl to me and back, sniffling.
So I grab Carl’s wheelchair. And Carl talks to the kid, holding his hand as we walk.
The three of us step through the airport. From time to time, someone turns our way, but nobody stops us. We arrive at a screen displaying the departures and find one headed for Tokyo, and we walk there, halfway across the airport.
The kid chats and chats. Babbling. Carl answers occasionally, softly, full of warmth. We’ve nearly made it to the gate when we hear, all of a sudden, a shriek.
The kid’s mother sprints over. The father jogs behind her. She tugs on the kid’s arm, gently, while he smothers his nose into her shoulder, and this woman nods deeply to Carl before he waves her off.
She turns to me. I shake my head. She makes a face I can’t quite read, grinning, before she turns around. Their little family clusters together. Then the kid turns back to us, waving, and the trio rushes toward their boarding gate.
Which leaves Carl and me alone. Passengers start assembling beside the gate, tapping at their phones.
A thought forms for me, briefly. It disappears just as quickly.
But, as if he’s heard it, Carl clucks his tongue.
Why wouldn’t you? he says.
What? I say.
You heard me, Carl says.
And I think about that.
I will find my way, he says.
I give him a blank stare. Check my watch. And I look at Carl as I step to the flight counter. I look at him as the woman scrunches her nose, scans my voucher, flipping through my passport, shaking her head, until she says, Oh. There’s a seat. You really don’t have any bags?
No, I say. I really don’t.
I turn back to Carl.
Then, finally, as I step toward the tunnel, I wave.
And Carl, finally, waves back. ♦