First Class

I thought I had gotten to the terminal too early, so I paid the chair a dollar for a massage. All of the chairs were empty - four leather recliners looking out of place in the middle of the concourse. A sign announced they were "First Class." So I sat and the chair welcomed me and offered its services. For three minutes I was kneaded while late arrivals walked by on their way to pick up luggage. I let the firm twin balls roll up and down my back while two rather large women closed down the newsstand and gift shop. Though it looked like a recliner, it would not. That would have been too comfortable and too odd at the same time. Being comfortable in public is wrong in some way, I suppose.

Then the chair was done and welcomed me again, so rather than spend another buck, I got up and walked around, bound on one end by the escalators down to baggage claim and the other by dire warnings and pronouncements from the Traffic Security Administration. The elderly and well-fed uniformed agents did not increase my sense of security. And the food court, never very appealing, was closing as well. Port Columbus at 9 PM, a small and uninviting little airport.

I was, of course, standing in the incorrect spot. I missed her and soon found my phone buzzing, but reception was poor and it took several more calls to determine that she was waiting below, bag in hand. I gladly paid the parking attendant two dollars to purchase our escape and was glad to be on our way home.