From the moment I stepped off the plane, I had just enough time to be late for my next flight.  I rushed to the next gate and swiped my boarding pass.  I stepped into the tunnel and the cold air hit me.

Oh fuck . . .

The bird was tiny, hardly more than an toy.  I climbed inside.  The lone flight attendant frowned at me.  ”Are you the one we’re waiting on?”

I checked my boarding pass for my seat number.  I looked at the attendant, then the fat fucker sitting in my seat.  I pointed at him and frowned at the attendant.  She asked him to move and he just looked up, confused.  I told her I didn’t care, and wound up with two seats to myself.

“Just show up whenever you want, huh?”  said the attendant.

“I sprinted from my last flight.  You want to go back and bitch at all the aging cripples sitting in front of me that don’t know how to get off a plane?”

“I’m just fucking with you,” she said.

I had never heard a flight attendant use profanity before.  I wrinkled the corner of my mouth and settled back in my seat.  I buried my face in a book for the next few hours, looking up only to glance out the window.

The engine noise changed and the plane banked hard.  I looked out the window again and had to blink a few times to break the endless gray below.  Eventually I spotted features I recognized – I was home.

I was haggard, hung over and underslept.  As I looked around, I saw the miserable faces.  Gray faces.  I felt a strange sense of comfort.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but some wear it better than others.  This was my speed.  Portland is too green for me, too clean, too polite.  My constant scowling draws too much attention.

Back in the gray, my shoulders slump and my mouth twists into a sneer.  This passes for a smile here.  Coupled with my sunken, sleep-deprived eyes, I looked like ten miles of rough road.  I looked like Hell.

No one noticed.  It was wonderful.